Enter a Murderer (9 page)

She saw Nigel then, and couldn’t speak. He walked past her and downstairs without uttering another word.

Big Ben struck twelve noon as Nigel made his way back to Scotland Yard. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn was engaged, but Nigel was invited to take a seat in the passage outside his room. Presently the door opened and a roaring noise informed him of the presence of Mr. Jacob Saint.

“That’s all I know. You can ferret round till you’re blue in the face, but you won’t find anything else. I’m a plain man, inspector—”

“Oh, I don’t think so at all, Mr. Saint,” Alleyn said politely.

“And your comedy stuff makes me tired. It’s a suicide case. When’s the inquest?”

“To-morrow at eleven.”

Mr. Saint uttered a rumbling sound and walked out into the passage. He stared at Nigel, failed to recognize him, and made off in the direction of the stairs.

“Hullo, Bathgate,” said Alleyn from the doorway. “Come in.”

Nigel, by dint of terrific self-suppression, managed to report Wakeford with a certain air of nonchalance. Alleyn listened attentively.

“Wakeford’s theory is possible,” he said. “Surbonadier was a peculiar individual. He may have written the article, fathered it on to Wakeford, and hugged himself with the thought that he was dealing a sly blow at Uncle Jacob. We know he tried to blackmail him a week or so ago. It’s not as inconsistent as it seems.”

“Saint himself swore he didn’t do it — at the time of the trial, I mean.”

“Of course he did. If his nephew had proved to be the author, he would have seemed a better authority than a reporter eager for sensational copy. No — in a way it’s a reasonable theory.”

“You sound doubtful.”

“I am.”

“So’s Gardener. He doesn’t think Surbonadier did it.”

“What? You’ve seen him?”

“Yes. He’s got the wind up now and thinks you’re going to pull him in.”

“He doesn’t think Surbonadier wrote the article?”

“He said so, quite honestly, though I’m sure he understood how the theory would point to Saint rather than to himself. All the same, I got the feeling he really believed there might be something in it.”

“Tell me exactly what was said.”

Nigel repeated, as closely as he could, his conversation with Gardener. Rather reluctantly he described Miss Vaughan’s appearance and her unfinished sentence.

“What was she going to warn him about?” he wondered.

“Can’t you guess?” Alleyn asked.

“No, I can
not
.”

“Think. Think. Think.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Nigel crossly. “You talk like a Thorndyke.”

“Why not? I wish I could sleuth like one. I’ll have to have a stab at it, too. Dig up some old dirt at Cambridge.”

“Do you think there’s anything in the suicide theory?”

“No. He hadn’t the guts. I suppose you realize the significance of Gardener’s information about the drug coterie at Cambridge?”

“It suggests that Surbonadier might be ‘in the know,’ that way as well as any other, about his uncle’s goings on,” said Nigel confusedly.

“I must go,” said Alleyn, looking at his watch.

“Whereto?”

“The deceased’s flat.”

“May I come, too?”

“You? I don’t know. You’re rather a prejudiced party in this case.”

“You mean about Felix?”

“Yes. If you come you’ll have to give me your word you’ll keep quiet about it.”

“I will, I swear.”

“Not a word to anyone. Nor with arms encumbered thus or this head-shake, or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase—”

“No — no — no.”

“Swear!”

“I swear.”

“All right. Let’s have lunch and go.”

They lunched together at Alleyn’s flat, and, after a liqueur and a cigarette, made their way to Surbonadier’s rooms in Gerald’s Row. A police constable was on guard there and produced the keys. At the door Alleyn turned to Nigel.

“I’ve little idea,” he said, “what we shall find in here. It’s an ugly case. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather keep out of it?”

“How you do go on,” said Nigel. “I’m in on the deal.”

“So be it. Here we go.” He unlocked the door and they walked in.

The flat comprised four rooms and a bathroom and kitchenette, all opening on the right from a passage that ran their length. The first was Surbonadier’s bedroom and the second a sitting-room with folding doors leading to a small dining-room. The kitchenette and bathroom came next and another bedroom at the end.. This seemed to be unused, and was filled with trucks, boxes, and odds and ends of furniture. The flats were served by a married couple and their son, who all lived in the basement. Alleyn, after a glance at the small bedroom, sighed and rang up the Yard, suggesting that Inspector Fox or Detective Bailey should come and help. The sitting-room was luxuriously and rather floridly furnished. A framed supplement from
La Vie Parisienne
was a striking note above the sideboard. The cushions, of which there were many, were orange and purple. Alleyn sniffed distastefully.

“May as well begin in here,” he said. “He
would
have a satinwood desk, wouldn’t he? Disgusting object.”

He produced a bunch of keys, selected one, and fitted it in the lock.

“Are those his keys?” asked Nigel.

“They are, indeed.”

The lock clicked and Alleyn let down the front of the desk. A conglomerate welter of paper fell forward and spilled on to the floor.

“Oh, Lord! Come on, Bathgate. Bills in one pile, receipts in another. Circulars here. Letters there. Read everything and tell me if you strike anything interesting. Wait a moment. You’d better hand over all private letters to me. Here we go. Try and get the bills into chronological order, will you?”

There were a great many bills, and the separate accounts had been sent in a great many times, with added reminders that began obsequiously and worked their way through the humble, the plaintive, the reproachful, and the exasperated tenor, until they reached the final and threatening note that indicates “Immediate proceedings.” These, however, never appeared to eventuate, and after half an hour’s work Nigel made a discovery.

“I say, Alleyn,” he said. “He paid all his bills about a year ago, when the shops threatened to dun him, and, as far as I can see, he hasn’t paid one since, and they’re all threatening to dun him again! I suppose old Saint must have made him a yearly allowance!”

“Old Saint says he made Surbonadier no allowance. He cleared up his debts at Cambridge, gave him a start on the stage, and intimated it was up to little Arthur.”

“Really? Well, he was evidently expecting something to come in as far as one can judge by the letters from the shops.”

“What did the total of his last pay-out amount to?”

“Wait a bit.”

Nigel did some feverish sums, swore under his breath, began again, and finally said, triumphantly: ‘

“Two thousand pounds. That’s what he paid out last May and he owes about the same amount again now.”

“What’s that you’ve got?” asked Alleyn.

“It’s his pass-book. He’s overdrawn. Let me see now. May, last year. There’s no note of any large sum to his credit. It must have been cash. No, by Jove— here it is. Two thousand paid in on the twenty-fifth of May last year.”

“I see,” said Alleyn thoughtfully. “I see.”

“Doesn’t that look like blackmail money?”

“It does.”

“From Saint. I bet it was from Saint.”

“Maybe.”

“You sound dubious.”

“I am. Here’s old Fox.”

Inspector Fox heard the news without enthusiasm.

“He’s still wedded to Props,” said Alleyn. “Let’s get on with the horrid job.”

“Deceased seems to have kept every letter that was ever sent to him,” said Fox. “Here’s a little pile from somebody called Steff.”

“Steff?” echoed Alleyn sharply. “Let me see.”

He took the letters and walked to the window with them. He stood very still, glancing swiftly at page after page, and placing each face downwards on the sill as he finished it.

“A pig of a man,” he said suddenly.

“That’s what Felix called him,” remarked Nigel.

“So she told me.”

“She?”

“Stephanie — Vaughan.”

“Steff — oh, I see,” said Nigel eagerly. “The letters are from her.”

“Oh, Lord,” said Alleyn, looking at him wearily, “you’re there, are you?”

“Is there anything useful, sir?” asked Fox. “There’s a good deal that’s painful. They start off in her best leading-lady manner — all ecstasy and style, and fashionable dalliance. Then he must have shown up in his true colours. She is horrified by something, but still rather mannered and flowery. She keeps it up until about a week — no — two days ago. Then there are two little notes. ‘Please let’s stop, Arthur. I’m sorry. I can’t help it if I’ve changed,’ and the signature. That was written two days ago. The last, which is in a different key, was actually sent yesterday morning.”

“Carrying on with him and Mr. Gardener together, seemingly,” said Fox; “but I don’t see that it helps.”

“I’m afraid it does help a little,” Alleyn rejoined. “Ah well — on with the hunt.”

At last the contents of the desk were exhausted, and Alleyn led them to the spare bedroom, where the search began again and went on wearily. The Yard men were terribly thorough. Finally they unearthed an old trunk that had been put away in the wardrobe. Nigel switched the lights on and drew the curtains. It was already beginning to get dark in the room. Alleyn opened the trunk. Here they found letters from a great many women, but beyond throwing a little extra light on Mr. Surbonadier’s unsavoury character, they were of no value.

At the bottom were two old newspapers, carefully folded. Alleyn pounced on one, shook it open, and folded it back. Fox and Nigel looked over his shoulder and read in flaring capitals the single word “Cocaine!” and underneath: “Amazing revelation of the illicit drug trade. Fool’s Paradise — and after.”

The paper was the
Morning Express
of March, 1929.

“The story itself!” shouted Nigel. “Look, Alleyn, look! And there’s Wakeford’s signature, reproduced across the top.”

“Was that done with all his articles?”

“I think so. All the middle-page, special articles. The ‘Mex’ always did it.”

“It’s quite a clear-cut reproduction,” said Alleyn. “Good enough to forge from, any day. And an easy one to copy, too.”

“Of course,” said Fox slowly, “the deceased would be interested even if he had no hand in the matter.”

“Quite so,” agreed Alleyn absently. He read some of the letterpress. “It certainly points very directly at Saint,” he said. “There’s another paper left That will be the account of the libel action.”

“You’re quite right, sir — it is.”

“Yes. Well, now we turn to little Arthur’s bedroom. We are looking for a small strong box. Perhaps a cash box. What are you staring at, Bathgate?”

“You,” said Nigel simply.

The bedroom was extremely ornate, and smelt of stale incense. “
Quite
disgusting,” muttered Alleyn, and opened a window. They set to work again, leaving Fox to deal with the bathroom. He made the first discovery — a hypodermic syringe in the cupboard above the basin. Nigel found another in the bedside-table drawer, and with it a little oblong packet.

“Dope,” said Alleyn. “I thought he was still at it. Let me see.” He examined the packet closely. “It’s the same as the lot we got from Sniffy Quarles,” he said. “ ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive.’ ”

“That’s right,” said Inspector Fox, and returned to the bathroom.

“I adore Fox,” said Alleyn. “He’s the perfect embodiment, the last loveliest expression, of horse sense. There is nothing in this chest of drawers, nor in any of the pockets of Mr. Surbonadier’s suits, except — hullo, what’s this?”

It was another letter, this time a very humble affair, written on common paper. Alleyn handed it to Nigel, who read:

“Who’s Bert?” asked Nigel.

“Albert Hickson is the property master’s name,” said Alleyn.

“One up to Fox,” said Nigel.

“He’ll think so — yes. So Trixie got it for him. I must see Trixie again.”

He got a chair, put it by the wardrobe and stood on it. Then he reached up and groped at the back of the top shelf.

“Stand by!” he said suddenly.

Nigel hurried to his side. From behind a leather hat box Alleyn drew out a small tin, very sturdily made, and bound with iron.

“That’s what we’re looking for,” he said.

How the devil did you know he had this?” asked Nigel.

Alleyn climbed down from his perch, put his hand in his pocket and produced a small key hanging on a long, very fine, steel chain.

“We found this round his neck. It suggested something of the sort to me. These boxes are made by one particular firm and the keys are rather individual. Now let us open it.”

He inserted the little key and turned it twice. The lock gave a sharp click and opened. Alleyn lifted the lid.

“More paper,” said Nigel.

“Yes. Wait a moment.”

Alleyn put the box down on the glass top of the dressing-table. From his pocket he took two pairs of tweezers and, using them delicately, lifted out a sheet of blue notepaper. It was folded. He opened it up carefully, and bent over it. Nigel heard him draw in his breath.

“Don’t touch it,” he said, “but look.”

And Nigel looked. On the paper two words were written over and over again:

“Edward Wakeford. Edward Wakeford. Edward Wakeford.”

Without a word Alleyn went out of the room, returning, followed by Fox, with the newspaper they had found in the trunk. He folded down the heading of the special article and laid it beside the paper on the dressing-table. The writing of the signature was identical.

“Why, in Heaven’s name, did he keep it?” whispered Nigel.

“You may well ask,” said Fox. “Human nature’s very rum, sir, very rum indeed. Vanity, as like as not.”

“
Vanitas vanitatum,
” Alleyn murmured. “But not this time, Fox.”

The second paper proved to be another letter. It was signed H. J. M., and began: “Dear Mr. Saint.”

“Hullo!” said Alleyn. “Here’s the ex-footman coming out in a blaze of dubious glory. He mentioned this. It’s from Mortlake. ‘Please find enclosed my cheque for five hundred pounds in settlement of our little debt. The goods have all been disposed of, as per arrangement. The trade in Shantung silk is particularly satisfactory, but I have great hopes of celanese next June when our Mr. Charles comes over. Yours faithfully— ’ Oh, joy, oh rapture, my Foxkin, this is Mortlake himself! It’s a relic of our last little catch. Do you remember? Please to remember, my Fox.”

“I remember all right. Shantung was heroin and celanese was cocaine. We rounded ’em all up except Mortlake.”

“And ‘our Mr. Charles’ was none other than Sniffy Quarles, who got five of the best, bless his little soul. This will just about settle Mr. Mortlake. So
that’s
what Surbonadier had had up his sleeve for Jacob Saint.”

“Well, sir, I must say it begins to look more as if Saint’s our man. Although you’ve got to admit Trixie’s letter still points my way.”

“Aren’t you both excited?” Nigel observed perkily.

“You must allow us our drab thrills. There’s nothing more in the box.”

Alleyn refolded the papers, using the utmost care not to touch the surfaces. He put them in a black japanned case that Fox produced. Then he shut the iron-bound box, returned it to the wardrobe shelf, and lit a cigarette.

“Bailey had better get to work on the papers,” he said. “There’s nothing else here. I’m going to call on Miss Vaughan. No. Wait a moment I think I’ll ring her up.”

He sat on the bed, nursing his foot and rocking backwards and forwards. An expression of extreme distaste crossed his face. He took up the telephone directory, consulted it, and with a fastidious lift of his shoulders, dialled a number on the bedside telephone. The others waited.

“Is that Miss Stephanie Vaughan’s flat? May I speak to her? Will you say it’s Mr. Roderick Alleyn? Thank you.”

A pause. Alleyn traced his finger slowly round the base of the telephone.

“Is that Miss Vaughan? Please forgive me for bothering you. I am ringing up from Surbonadier’s flat. We intended to go through his papers this afternoon, but I find it’s going to be a very big job. There are some letters.” He paused. “Yes. I realise it is very disagreeable and I think it would be easiest for you if you could meet me here, and should there be any questions I can ask them straight away. That is extremely kind of you. I am locking the place up now and leaving it, but I thought of returning about nine this evening? Could you come then? May I pick you up? Oh, I see. At nine o’clock, then. Good-bye.” He hung up the receiver. “What’s the time?” he asked.

“Five o’clock,” said Nigel.

“Fox — will you take the papers back to the Yard and let Bailey have them? And tell the constable outside he can go.”

“Go!” echoed Fox dazedly.

“Yes, and don’t send anyone to relieve him. I’m staying on here myself.”

“Until nine?” asked Nigel.

“Until nine — or earlier.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “You can get hold of Felix Gardener again. You can tell him the police believe Surbonadier to have written the article in the
Morning Express
. Ask him if he can give us more information about Surbonadier’s Cambridge days. Anything at all that he can remember. There may be something he’s holding back. He’s feeling jumpy, you tell me. If he’s got the idea we’re suspecting him his natural reaction will be to disclaim any previous relationship with Surbonadier.”

Nigel looked uncomfortable.

“I don’t like the idea of pumping him.”

“Then you are useless. I’ll see him myself.”

“Sorry if I’m tiresome.”

“All amateurs are tiresome. You want to be in on this, but you shy off anything that is at all unpleasant. We had this out before in the Wilde case. You’d much better keep out of it, Bathgate. I should have said so at the beginning.”

“If you can assure me Felix is safe—”

“I can give you no assurances about anybody who was behind the scenes. I have my own theory, but it may be all wrong. It’s by no means cast-iron and a new development might set us off on a completely new track after any one of them, from Gardener himself down to old Blair. You want me to assure you with my hand on my heart that I am not interested in Gardener. I can’t do it. Of course I’m interested in him. He fired the revolver. I might have arrested him there and then. He’s one of the mob, and I’ve got to prove to myself he didn’t plant the cartridges. Like everyone else in the case, he isn’t volunteering information. As an innocent man he’s a fool if he tries to blind the police. He may have a specific reason for doing so. He’s in love. Think that out. If you choose, you may tell him the theory as regards Saint, and if he knows anything about Surbonadier’s past that may throw light on that theory, and cares to tell you, and you are still on the side of justice — well and good. Otherwise I shall have to ask you to regard me as you would any other detective on his job, and to expect to get no information but the sort of stuff you can publish in your paper. Have I made myself intelligible?”

“Abundantly. I can take a snub with as good a grace as anyone else, I hope,” said Nigel miserably.

“I’m sorry you look at it like that. What line do you mean to take?”

“May I think it over? If I decide to pull out, you may be quite sure I shall treat this afternoon’s discoveries as entirely confidential. I promised that, anyway. And I’ll let you see my copy, of course.”

“That’s a very fair answer. Let me know at my flat this evening, will you? Now I must ask you both to go.”

Nigel followed Fox into the passage. At the door he turned and looked back.

“Well — good-bye for the present,” he muttered.

“Good-bye, you old sausage,” said Inspector Alleyn.

Fox told the constable at the entrance to the flat to go off. Then he turned to the still discomfited Nigel.

“I dare say you think the Chiefs been a bit hard, — sir,” he ventured, “but you don’t want to look at it that way. It’s a matter of what you might call professional etiquette. The Chief likes you, you see, and he’s so— so blasted honest, if you’ll excuse me. His job has to come before anything. Don’t you worry about Mr. Gardener. He’s been the cat’s-paw, and nothing else, and if he starts holding back information he’s very foolish.”

“I don’t think he has done anything of the sort,” complained Nigel.

“Well, all the better. If you decide to help us, Mr. Bathgate, I’m sure you won’t regret it and I’m sure Chief Inspector Alleyn will be very pleased.”

Nigel looked at his large, comfortable face and suddenly liked him very much.

“It’s nice of you to bother, inspector,” he said. “I was a bit disgruntled. He made me feel such an ass and — and I do admire him so very much.”

“You’re not alone in that, sir. Well, I must be off. Going my way, sir?”

“I’m for Chester Terrace.”

“And I’m for the Yard. No rest for the wicked. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, inspector.”

Nigel’s flat in Chester Terrace was a short walk from Gerald’s Row. He strode along quickly, still rather miserable over his lecture from Alleyn. He had only gone a couple of hundred yards when a taxi passed him, moving slowly along the kerb as though cruising for a passenger. Nigel automatically shook his head, and then saw that the man had a fare — a woman. As the cab passed him a streamer of light from the street lamp caught her face. It was Stephanie Vaughan. She gave no hint of recognition, and in a moment had passed him. He turned and stared after the taxi. She must have misunderstood, he thought, and is going now to the flat. However, the man drove slowly down the little street, past Surbonadier’s windows, and then turned off to the left and disappeared.

“Rum!” thought Nigel and walked on thoughtfully. “Very rum!” he said aloud.

Back in his own flat he turned on the light and, after further cogitation, decided to try and put himself in a better mood by writing to Angela North, who does not come into this story. She was an ardent admirer of Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn and would know just how raw Nigel felt. Would she suggest he kept in the game? Would she tell him his scruples about “pumping” Gardener were ridiculous? He couldn’t ask her without breaking confidence. Damn it all, what
was
he going to do? Perhaps he’d better go to the Queen’s in Cliveden Place and have an evening meal. He wasn’t hungry. Alleyn was fed up with him and had made him feel young, and a prig. He knew, Good Lord, that Felix hadn’t murdered Arthur Surbonadier. Why shouldn’t he ask him if—

The telephone pealed shrilly. Nigel muttered and grumbled and took off the receiver.

Gardener’s voice came urgently.

“Is that you, Nigel? Look here, I want to see you. There’s something I didn’t tell you, about Cambridge, this morning. I was a fool. Could I see you now?”

“Yes,” said Nigel. “Yes.”

“Will you come here or would you rather I came to you? How about dining here with me? Will you?”

“Yes,” said Nigel. “Thank you, Felix.”

“Well, don’t change — come along now.”

“Yes,” said Nigel. “Thank you, Felix.”

They rang off. He could have shouted with joy. His problem was solved. He rushed to the bathroom and washed, lavishly. He changed his shirt and brushed his hair. Seized with a desire to acquire a little merit in Alleyn’s eyes, he rang up Surbonadier’s flat He could hear the telephone ringing there and waited for some time, but nobody answered it. Alleyn had gone, after all. He would ring up again later. He seized his hat and ran downstairs. He hailed a taxi, gave Gardener’s address, and flung himself back. Only then did it occur to him that it was very clever of Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn to have guessed that Gardener would be able to tell them something more about the peculiar behaviour of Arthur Surbonadier, during the days when he was an undergraduate. Gradually he was conscious of an idea that edged in at the back of his mind, an idea that was still only half sensed. He examined it now more closely, letting it come up to the front of his consciousness. For a moment he shied round it nervously, but it was insistent, and presently he fell to reasoning it out with logical persistence. Then a great light dawned on Nigel.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s it. Gosh, what a blind fool I’ve been.” And then with complete understanding he thought: “Poor old Felix!”

Meanwhile in Surbonadier’s flat it had grown very dark.