The Division Bell Mystery

by Ellen Wilkinson

  “Perhaps they expected to get the Minister the first time. How could they know that he would be out of the room while the dinner was going on? A very unlikely thing except for the accident of the division.”

  “Ye… es, that’s true. He wouldn’t have been out otherwise, and then there would have been a witness to the murder.”

  “Or another corpse.”

  “Or…” But Robert’s mind refused even to frame the haunting fear that was growing in it that the only person who could tell how Georges Oissel died was the man who last saw him alive. Blackitt’s theory of an international gang was safer anyway. It should be encouraged.

  “There is this to be said for your theory, Blackitt,” said West. “International rings haven’t stopped at murder on a wholesale scale in the past. Wars have been the tools of their trade. I suppose there’s no reason why they should stop at going into the retail business, so to speak. My only difficulty is that I don’t see how they expect to cash in on the results.”

  “I’m not accusing respectable financiers,” said Blackitt.

  “There aren’t any,” interrupted West flippantly.

  “What I mean is that Oissel was a tough customer who hadn’t stopped at much himself. He seems to have known as much of the underworld as most. And the Home Secretary knew him when he didn’t wear a top hat. These two come together again when one is a Minister and the other a millionaire. But there may be old scores to be paid off. One of them has met the bill. Has what you stumbled on to-night anything to do with putting paid to the account of the other? That’s what I’d like to know.” The two men sat silently considering this. Then Blackitt rose to go.

  “Blackitt, I never expected you to be romantic,” said West with an uneasy laugh as he bade his visitor good-night. “Anyway, you look like having your hands full.”

  “I’m glad there’s a bit of a move on from their side,” replied Blackitt. “It was the stalemate, not being able to get a clue anywhere, that got me down.”

  When Blackitt had gone West threw himself into a chair. Tired as he was, he had never felt less like sleep. He might gibe at Blackitt’s theory, but it seemed to him uncomfortably near the truth. The Home Secretary had something to hide. There might be a perfectly good explanation for those notes in his file, just curiosity when Jenks’ papers were brought to him, but the fact that, knowing that the book was Oissel’s (as he must have done), he should have sent it back to Blackitt without any inquiry as to how it came into Jenks’ possession—this seemed too strange to admit of any completely innocent explanation.

  It was still odder to think of the rigid and honoured Cabinet Minister with a wild-cat past. The logging holiday had seemed such a perfectly respectable explanation of his friendship with Mr Oissel, but, as Blackitt had remarked, it had been very much in the pre-tall-hat stage of Oissel’s career.

  And that boot in the dark. Who had been on the corridor and slipped out into the night unseen? Some one who knew the ways of the House—that was pretty evident. And who was the man who had been hiding in the doorway? Anyway, there was nothing to be done now, but he must see the Home Secretary as early as possible in the morning. Tearing his clothes off somehow, Robert got into bed and slept the sleep of utter exhaustion.

  CHAPTER XIV

  “Beware of the week-end” is sound advice for any Government which has even the possibility of a crisis in the offing.

  When a Minister who has been having a bad time surveys the House, which meets on Fridays at eleven in the morning, generally in lounge suits or tweeds as an indication of the slackening of political attention, he will say to himself, “Praise the Lord, they will have to be quiet for the next two days anyway.” But the lazy M.P.s go home to talk to their wives or their club friends, and the energetic ones go and talk to meetings and conferences. If there is even a hint of mystery in the air no M.P. can possibly be expected to refrain from hinting at a ‘crisis.’ That is why Ministers hate Mondays.

  Robert, after the events of the previous night, was determined to see the Home Secretary as soon as possible this Friday morning. He dashed into the Home Office, only to be told by Briggs that the Home Secretary had gone away for the week-end.

  “Surely you remember,” said Briggs. “He’s gone to christen a new ship that his constituents have built.”

  “Why the hell does he want to go off on a jaunt like that, at a time like this?” said Robert savagely.

  “Don’t deprive a Minister of his toys, else what’s the good of being a Minister? Don’t you like it when the brass band meets you? Oh, there’s an urgent message from Lady Bell-Clinton. She wants you to ring up as soon as you come in. Shall I get her number for you?”

  Robert moodily waited while Briggs fussed about with the telephone. He had screwed up his courage for what was likely to have been an extremely unpleasant and difficult interview, and the Chief he was so anxious to save from the consequences of what Robert thought he must have done had gone off on a joy-ride to christen a ship!

  “That you, Robert?” said the gay voice of Lady Bell-Clinton down the phone. “I want you to come down to Clinton Bardsley this week-end. Now don’t say you’ve got another engagement—you’ve simply got to come.”

  Lady Bell-Clinton was a very important person, being an M.P. herself and the wife of the Secretary of State for War. Any other time Robert would have hailed such an invitation with joy, but he could not face a house-party just now. He was feeling aggrieved, and rather like the Tommy who asked after his fifth fatigue where was the rest of the British Army. He conveyed this over the phone as tactfully as he could.

  “Anything may happen on this Oissel case and with the Home Secretary out of town I feel I ought to be on tap. The Minister asked me to work with Inspector Blackitt, you see.” Robert’s tone was not entirely free from a certain self-importance. He half expected to be chaffed by Ivy Bell-Clinton, but she said: “That’s why you must come. Annette Oissel is coming, and she specially asked me to produce you.”

  Annette had asked for him! The world suddenly looked a much brighter place.

  “Then of course I’ll come. I want to see her about a lot of things.”

  “I expected you might,” answered Lady Bell-Clinton drily. “I’ll drive you down from the House after lunch if you like.”

  Robert dashed back to Soho to pack his bag in high excitement. Had Annette asked for him because she had more to tell him about the mystery, or—and here Robert felt warm inside—could she have wanted to see him anyway?

  Robert was always more amused than awed by the luxury of Clinton Bardsley, largely because the personality of Ivy Bell-Clinton made it so difficult to be awed by anything connected with her. The daughter and heiress of the largest firm of brewers in the world, Ivy Bell had married in Sir Anthony Clinton, a baronet whose family was older than most European dynasties. But she had insisted on the double name; she was not ashamed of her origin, and she had made Clinton Bardsley a lively meeting-place for people doing worthwhile work in the world and who held the most widely differing opinions.

  Lady Bell-Clinton took an impish joy in inducing the most extraordinary people to mix together, but the party that Robert West found on this occasion was one of her super-respectable kind. It included a Cabinet Minister with a wife who must surely have been taken to her christening in a robe of black crêpe de Chine and old lace; a couple of City men whose wives were not in evidence; a champion lady golfer; and Lord Dalbeattie, a member of the synthetic aristocracy whose peerage had been made for him only six months previously.

  West looked with interest at Dalbeattie, whom he had not met before, but whom he had heard described as the Pirate King because of his sensational and successful raids in the world of high finance. Dalbeattie looked so smooth and self-contained that Robert remembered with a smile Ivy Bell-Clinton’s description of him as being like one of those Russian dolls, very solid-looking outside but containing such a s
urprising number of things when you unscrew them. The unscrewing of Lord Dalbeattie would be a very interesting operation even to an expert like Lady Bell-Clinton.

  Annette did not appear until sherry was being handed round before dinner. Robert was at first annoyed to find that Kinnaird was very much in attendance on her, but on second thoughts he was rather glad. He hoped there would be a chance for a further talk with him about Oissel and his affairs.

  During dinner Robert felt like a marionette in some queer puppet-play. The small party was marooned round an oval table in the immensity of the Louis Quinze dining-room. In deference to Annette, stately and silent in her black gown, no mention was made of the affair at the House of Commons, though it was obviously the one thing every one except the woman golfer was thinking about. Fortunately Mrs Rockingham’s loud voice and endless selection of quite good golfing stories filled in every awkward gap that opened. Lady Bell-Clinton pulled a face at Robert as he opened the door for the retreat of the ladies. It was tiresome to have to go and be a lady in the drawing-room when she wanted to be an M.P. and remain for the talk. The House of Commons unfits a woman M.P. for the smaller observances of the social routine that is prescribed for the Lady Bell-Clintons.

  While the port was being passed Dalbeattie turned to his host, the Secretary of State for War, who looked blissfully peaceful, and remarked: “You are dallying along rather dangerously with this Oissel affair, aren’t you?”

  “I—what have I to do with it?”

  “Well, you are in the Cabinet.”

  “Precisely. Do you expect me to undertake the duties of the police as well? I understand Robert here has turned amateur detective, and from what I can gather from Gleeson”—here Sir Anthony turned to West with his precise little smile—“you are not any too popular with your department because of it.”

  “But surely you realize,” said Dalbeattie, “or some one in the Cabinet ought to, that this business is creating the very devil in the City?”

  Sir Anthony turned his mild blue eyes upon his guest. “I cannot see what it has to do with the City.”

  “Really, Clinton”—and Dalbeattie’s voice had an edge of exasperation—“I sometimes think that even Cabinet Ministers might occasionally take a look at the world outside their departmental doors. Everything affects the City. There are all sorts of ugly rumours. The Cabinet is walking blindfold into a first-class crisis.”

  Sir Anthony Bell-Clinton calmly surveyed the ash on his cigar. “The City likes to have something to excuse a flutter. But this matter is entirely the affair of the Home Office. I have no doubt that the Home Secretary will present a report to the Cabinet when he has anything to report.” Then he turned to Philip as one who is tactfully changing the subject and remarked pleasantly: “So the lovely Annette is a very great heiress indeed, from all I hear.”

  Kinnaird smiled politely. “She tells me that she feels very worried by the responsibility of it.”

  There was a general laugh at this. “A responsibility that will no doubt be shared very soon,” added the other Cabinet Minister. Again Robert had that feeling of taking part in a charade. Every one was saying pleasant little bromides as though they were repeating parts in a play. He glanced at Dalbeattie. He seemed real. So did Kinnaird. Men up against life. West wondered if he too had that air of puppetry that seemed to be shared by the other Parliamentarians who were present.

  When there was a general move to join the ladies Robert found Dalbeattie at his elbow. “Like to come for a stroll?” asked the older man.

  “Nothing I’d like better, but will Lady Bell-Clinton…?”

  “Oh, that’s all right. Ivy wants people to do as they like.”

  The formal gardens of Clinton Bardsley were drenched in moonlight. “This is the loveliest place I know,” said Robert, touched by the amazing beauty around him.

  “Yes,” said Dalbeattie drily. “I wonder how much longer even the Bell-Clinton income can keep it up. The day of these private white elephants is over.”

  “It’s a damned shame,” said Robert hotly. “I mean, they did stand for something that will never be quite the same in the world again.”

  Dalbeattie looked at him with surprise. “And you’ve been mentioned to me as quite a dangerous Bolshevik! This environment has produced Anthony Clinton, who is as much use in the modern world as an ivory Buddha. But now about this Oissel affair. Have you formed any conclusion yourself about it? I gather from the Home Secretary that you have taken hold of it. I’m glad some one has.”

  “Even if only a P.P.S.?”

  Dalbeattie laughed. “They have their uses.”

  Robert hesitated. He felt the strength of Dalbeattie’s personality. He was tempted to pour out the whole story, even to his fears about his Minister. But decency forbade. He must see the Home Secretary first. He dare not share his knowledge—and his suspicions.

  Dalbeattie misinterpreted his hesitation.

  “I am not exactly an outsider in this matter,” he said quietly. “I have been advising the Prime Minister on technical matters connected with the loan. I was very much against the Home Secretary seeing Oissel privately.”

  Robert felt that he must appear to be frank. To let out just a little might be the best way of concealing the bigger secret. “I expect you know more than I do,” he said. “All we have been able to find out is that Edward Jenks, the Home Secretary’s man who was guarding Oissel, appears to have been double-crossing both Oissel and the Minister. We have discovered that he was attempting to steal certain important documents. At least, the evidence we have points that way. It is not absolutely conclusive.”

  Dalbeattie stopped in his slow, deliberate walk, and turned to stare at Robert. “The Home Secretary’s man trying to steal important documents from Oissel. Good God, man, it’s worse than I ever imagined it could be.” As Robert had become used to the lesser secret, he was surprised at the effect it had on his companion.

  “It’s much worse than that,” he said to himself, “or it may be.” Aloud he said: “Well, the proof isn’t conclusive, as I say.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. The suspicion is enough. How many people know even that much?”

  “Just the Inspector in charge and myself.”

  “But surely the Home Secretary… what does he say about it? You aren’t trying to sit on this volcano, are you, for some idiotic idea of trying to get kudos out of it?”

  Robert was offended, and showed it. “I have been trying to get an interview alone with the Home Secretary for two days, but he has been too busy.”

  “He would be. He’ll be tidying his papers at the day of judgment. Where is he now? Let’s get a car and drive to see him at once.”

  Dalbeattie made Robert feel that he had been as lackadaisical as the politicians he had been despising at dinner.

  “We can’t get him this week-end. He’s up in Scotland christening a ship.”

  “My God!” Dalbeattie sat heavily down on a seat. “How does this country get itself run at all? Here is a first-class crisis that may blow the Government out of the water. The Home Secretary’s man is involved in a shady side of it, and the Home Secretary is allowed to toddle away to christen ships without being told of it. What the hell do you think of yourself, West?”

  Robert was suddenly frightened. Had he been fancying himself as amateur detective without realizing the bigger implications of the affair? This man made him feel like a schoolboy caught with matches and a tin of paraffin. Well, Dalbeattie had better know the worst, and perhaps he could take over the whole damned thing.

  “That is not all,” he said, almost dreading, yet revelling in, the effect he was about to produce. “Jenks went out to have those papers photographed on the night that Oissel was murdered, and I have found copies of the code in the Minister’s handwriting among his files. He knows the code too. He had decoded the words, and the notes were all about the loan.”
He blurted all this out without stopping. Dalbeattie had gone very quiet.

  “Are you mad, West, or are you drunk?”

  “I shall go mad, very soon, Lord Dalbeattie, if I think about this business much more. I know you think I’ve been a fool, but I only found out about the Home Secretary having the code this morning. I tried to see him. I’ve been trying to get a word with him ever since I found out about Jenks, but I tell you I can’t get five minutes alone with him. Gleeson seems never to let go of his hand these days.”

  “And a good thing too,” said Dalbeattie as if to himself. “No, West. I don’t think you are a fool—anything but. You seem to be the only person who has seriously tackled the problem, apart from the police of course. They know all this, I take it?”

  “Not anything about the Home Secretary. I kept that to myself. They know about Jenks, of course.”

  “Well, I’m glad you kept this to yourself. You are sure no one else knows?”

  Robert felt that he could not destroy the impression he had evidently made on Lord Dalbeattie by attempting to explain about Don Shaw. And anyway Shaw was too absolutely trustworthy to count.

  “No. I’ve told no one else,” said Robert. “But I’ll see the Minister on Monday. I’ll make him see me alone.”

  “He will see you,” said Dalbeattie grimly. “Now we’ll get out my car and go and see the Prime Minister.”

  “The Prime Minister?” gasped Robert. “But we can’t do that before I’ve seen the Home Secretary.”

  “We can and must. There are bigger things at stake than that old gentleman’s amour propre. God knows what he has been up to. Had some bright idea of double-crossing Oissel, I suppose. It’s like a rabbit trying to put it across a terrier.”

  “But ‘the dog it was that died,’” quoted Robert, as they walked back to the house.