Trent Intervenes and Other Stories

by E. C. Bentley

  Like most of his countrymen, he had served in arms, and things of this kind did not upset him. Plump though he was, he began to clamber down into the well; then he bethought himself. Certainly there could be no life in that crumpled bundle of humanity. The thing to do was to leave it untouched until the arrival of the police. M. Binet-Gailly went to the door communicating with the basement and bellowed downstairs for Pimblett, the caretaker. Forty-two Rigby Street, though distant by little more than the breadth of Oxford Street from the elegance of Mayfair, did not rise to the luxury of a uniformed porter, and neither Pimblett nor his wife was usually to be seen after the morning job of cleaning the hall and staircase was done.

  Pimblett, who also had served in arms, and had seen more dirty work than had M. Binet-Gailly, took in the situation at a glance. Wasting no words, he strode to the hall telephone and rang up the police station. Both men then mounted the stairs to find which gate it was through which the unknown – for the face of the corpse could not be seen – had plunged to his death. On the floor immediately above M. Binet-Gailly’s they found the gate drawn back. On this floor was the flat occupied by Mr Anthony Villiers Maxwell – a young man of sporting tastes – and his valet. M. Binet-Gailly proposed ringing the bell of the flat to make inquiries, but Pimblett remarked that the police would prefer to have all that left to them.

  An hour later M. Binet-Gailly, sipping a glass of Campari in his own rooms, discussed with his servant, by name Aristide, what he had just learnt of this mysterious affair. The dead man had turned out to be his own landlord, Mr Stephen Havelock Hermon, who had bought the house a few years before, and had installed his nephew, Anthony Maxwell, in the flat above-stairs on its falling vacant soon afterwards. There had been some slight lack of sympathy between M. Binet-Gailly and Mr Hermon, owing to the fact that Mr Hermon had among his eccentricities a passionate hatred of liquor in every form, and when he purchased the place had not concealed his chagrin on finding that one of the sitting tenants was engaged in the wine trade, which Mr Hermon preferred to call the drink-traffic.

  No one in the building had seen Mr Hermon enter it that afternoon. No one had seen him at all before the finding of his body. No one had known of his intention to come to the house. Mr Clayton Haggett, the famous surgeon, who had the top flat, had not been at home; his housekeeper had heard no ring. Anthony Maxwell also had been out, and his valet had had the afternoon ‘off’. Aristide could vouch for it, as he had already informed the police that no one had called at M. Binet-Gailly’s. Mr Lucian Corderoy, the eminent dress designer, and his wife had both been at his shop in Malyon Street, and their ‘daily’ servant was never in the place after twelve noon. As for Sir George Stower, the Keeper of Phoenician Antiquities at the British Museum, he was enjoying a hard-earned holiday at Margate, and his flat on the ground floor had been shut up for some days past.

  ‘But naturally,’ remarked Aristide, fingering a swarthy chin, ‘the old gentleman wished to call upon his nephew.’

  ‘It is very probable,’ M. Binet-Gailly agreed. ‘He was devoted to that young animal, and they say he had no other relative living. The nephew will be his heir, no doubt, and he will make the money roll a little faster than the uncle ever did.’

  ‘Ah! when one is young,’ observed Aristide sentimentally.

  ‘And when one is a waster by nature,’ M. Binet-Gailly added. ‘Well, Aristide, it is time for me to dress.’

  Philip Trent, in his first outline of the case for the readers of the Record, had given these facts about the other tenants of the building. ‘It is naturally assumed [he wrote] that Mr Hermon had called, as he often did, to see his nephew, to whom he is said to have been much attached. His ringing at the door had been resultless, and he had turned away to go down by the way he had come. He had opened the gate, believing the lift to be in position there – and stepped out into emptiness. He was known to be extremely short-sighted. His neck, so says the police surgeon, was broken, and there were other injuries that must have been immediately fatal. When his body was found he had been dead not more than an hour.

  ‘This is very simple, but it leaves all the important questions unanswered.

  ‘Why was not the lift where he expected it to be? He had only just left it; and according to the information gathered by the police there had been no one leaving or entering any of the flats since the early afternoon, when Mr Clayton Haggett and Mr Maxwell went out.

  ‘Why was it at the top floor?

  ‘How was it that he had been able to open the gate, which should have been locked automatically the moment the lift moved from that floor?

  ‘Why was the gate on the ground floor unlocked? Why indeed? Conceivably the mechanism of the upstairs gate had gone wrong, so that Mr Hermon could open it; but the gate at the bottom could not be opened by a dead man.

  ‘Why were all the other gates in working order – the top gate, where the lift was, unlocked; the other two locked?

  ‘On this very vital point I have had some conversation with the expert who was sent to investigate by the firm which built and installed the lift. The mechanism, he told me, was tested by the makers at monthly intervals, and had been in perfect order at the last examination, ten days before. The system was as nearly fool-proof as it could be. “But,” he added, “it isn’t tool-proof. Any engineer could see with half an eye that both those locks had been forced.”

  ‘Here are the elements of a very sinister mystery. Someone who was not Mr Hermon forced the ground-floor gate. Presumably he forced the other. The only persons known to have been in the house from three o’clock onwards were the caretaker in the basement, the French manservant in M. Binet-Gailly’s flat, and the housekeeper in Mr Haggett’s. Did someone enter the house before Mr Hermon; or did someone accompany him? To this point the inquiries of the police are being directed – so far, I believe, without result.

  ‘If Mr Hermon was a victim of violence, it is hard to think that any feeling of ill-will could have been at work. It is true that he was a man of strong opinions, often violently expressed in public controversy – the hard knocks exchanged between him and his tenant, Mr Clayton Haggett, in their dispute over vivisection last year will be remembered. But he was always a fair and even a chivalrous fighter, on the friendliest footing with opponents to whom he was personally known. His nature was kindly and generous, his great wealth was largely devoted to works of benevolence; the hospital endowments made by him as memorials to his late wife are but a part of his service to humanity.’

  Trent did not try to intrude on the sorrow of Anthony Maxwell, but he had from the young man’s valet, Joseph Weaver, some material information. He learnt that the nephew felt his loss very deeply indeed; that he did not look like the same man. He had, Weaver said, a feeling heart. A little wild he might have been – young gentlemen would be young gentlemen – but he had what they call a nice nature. He owed everything to Mr Hermon, who had been a father to him after his parents died when he was a child. Naturally he was very much upset.

  Trent reflected privately on the deceitfulness of appearances; for he knew Anthony Maxwell by sight, and would not have said that either his eye, his mouth, or his bearing proclaimed the niceness of his nature. Perhaps Weaver was being loyal to his employer. He did not look particularly loyal; but then he did not look anything to speak of. He had the expressionlessness of his calling. His quiet voice, neat clothes, and sleek black hair suggested nothing but discretion. Trent asked a question.

  Mr Hermon, Weaver said, came up fairly often on business from his place in Surrey, and when he did so, always visited his nephew. Sometimes he came on purpose to see him. No; Mr Maxwell had not been expecting him on the day of the accident; he had given no notice that he was coming. If he had done so, Mr Maxwell would naturally have been at home. Weaver thought it unlikely that Mr Hermon had been intending to call on any of the other tenants. He did do so from time to time, to talk about some matters of repairs or other landlord’s business; but that would always be by appointme
nt, and not during the working day. All the tenants, Weaver pointed out, were busy men, with the exception of Mr Maxwell; they would seldom be at home until the evening.

  Yes; Mr Hermon attended personally to the management of all his house property in the West End. There was a good deal of it, and it gave him occupation. No; he was not what they call a hard landlord; quite the contrary, Weaver would say. Mr Hermon liked to do things for people, being a very generous man, as Weaver had good reason to know.

  ‘You mean that he was generous to you,’ Trent suggested. ‘A present for you when he called here – that sort of thing?’

  ‘Mr Hermon always behaved like a gentleman,’ Weaver said demurely. ‘But I meant more than that, sir. You see, I was two years in his service before I came to Mr Maxwell; that is how I came to know so much about his habits, and to appreciate his kindness. Then when Mr Hermon went on a tour round the world, he suggested I should go to Mr Maxwell, who was not satisfied with the valet he had then; and I have remained in his service since then – about nine months ago it would be.’

  When Trent went to talk it over with his friend Chief-Inspector Bligh, he found that officer cheerfully interested in what he described as a very nice case.

  ‘There’s nothing easy,’ he said, ‘about it so far. Of course, it’s a murder – that’s certain. You have heard what the lift company’s man says. And, of course, it was meant to look as if it might be an accident.’

  ‘Then how about the ground-floor gate being forced as well as the other? That doesn’t look like an accident.’

  ‘Well, what does it look like?’ Mr Bligh wanted to know.

  ‘It looks to me as it looks to you, I suppose. When the old man had been pushed into the lift-shaft, the murderer realised that something had gone wrong with his plan. Hermon had had something on him that might give the murderer away if it was found on the body. The only thing for him to do was to run downstairs, prise open the bottom gate, and take what he wanted off the body. If Pimblett or anybody appeared while he was doing so, he could say he had seen the old man open the gate and fall down the shaft, and had rushed down and forced the gate to see if he was still alive.’

  The inspector nodded. ‘Yes; that’s the idea. And he did get what he wanted, presumably; and nobody did see him. Of course, it’s the sort of place where nobody is about most of the time, and the man who did the job knew that.’

  ‘Well, how about the people who live here? Are they all above suspicion?’

  ‘There is no such thing,’ Mr Bligh declared, ‘as being above suspicion – not if I do the suspecting. And it just happens that most of them haven’t an alibi. The Museum man has, of course; his flat was shut up, and is still. And the Corderoys were at their dress shop till after six. But the Frenchman was alone when he came in and reported having found the body; and his story of how he found it, and what time he entered the house, is quite unsupported. Maxwell says he lunched at his flat, went out immediately afterwards, and spent all the afternoon at Lord’s watching Lancashire take a licking from Middlesex; then went to his club with some other bright boys, had drinks, and came home to dress for dinner. But Lord’s is a place you can dodge out of and return to later, and it’s no distance for a car to Rigby Street. Then there’s Clayton Haggett, the surgeon. He had lunch in his flat too, after a morning at the hospital; went down to his car at 2.30, had an operation at a nursing-home and another at a private house; finished by 4.15, had a cup of tea, and then spent two hours driving about down Richmond way – just to take the air, and nobody with him all that time, which is a pity.’

  ‘He didn’t like Hermon,’ Trent remarked. ‘He was very bitter in that tussle they had over vivisection.’

  ‘Yes, and he’s got a naughty temper when he’s crossed. Loses his self-control. He had to resign from the Hunter Club for knocking a man down in the smoking-room. Nobody would have anything to do with him if he wasn’t such a wizard with the knife.’

  ‘And what about the servants in the building? Do they come into the picture at all?’

  ‘All I can tell you is that none of their stories can be checked. Pimblett says he was in the basement all the afternoon until the Frenchman shouted for him; his wife was away calling on her sister in Highbury. The French manservant and Haggett’s housekeeper say they never opened the doors of their flats until the police looked them up after the finding of the body. Maxwell’s man says he had the afternoon off, went out after his master had gone, and sat through the cinema programme at the Byzantine, getting back a little before Anthony did. Well, what good’s that? Like the other three, he can’t prove anything at all about where he was for some hours before the police were called in.’

  ‘Any of them ever been in trouble?’

  ‘Nothing known against any of them. Ex-Sergeant Pimblett – excellent record. Mrs Hargreaves, the housekeeper – ditto. Weaver used to be employed at Harding’s the big barber shop in Duke Street, where old Hermon used to go when he was in town. He always had Weaver to attend to him, and at last he took him on as his valet. Afterwards – ’

  ‘Yes, he told me; he was switched on to Anthony. Perfectly respectable. And the French domestic?’

  ‘All I know about Aristide Recot is that he has a wooden face and side-whiskers, and doesn’t mind being seen in an apron. What I’m told by his master is that he has been with him for some years, and given every satisfaction. But what’s the use? We had to consider the servants, of course; but what motive could any of them have had? It’s a different thing when you come to their employers. Haggett, for instance.’

  Trent looked the inspector in the eyes. ‘You were talking about motive,’ he said gently. ‘Is Haggett’s resentment really the strongest you can think of? I don’t like being teased.’

  ‘All right; I was coming to it,’ Mr Bligh responded with a faint grin. ‘Yes, I suppose the expectation of coming into the greater part of a very large fortune might operate as a motive. That is what Maxwell will do, according to our information. Unless something happens to him. His uncle made him a very generous allowance, and he lived rent-free, and Weaver’s wages were paid by the old man. Maxwell ought to have been grateful, and perhaps he was; but there you are – he’s a vicious young brute, and always in debt; and though Hermon wasn’t strong, he might have lived to any old age. Now then! Will that do for you?’

  ‘Something of the sort had crossed my mind,’ Trent admitted. ‘Certainly it will do – until something better comes along.’

  Mr Bligh raised an impressive finger. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you something that hadn’t crossed your mind. It’s information received. If it’s right, the coroner will hear it at a later stage, but at present we would rather the murderer didn’t know about it. You remember I mentioned that Clayton Haggett left his flat at 2.30 that afternoon. Well, he had more to tell us than that. He went down by the lift, he said. It’s rather a slow-motion lift. As it passed down by the floor below – Anthony’s floor – Haggett heard some words spoken. He could see as he passed that the door of the flat was just being opened from inside, and as it opened he heard a loud bullying voice call out, “You do what I say, and look sharp about it. If you get on the wrong side of me, you know what to expect.” That is as near as Haggett can go to the actual words he heard – I asked him to be particular.’

  Trent stared at the inspector with kindling eyes. ‘You do like saving up the best bit to the last, don’t you? And you had this – this! – simply handed to you. On a plate.’

  ‘With parsley round it,’ added Mr Bligh unashamed.

  ‘I have heard you use that phrase before,’ Trent said thoughtfully. ‘It meant, I think, that you were rather mistrustful of good things that came so easily. But now, what about this remarkable addition to the record? Did Haggett recognise the voice? Did he see anybody?’

  ‘No. Haggett says it might have been Maxwell he heard talking; but he only knows Maxwell by sight, has never spoken to him, and has no idea what his voice would sound like if it was ra
ised. And, of course, it might have been anybody else in the world. Then I asked him what class of voice it was – like a curate’s, or a dustman’s, or what. All he could tell me was that it was not a coarse voice, and not a refined one; just middling. Very useful! But that isn’t all. As the lift got to the bottom he heard a door above slam violently, which he assumed to be the one he had just seen being opened; and as he was getting into his car, Maxwell came out of the street door, with his hat on, looking furiously angry and very red in the face, and walked away rapidly.’

  Trent considered this. ‘So that is Haggett’s information. And what does Maxwell say about it?’

  ‘He hasn’t been asked – yet. He is being given a little more time to make mistakes. But, of course, it may all be a lie. Yes, you may look surprised; but Haggett isn’t out of it yet, as I told you. There’s another piece of news I’ve got for you which certainly isn’t a lie. When Jackson did the post mortem he found something that wants a lot of explaining.’

  ‘What! Another thing you are keeping dark?’

  ‘For the present. He noticed that the finger nails of the right hand looked as if they had been scratching hard at something, and there was a very faint odour that he couldn’t place; so he took some scrapings from the nails to be analysed. They found some tiny scraps of human skin; also traces of some things with hydro-carbo scientific names that don’t seem to tell you much and one thing that I have heard of quite often before.’

  ‘Yes. What?’

  ‘Chloroform.’

  Thinking it over in his studio, Trent could make no more of this at first than Mr Bligh and he had made between them. If there had been a struggle, and if chloroform had been used, it did seem to point to the one resident in the house who might be presumed to know all about chloroform and what could be done with it. And Haggett was known to be violent tempered and a good hater, as well as a very able and successful professional man – not an unknown combination of qualities. But Trent found it hard to believe in such a character expressing its dislike in murder done by tricky and treacherous means. A quarrel; yes. An assault; possibly. An assault with a fatal result, legally a murder; such things did happen. But a planned and cold-blooded crime, with the murderer scheming to avoid detection by means of a trumped-up tale – Trent did not see it. In his experience, trained faculties, high responsibility, and professional distinction did not go with dirty actions and circumstantial lying.