The Shop Window Murders

by Vernon Loder

  As Devenish approached the building where Mrs Hoe had her flat, he spoke to a man who was lighting a pipe near a lamp-post.

  ‘In?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘In all right, sir,’ mumbled the man, fumbling for another match.

  CHAPTER XX

  DEVENISH regarded blackmail as one of the most loathly crimes, and he felt no pity for the haggard, white-faced woman with whom he was closeted a minute later.

  Fear ravages a face more than any other emotion, more even than grief, and he felt it difficult to believe that the Mrs Hoe who now faced him was the attractive, cheerful, pretty young woman he had seen a few days before.

  Her face had not a vestige of colour, and that alarming pallor was thrown into greater contrast by the lavish and reckless use of lipstick. Her eyes and her lips blazed in that waxen face. She looked hag-ridden and desperate, as her victims must have looked when they found themselves in her trap.

  A practical man, Devenish had no more admiration for a bold rogue than a cringing one, but he felt a great contempt for this scotched snake, and watched sternly her attempts to wriggle free from his entangling questions.

  Whatever nerve she had had was gone. She cowered in defeat, and her voice was obsequious and panic-stricken at once.

  ‘I am so glad you have come, inspector,’ she said, when she had given him a seat. ‘I know you are very clever, but the other man who came here was extremely rude. He would not listen to what I said. He gave me no time to explain anything. You see, I have been made a fool of by someone I met, who asked me to keep some papers for him and not to let anyone have them on any account—’

  She stopped suddenly and bit her lip. Devenish was staring at her intently, the corners of his lips curling down, and his expression was so far from sympathetic or comprehending that it frightened her more than Hemp’s vigorous method.

  ‘What papers?’ he said curtly.

  She went on hastily. ‘I had no time to tell him. He wouldn’t listen. You see these papers are apparently to do with blackmail, but what I wanted to explain was that I did not know it, I thought them quite another kind of paper.’

  He looked less stern. She gathered hope.

  ‘You see, in my job, I go to a good many society functions and some time ago I met a man who told me he was a Russian émigré, a “White” Russian, you know.’

  ‘I know. Well?’

  ‘Well, he was rather attractive, Prince Chavalze he called himself, and I didn’t know anything about him, and was perhaps a little flattered that he paid attentions to me, when I was only a professional guest, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Devenish grimly.

  Her voice faltered as she went on.

  ‘Well, like most people, I have always been sorry for the poor Russians who suffered for what was not their own fault, and I was silly enough to say so.’

  ‘And yet you don’t look a foolish woman,’ he remarked dryly.

  ‘We have all some soft spot, inspector. At any rate I did sympathise with him in a way that would have been impossible if I had known that the man was a rogue.’

  ‘If you will get on, please, without wasting time explaining your emotions, it will be much better,’ he said, with calculated brutality.

  ‘I am sorry. I was only trying to show you how—but you are quite right. What I meant to say was this: After a little, he asked me if I would do something for him and his cause, and I said I would. He told me he had many papers dealing with counter-revolutionary plots, and he might be caught with them on him. Would I keep a packet for him, and also keep any letters that came for him? How was I to know that it was all lies, and the blackmail at the bottom of it?’

  ‘But surely the inspector who executed the search warrant told you who he was?’

  She hesitated a moment. ‘Oh, yes, but the prince told me that his enemies might pretend to be police, and have forged documents. He said his countrymen were using forged documents and instruments. I only tried to throw that packet out of the window before I knew that my visitors were really English police.’

  Devenish had not yet seen the papers, but from this attempt to throw dust in his eyes he knew that Mrs Hoe’s name was not in them, nor could they be in her handwriting. Possibly they were typed, with symbols or initials to indicate the names of the victim or victims.

  He allowed himself to appear slightly impressed. ‘Of course I did not know this,’ he replied. ‘Anyone who undertook such a commission for a strange foreigner might be fooled in that way.’

  ‘I thought you would say so,’ she replied, brightening a little. ‘You see, scoundrels like that have not come into my experience.’

  ‘Only chickens to be plucked, I expect,’ he said to himself, and added aloud: ‘Well, that can easily be proved. May I ask where you met this prince—was it Chavalze?’

  She forced a smile. ‘Well, that was what he called himself, and I am sure he was a Russian. Let me see. I go to so many affairs. Would it be Mrs Paul Worger’s musical evening?’

  ‘I am asking you, madam.’

  ‘Then I think it was. There were a great many people there, about five hundred I think. You know how big her—’

  ‘Excuse me,’ he interrupted, ‘will you be good enough to ring up Mrs Paul Worger, and I shall speak to her?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said eagerly, ‘I’ll do it at once.’

  When she came back, she told him that Mrs Worger would speak to him. He thanked her, and smiling faintly, shut the door behind him, and went to the telephone in the little hall. Mrs Worger was surprised to find that a detective-officer was speaking, but she readily replied to his questions, admitted that Mrs Hoe had reported her musical evening but denied knowing any Prince Chavalze.

  ‘Mrs Hoe may be mistaken. Foreign names, especially Russian, are difficult, madam.’

  ‘The only Russian of my acquaintance is an ancient professor of Liberal views,’ she replied. ‘He does not believe in Bolshevism, but he is against the extreme White Russians too. And his name is Vinoculoff.’

  ‘So you do not know any Russian of that name. Thank you, madam,’ he said, his ears alert for any sounds coming from the room behind him, while with his left hand he held a tiny pocket mirror up, so that it gave him a glimpse of the door to Mrs Hoe’s sitting-room. As he rang off, he saw that the door had been opened half an inch, and was quickly and noiselessly shut again as he turned.

  ‘What did Mrs Worger say?’ she asked eagerly.

  He looked at her sternly. ‘She does not know any Prince Chavalze.’

  Mrs Hoe looked startled, then apparently had an inspiration. ‘But, of course. He must have been a gate-crasher. That sort of man would be, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘You are sure you saw him at Mrs Worger’s?’

  ‘I think it must have been there.’

  ‘Do you know,’ said Devenish more sternly than ever, ‘that Mrs Worger says she was most particular that night to keep out gate-crashers. I thought of the possibility myself, you see. Every guest had to present a blue card.’

  ‘Yes, but this man was evidently a forger,’ she said. ‘I told you—’

  She stopped, knitted her brows, went to a writing-desk, and came back with a little diary, through which she glanced.

  ‘How stupid I am!’ she cried. ‘I ought to have remembered. It was at Mrs Baleell’s entertainment that I met the man. Do let me ring her up, and then you can speak.’

  Devenish nodded curtly, and she put down the diary and went out to the telephone.

  A faint smile came to the inspector’s face as he sat there. He was determined to give the woman rope enough to hang herself, and he waited for two minutes without moving until she came back to apologise for the delay in getting through, and to inform him that Mrs Baleell would speak to him.

  Then he got up and went again to the telephone.

  ‘Inspector Devenish of Scotland Yard speaking,’ he said.

  ‘You wished to ask me something, inspector?’ said
a pleasant feminine voice.

  ‘Yes, madam. I wish to know if you know a Prince Chavalze, a Russian émigré of the “White” persuasion. Also if Mrs Hoe could have met him at your house?’

  ‘Yes, I know the prince. He is rather a mysterious person, and I have only met him once or twice. Mrs Hoe probably did meet him here, if she says so.’

  ‘Thank you, madam, I am much obliged to you,’ said Devenish, and rang off.

  He went back at once to Mrs Hoe, told her that Mrs Baleell had confirmed her statement, and with apologies for troubling her, left the flat.

  The moment he was in the street below, he made for the nearest telephone box and rang up the Central Office.

  A mention of his rank and business at once brought him in touch with one of the higher officials, who asked him what he could do for him.

  Devenish mentioned two telephone numbers, and added: ‘A few minutes ago the owner of the first number rang up the second number. Can you tell me who the owner of the second number was? Perhaps you had better give me name and addresses of both these people so that there shall be no confusion.’

  At the expiration of ten minutes he had a reply. ‘We don’t quite understand, inspector. The owner of the number you gave first (that of the person who rang up) gave two calls: the first was to a Mrs Paul Worger, but the second number was not called at all. It belongs to a Mrs Baleell.’

  ‘Good,’ said Devenish, smiling to himself. ‘Mrs Baleell was not called at all. Would you be good enough to discover to whom the second message was sent? Mrs Baleell’s number I got from the telephone book here.’

  He waited again, feeling triumphant now. At last the voice of the telephone official came through again clearly.

  ‘Mrs Hoe rang up on the second occasion a lady called Miss Minna Larder, of 666 Sloane Street.’

  ‘I am much obliged to you,’ said Devenish, hung up the receiver, and leaving the telephone box, took a taxi-cab at once to 666 Sloane Street.

  CHAPTER XXI

  DEVENISH had a feeling that he had heard the name Minna Larder before. But he could not exactly place it. As he drove, he did not speculate as to the part she might be playing in this comedy of Mrs Hoe’s. He preserved an open mind until he should see the woman herself and discover who and what she was.

  When he called a few minutes later and was admitted by a maid in lavender, he began to see light. The room into which he was shown provided more illuminating rays. He knew now that he had seen the name of Miss Larder on a theatrical billboard. While he waited, he examined thoughtfully the various photographs in the room, showing Miss Larder in parts from Shakespearian plays, and took stock of her quiet, intelligent face, with its wide eyes, broad forehead and agreeable but firm mouth.

  ‘Of course,’ he said to himself, as he resumed his seat. ‘She is the actress from that Shakespearian touring company, who made such a hit that she was given the part of the young mother in “Devious Days”. But what is that face doing in this business?’

  For five minutes he waited, then the door opened, and Miss Larder came in and greeted him.

  Physically she was as the photographs showed her, and she had a deep, cool voice and a manner which was calculated to set the most nervous caller at his ease.

  ‘You are Inspector Devenish?’ she asked, as she motioned him to a seat.

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘I was rather surprised when my maid told me,’ she said, sitting down gracefully and allowing a faint smile to appear on her pleasant lips. ‘You are sure that you are entitled to that rank, I suppose?’

  He took out his credentials, and she examined the card with some perplexity and an occasional glance at him over the top of it. He read surprise in her manner, and a certain uneasiness.

  ‘Then it was you who rang me up a short time ago?’ she asked, fixing her eyes thoughtfully on his face.

  ‘Yes. I asked you a question, madam, and I am afraid I did not get a very truthful answer.’

  She smiled again, but not with such confidence as before. ‘Well, I meant it as a joke, of course. To tell you the truth, inspector, my friend and press-agent, Mrs Hoe, certainly gave me the impression that it was one.’

  He nodded. ‘She rang you up at my request, madam. But she spoke to you before I did. It will help me, and relieve you from any responsibility, if you will give me the substance of that short conversation.’

  Miss Larder bit her lip. ‘I do not know if Mrs Hoe would wish me to do so.’

  ‘I am sorry, but it is necessary that you should. I am engaged on a serious inquiry, and the matter is relevant to that, madam.’

  She ruminated for a few minutes in silence, and he did not disturb her. It seemed to him that she was fishing in the wells of memory for something. A look came into her eyes, when they swept back to his face, that told him she had now remembered who he was and on what case he was engaged. But she made no comment on that, only looked grave and concerned as she replied at last.

  ‘Very well. Mrs Hoe rang me up to say that she and two or three others were playing a joke on some friends. She had invented a Russian prince, Chavalze. One of her friends would not believe in this man’s existence. Would I mind saying that I knew the prince and that she had met him at my house.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘She said that the friend, who was an inveterate joker, would probably say he came from Scotland Yard. I was to expect that, and understand that it was all part of the little comedy. Then you rang up, gave your name, and naturally I answered as I had been asked to do. I hope I haven’t done wrong?’

  ‘On the contrary, you have been of very considerable assistance to me,’ he assured her. ‘May I ask if your acquaintance with Mrs Hoe is of long standing?’

  ‘Only six months,’ she said. ‘When I left the provinces and got my chance in town, I was introduced to her by a woman at my club. I heard she was a journalist and was willing to act as press-agent on occasion. I found her very agreeable, and rather fascinating in some ways. But I know nothing more of her than that implies.’

  Devenish believed her. ‘And that is all I know really,’ he said mendaciously. ‘Evidently there has been some misunderstanding, madam. But you have helped to a certain extent to clear it up, and I am much obliged to you.’

  He took his leave then and was half way to the front door when he heard the telephone ring above. The maid had come to show him out, but leaving her gasping on the stairs, he hastened up again and into the room he had just left. He sat down and waited. The telephone was in a room just beyond. Presently he heard it ring off, and then the sound of the maid’s voice speaking to Miss Larder.

  Miss Larder came to him at once. She looked pale and agitated.

  ‘What does it mean, inspector?’ she cried. ‘Mrs Hoe has just rung me up again and asked, if anyone called, not to tell him what she had said. When I told her you had just been here, she cried out, and then I heard no more.’

  ‘It means, madam, that Mrs Hoe is not a very suitable friend or press-agent for you,’ he replied. ‘She has been trying to throw dust in my eyes, and has had the impudence to make you a party to the attempt. You will understand that I cannot say any more at present, but just apologise for this second intrusion, and go.’

  This time he did go, and finding another taxi, tore back to Mrs Hoe’s flat. As he dismounted at the door of the building, the plain-clothes man, to whom he had spoken before, approached him.

  ‘She came out just now, sir, looking desperate. I followed her, and I am afraid I was rather clumsy and let her see I was on her track. So, after going about a hundred yards, she changed her mind and went in again.’

  ‘Bless your clumsiness!’ said Devenish, smiling. ‘It works out all right for once. But, after this, stick to her like a leech, and it doesn’t matter if you are seen or not. Don’t let her out of your sight!’

  The man nodded and sidled away. Devenish went up to the flat, and rang. There was no answer. Devenish rang for several minutes, and there was still no reply. Offic
ially, he would have found it difficult to justify his next action, but the best officials have to be unorthodox at times. He looked about him to see that he was not observed, then picked the lock of the flat with the speed and technique of an expert, and walked in, closing the door behind him.

  But there seemed to be no one in the flat. At the back, where there was a fire-escape, a window was open. He looked out doubtfully, and saw a man dressed as a chauffeur standing in some mews behind, looking up at him. Devenish leaned out of the window, and indicated the escape with a wave of his hand. The man dressed as a chauffeur shook his head, and pointed to the flat with his finger.

  Devenish walked back into the room, smiling grimly. If she thought of denying him admittance at this stage, it was obvious that Mrs Hoe hoped to make a getaway as soon as she could. Anyone who did not meditate a flight would realise that the police are not to be stalled off so easily.

  Devenish began to whistle ‘Where is my wandering boy tonight?’ as he went through the flat, examining it cursorily. Then he stepped back into the bedroom.

  A tall wardrobe stood against one of the side-walls. He went over to it and flung the door open.

  ‘Now, Mrs Hoe,’ he said grimly. ‘It’s time you gave up this fooling, and realised your position.’

  Mrs Hoe stumbled out of the wardrobe, crying with rage and fear combined. She glared at him, ground her teeth in impotent rage, and finally fell, half collapsed upon a chair.

  ‘You beast!’ she sobbed. ‘You dirty bully!’

  Devenish sat down on another chair and regarded her calmly. ‘I like your choice of words,’ he said, ‘but now we can get down to tin tacks, I think. Do you know that you have been obstructing the police in the execution of their duty? That’s your official crime. Your unofficial one is thinking me more of a fool than I am.’

  He produced a note-book and pencil, laid the book open on his knee, and continued: ‘What I want from you is a voluntary statement of your connection with the late Miss Tumour, also with Mr Kephim, of late. If you prefer to accompany me to Scotland Yard, you can make it there. If you do not, then you will please reply to my questions now, and afterwards write and sign a statement. If you refuse to do either, it is on your own responsibility.’