“Good!” said the dramatist. “I’ll come up at once.”
The woman led the way to the room and stood aside for him to enter.
The girl’s big grey eyes were open, and looked large and almost black in the dead whiteness of her face. Trevor Lowe went over to the bed and sat on the edge.
“Feeling better, Miss Lake?” he asked kindly.
She nodded slowly.
“Yes, thank you,” she answered. “What—what happened?”
Lowe told her how they had found her. She gave a little shiver.
“I don’t remember anything,” she said. “I went to bed and fell asleep almost at once. Soon afterwards I was dimly conscious of someone standing over me, and then something very painful struck me on the head. After that I remembered nothing until I woke up and found myself here.”
“Have you any idea, Miss Lake, why this attack should have been made on you?”
She hesitated, her big eyes searching his face, and then she nodded again.
“Yes, I think I do,” she answered faintly. “I’m sure I do.”
Trevor Lowe leaned forward.
“Then will you tell me, Miss Lake?” he said. “I assure you it’s not with any wish to pry into your affairs that I ask, but a serious crime was committed here last night, apart from the attack on you, and another one has just taken place.”
“Crime?” she said, and her eyes grew dark with fear.
“Yes, murder,” he replied gravely.
She drew in her breath with a quick little hiss.
“Who—who was killed?” she asked.
“That stout, jolly faced man,” said Lowe, watching her keenly. “William Makepiece.”
The name apparently conveyed nothing to her, for the expression on her face did not change.
“How—how dreadful!” she whispered. And then: “Who are you?”
“My name is Trevor Lowe,” answered the dramatist.
The fear died from her eyes and a look of relief came into her pale face.
“I’ve heard of you,” she said.
“Who were you frightened of?” he asked. And she shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “That’s the dreadful part of it!”
“I think you had better tell me everything,” he said, as she paused.
“I will,” she answered. “But it’s rather a difficult story—I mean, it’s not very easy to tell to a stranger—and I don’t quite know where to begin.”
“Tell me why you were attacked,” said Lowe. “Do you know why?”
“Oh yes,” she answered at once. “I was attacked because of something I possess!” She smiled rather sadly, and added hastily: “I haven’t any money. I’ve so little that I don’t know how I’ve managed to live, during the last year, but I’ve got something that’s worth, roughly, about half a million pounds!”
Lowe stared at her in amazement.
“You’ve got something that’s worth half a million pounds?” he echoed incredulously. “Do you mean you’ve got it here?”
She nodded, and a little glimmer of amusement crept into her eyes at the astonishment that her words had created.
“Yes, I’ve got it here,” she said. “At least, I’ve got half of it. What I have isn’t worth a cent all by itself. You see, this is the way of it, Mr Lowe. I’m going to start really from the beginning, I’ll make it as brief as I can.” Her voice was stronger now and a tinge of colour had crept into the creamy whiteness of her cheeks. “I’d better start by telling you,” she went on, “that my name isn’t Lake. Lake is the name I’ve been known by all my life, but my real name is Lanning.”
Trevor Lowe started.
“You’re not any relation to Sir Joshua Lanning?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m his daughter!”
Lowe’s brows contracted. The daughter of Sir Joshua Lanning, the steel millionaire!
“Please go on, Miss Lanning,” he said. “I’m very interested!”
“As I said,” she continued, “it’s very difficult. Although I’m Sir Joshua Lanning’s daughter I’ve never seen him. You see, my mother divorced him when I was two years old, and she was given the custody of the child. She was very bitter against my father, and she took me away, returning to her maiden name of Lake. My father, I believe, begged and prayed her not to go, but when she insisted gave her an envelope, and said that if at any time she wished to return to him and remarry him she had only to send the contents of the envelope and he would come to her, wherever she was.
“My mother told me this just before she died, seven years ago, but she also made me promise that I would never go near my father unless he should first seek me out. I had no money and I had to earn my living, which I succeeded in doing more or less—mostly less. And then a week ago I saw in a newspaper an advertisement. It had been put in by a firm of solicitors and briefly stated that if Miss Iris Lake, or Lanning, would call on the advertisers she would hear something to her advantage.
“I guessed that it concerned my father, and I went. Mr Thompson, the head of the firm, told me at once that they had had over a hundred applicants, but that he had soon assured himself that they were none of them the person he was looking for. If I were really that person there would be one means of identification, and only one, which would satisfy him.
“I knew what he meant, of course, the envelope which my father had given my mother. I told the solicitor that I knew what he meant, without exactly telling him what the thing was. He told me that my father was dying and that he was very anxious to find his missing daughter. He had already made a will in her favour.
“He asked me if I would travel down to Tregoney, where my father was living, taking with me the means of identification which I had mentioned. He wrote to my father saying that I would arrive on the twenty-third, and I was on my way when the snow block forced us to spend the night here.”
“And this means of identification that you were taking with you?” asked Lowe, although he knew before she answered.
“Was the half of a Christmas card,” she replied, “a Christmas card that my mother had sent to my father the Christmas before they were married. He had torn it in half, keeping one half and putting the other half in the envelope which he gave her.”
“I see,” said Lowe softly. “And where is your half?”
“Go along to the room I occupied and fetch my shoes,” she said.
When he came back with them she struggled up to a sitting posture and, taking the left one, pulled out the lining of the sole. Between it and the sole itself was an envelope, and, opening this, she drew out the torn half of an old and faded Christmas card.
“That’s it,” she said.
Lowe looked at it.
“If that’s your half,” he said slowly, “and the other half is in the possession of your father, then how does the third ‘half’ come into it?”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“The third half? What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean,” replied Trevor Lowe, “that I found half a Christmas card in the hand of the dead man, William Makepiece.”
* * *
“Well, it’s a queer story,” remarked Detective Inspector Shadgold thoughtfully an hour later, when Trevor Lowe had repeated to him what he had learned from Iris Lanning. “And it’s a queer business. I don’t quite see how this fellow Makepiece fits in.”
“I should imagine that the solicitors had engaged him, unknown to the girl, to keep an eye on her,” said Lowe.
“You mean they expected something might happen?” said the Scotland Yard man.
“It’s not unnatural, is it?” asked Lowe. “The torn piece of cardboard she was carrying about with her is worth something in the nature of half a million—a big enough bait for any crook to have a bite at!”
“Still,
it wouldn’t be any good without the girl,” argued Shadgold.
“Oh, my dear fellow,” protested Lowe, “think for a moment! The last time Sir Joshua Lanning saw his daughter she was two years old; he hasn’t seen her since. Any girl would do provided she could produce the necessary form of identification.”
“H’m, yes, I suppose you’re right,” grunted the Scotland Yard man. “But the solicitors had seen her.”
“The solicitors had seen a girl who said she was the girl they were advertising for,” answered the dramatist. “They had no proof that she was, except her word that she had the necessary identification. Until she had shown her half of the Christmas card to Sir Joshua Lanning nobody could tell whether she was the right girl or not.”
“Then it’s your opinion,” said Shadgold, “that the idea was to secure the girl’s half and substitute someone else in her place?”
“Exactly,” replied Lowe, nodding. “Makepiece had to die because he knew the real Iris Lanning, but if we had found in the morning that the two of them were missing, everyone would have thought that they had gone of their own free will. No doubt the killer would have tidied up the rooms and made it look like that.”
“That’s suggesting that he knew who Makepiece was and why he was here,” said Shadgold.
“I’m suggesting just that,” answered Lowe.
“And how do you account for the torn half of the Christmas card found in Makepiece’s hand?” demanded the Scotland Yard man.
Trevor Lowe frowned and shook his head.
“I can’t account for it,” he replied frankly, “but there must be some explanation. Let me look at it again.”
Shadgold thrust his hand into his pocket and produced his wallet. From it he extracted the torn Christmas card and handed it to the dramatist.
Trevor Lowe carried it over to the lamp and examined it carefully. It was obviously a new card; the ragged edges were clean and unsoiled. In turning it sideways he noticed something that he had not seen before. In one corner were a number of indentations. A closer inspection revealed the letter D and the figures 2 and 1. Above and below these were indistinguishable marks forming two semicircles.
An idea suddenly occurred to Lowe, and taking out the envelope he had found in the girl’s room, and which he had put in his pocket, he compared the postmark with the marks on the card. It had been posted on December the twenty-first. The stamp had been rather heavily impressed and had marked the enclosed card. He showed his discovery to Shadgold.
“There’s very little doubt,” he said, “that this card I found in Makepiece’s hand originally came out of this envelope. I wonder if it was the girl who tore this card,” he continued slowly, “and left half in the envelope as a blind to make anyone think it was the important card—the piece that was hidden in her shoe.”
“It sounds possible,” said Shadgold. “Why not ask her?”
“I will,” said Lowe, “and test this half Makepiece had with the genuine half.”
He returned in less than a minute.
“That’s cleared that up,” he said. “She tore a Christmas card she had received in half and left one half in the envelope so that anyone finding it would think it was the real card. You know what conclusion this leads to? That it was Makepiece who searched the girl’s room. In which case he was responsible for knocking her out, tying her up and putting her in that cupboard. But he wasn’t responsible for sticking that knife into his heart. I think the person who did that did the rest.”
“The question is, who?” growled the inspector. He took a glass round behind the bar, and, grasping one of the handles, held it under the tap. Nothing happened. With a snort of disgust he tried the other. He tried all three with a like result. “I suppose there’s nothing more to do until the local police arrive?”
“No, I suppose not,” said the dramatist, a little absently, and then: “What happened to Mrs Cornford?”
Shadgold looked at him rather surprised.
“I packed her off to her room,” he answered. “She wasn’t in a fit state to remain up.”
“I’d like to have a word with her,” murmured Lowe. “Wait here, I shan’t be long.”
He left the bar and made his way upstairs. Outside the room in which the girl lay he came upon his secretary who had been delegated to the job of keeping guard.
“Anybody been near?” he asked, and White shook his head.
“No,” he replied.
Trevor Lowe nodded and passed on. Mrs Cornford’s room was on the first floor above, and reaching it he tapped on the door. At first there was no reply, but at the second knock the old woman’s voice called and wanted to know who was there.
“It’s Trevor Lowe,” replied the dramatist. “Can I have a word with you?”
He heard the creak of a bed, the pad of bare feet crossing the floor, and then the door was opened an inch.
“What do you want with me?” asked the woman dully.
“I want to ask you a question,” he replied.
She looked at him curiously when she heard what he wanted to know.
“Not for nearly a year,” she said.
“You’re sure of that,” he asked, and she nodded.
Shadgold was staring out of the window at the cold grey of the coming morning when Lowe came back.
“Well?” he grunted.
“Very well,” answered Lowe cheerfully, and there was a note of satisfaction in his voice. “I think we’re nearing the end of this business.”
The Scotland Yard man stared at him incredulously.
“If you’ll ask Willings to come in for a moment I’ll show you.”
Shadgold hesitated, and then shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, well, I suppose you know what you’re getting at,” he said, and crossing over to the door went out.”
He was gone some little time, and when he returned was accompanied by the sleepy-eyed Arty Willings, who yawned openly as he slouched in.
“I want your help, Mr Willings,” said the dramatist genially.
The little cockney eyed him suspiciously.
“You said,” explained Lowe, “that when you came down in the night you had a feeling that you were being watched.”
“That’s right,” said Mr Willings, nodding.
“Now, where did you experience this feeling?” Lowe went on. “While you were coming down the stairs? While you were in here? Or as you were returning to your room?”
“While I was in here,” answered the other, after a momentary hesitation.
“But you neither heard anything nor saw anyone?” said Lowe, and Mr Willings shook his head.
“No, I told you that before,” he replied. “It was only a feelin’ I ’ad.”
“Was the coffee-room door closed?”
“Yes,” answered Mr Willings after a little thought.
“I see,” murmured the dramatist. “Now, would you mind showing us exactly what you did when you came down?”
“I came in ’ere,” said the little cockney, “went over to the bar, and had a glass of beer.”
“Show us what you did,” repeated Lowe, and Mr Willings obeyed.
He went round behind the long counter, picked up a glass, and stretched out his hand to the centre of the three beer handles.
“Just a minute,” interrupted Lowe. “You poured yourself out a glass of draught beer? You didn’t open a bottle or draw it from the cask?”
“No,” said Arty Willings. “I prefer draught beer. And mighty good it was!”
“And then you returned to your room and went to bed?” said the dramatist.
“That’s right,” answered Mr Willings.
“H’m!” said Lowe. “And during this time the murderer was secreting Miss Lake in the cupboard in your room. Let’s see if we can imagine what he did. He left his room when he thought the whol
e house was quiet and sleeping and made his way along to the girl’s. He knew that she had in her possession an object that was worth a considerable amount of money. He rendered her unconscious with a blow from some instrument like a sandbag. He was disturbed for a moment, and dodged out on the roof with the senseless girl. Afterwards he climbed back and carried the girl, whom he had bound and gagged, along to your room and locked her in the cupboard.
“He then went back to search her belongings for the thing he wanted, and he found it—or thought he had found it—in her handbag. He was afraid to stop in her room and examine it closely, for there was no means of locking the door, and there was a chance that he might be surprised by one of the other inhabitants of the inn. He brought it down to the coffee-room, lighted the lamp and found to his dismay that he had been tricked. The thing he had taken so much trouble to get was a fake.
“He had just decided to make another search of the girl’s room when William Makepiece appeared in the doorway, and demanded that he hand over the object he had taken and which was still in his hand.
“Makepiece informed him that he was a detective who had been employed to see that no harm came to the girl. The man, whom we will call X for the moment, saw his whole plan being ruined by this unexpected intruder. No doubt Makepiece threatened him; probably there was a brief struggle for possession of the precious object that X had taken such pains to secure. The safest way to stop Makepiece from keeping it, and also from babbling afterwards, was to kill him. This X did and so became a murderer.
“He placed the worthless article in Makepiece’s hand, to leave a false clue to suggest that it was Makepiece who had ransacked the girl’s case.
“He was clever,” continued Lowe, “but like so many crooks, he wasn’t clever enough. He made a mistake. If you fetch me the thing he took from the girl’s room I’ll show you what that mistake was, Willings.”
Lowe nodded casually towards the far corner of the bar on which lay several objects, and among them the torn card, which he had taken from Makepiece’s hand. Mr Willings went over, picked it up, and handed it to the detective.
“Thank you,” said Lowe, and his eyes gleamed. “I said just now that the murderer made a mistake. As a matter of fact he made two. He’s just made the second—a mistake I was hoping he would make. I never mentioned what the object was that he took from Miss Lake’s room. Nobody knew, except Inspector Shadgold, my secretary, and myself, that the torn half of a Christmas card was found in the dead man’s hand. How did you know, Willings?”
The Christmas Card Crime and Other Stories Page 9