Black Maria, M. A.: A Classic Crime Novel

by John Russell Fearn

  “You really mean it?” Maria asked earnestly.

  “I’ll prove it to you.... Watch this!” Jean got to her feet, picked up a thin tumbler from the sideboard and put it on the table by the window.

  “This is a beauty,” Dick promised, as Maria watched intently.

  Opening the lid of the grand piano Jean depressed the loud pedal and began to gently tap a single note high on the keyboard. After a second or two it merged into a continuous steady flow of sound— then abruptly the glass on the table split clean in half and fell apart in two semi-circles.

  “Voilà!” the girl exclaimed, laughing.

  “That wine glass...,” Maria muttered.

  “The what?” Dick asked, surprised.

  “I—I was referring to the glass,” she said, recovering her composure abruptly. “That was a very remarkable demonstration, Jean. Would any note on the piano do it?”

  “It is all a matter of pitch and direction. Piano and table are in a straight line, as you see—which is the way a sound wave travels. If the glass had been out of the straight line, it would have needed a horn or architectural device in the room itself to bring the sound into focus.... As for the pitch, any note around high C will do the trick.”

  Maria gripped her watch-chain and meditated. Then Jean went back to her chair and resumed,

  “So you see, Aunt, the idea is sound enough...in more senses than one! Don’t you recall that Caruso used to smash a wine glass many a time with the higher notes of his voice? It has to be an empty glass, mind you, or an empty globe, as in our play—then the glass will break at the part in ‘sympathy’ with the sound wave. Sometimes the top falls off, sometimes a diamond shape, sometimes the thing splits in twain, as happened just now. As for the globe in our play, a globe full of gas is empty for all practical purposes. So our plot isn’t at all bad.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you,” Maria said slowly. “Tell me something, Jean— Is it only glass which will break under these special vibrations?”

  “Not necessarily. Any brittle object will: even a complete mirror can crack up its entire length. A sheet of thin metal, a thin layer of ice, a taut skin like a drum top, or a length of thin wire under great tension....” Jean stopped and gave a little shrug. “You are not thinking of writing up the idea yourself, are you?” she asked, in mock gravity.

  Maria shook her head. “I’m afraid my interests go deeper than play writing, Jean.” She was silent for a moment or two, meditating; then, “Did you ever meet Richard’s father?”

  “Once or twice.” The girl’s voice was quiet. “It was mainly through him that I met Dick. You see, Mr. Black’s business was concerned a great deal in buying up all kinds of small firms for the purpose of conversion into his network of ever-expanding stores. He paid the minimum compensation allowed by the law—and a pitiably small amount it was in many cases. My brother Alfred was one of the victims. When his business was appropriated, and the money for compensation was worse than useless, he just went to the dogs. I went to see Mr. Black and had a showdown with him. I as good as told him he was a commercial dictator who didn’t give two buttons whom he trampled on so long as he gained his ends....”

  “And what was his reaction to that?”

  “He laughed in my face! I admit quite frankly that my one aim thereafter was to injure him, ruin him if I could, just as he had ruined my brother. With that object in mind I decided to strike at him through Dick. I arranged it that I met Dick. But...well, I couldn’t go through with it. I’m afraid I fell in love instead. And when Alfred happened to get a good position far away in England—which he still holds—my ideas of revenge faded. But of course Dick and I kept our romance secret from his father because he hated me like poison—and now we don’t tell anybody for different reasons—mainly Dick’s chorines.”

  “So your brother got a position in my country after all,” Maria smiled. “I wonder if I know the firm?”

  “Perhaps.... Edward Layton and Associates, the big steel people.”

  Maria meditated, then shook her head. “No, I don’t know of them.”

  “The more I hear of things generally the more I wonder how many lives father did wreck,” Dick said moodily.

  Maria seemed to have come to a sudden decision for she got to her feet.

  “Going so soon?” Jean asked in surprise.

  “I’m afraid I must, Jean. I have one or two matters to attend to. I only came to ask Richard a question and he answered it for me while you were preparing this excellent tea.... So I won’t keep you two young people from your work any longer. I know time is precious for you.”

  “You’ll come again, of course?” Jean urged, holding out her hand as she opened the door.

  “I shall see you again without doubt,” Maria responded, with a rather ambiguous smile. “See you later, Richard.”

  She went off down the corridor, but at the lift Dick caught up with her, detained her before she could press the bell-push.

  “I made the excuse to Jean that I had forgotten to tell you some­thing,” he said quickly. “Partly true, for that matter.... I wanted to tell you that it is Jean’s plot outline that I think might account for father’s murder! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Since she has come out into the open, I might as well tell you the truth. I was going to outline the same theory without admitting it was the plot for a play.”

  “I see.” Maria looked at him levelly. He seemed to be in earnest. “As a matter of fact, Richard, the same idea occurred to me the moment I heard the plot.... But how do you suggest it might apply to your father’s death?”

  “It can only apply to his death if somehow the plot has leaked out. Jean may unwittingly have let something slip to one of father’s many enemies. Now you see what I mean...why I said I suspected murder. If anybody got hold of the idea they would have the perfect setup for murder.”

  “Hmm, maybe. Have you ever had any drafts of this idea knocking about the house? Ever mentioned it to anybody your­self?”

  “No. I’ve done plenty of typing of the play at home, of course, but I’ve always taken care never to let anything get about.” Dick’s face became serious. “You see, the murderer, granting he or she got hold of this idea, even has the means of doing the trick...I mean Janet. She is a singer and can hit high C and above. Of course I know it’s crazy to cast any reflections on her but—”

  “As I see it,” Maria said, “there is reflection cast on another person besides Janet...I mean Jean.”

  “Jean!” Dick gave a start. “But, that’s absurd!”

  “Is it? She alone would understand the mechanics in­volved.”

  “I know that, but— Honestly, Aunt, that’s beyond the pale.”

  “No more so than suspecting Janet; less so, in fact. Jean admits she devised the plot, admits she had no liking for your father despite her final decision to abandon her desire for revenge. It would not even be necessary in her case for her to find a copy of the plot....” Maria paused and frowned. “The trouble is that I personally like the girl. She’s charming, and most intelligent—but I can’t let that influence me. Incidentally, Richard, Janet knows by now that I have discovered that whoever arranged the ‘suicide’ did it on the day of the murder, probably in the afternoon. You might as well know that, too.”

  “Well, that settles a lot,” Dick smiled. “On that afternoon I was in my room trying to get some rest; Jan and her maid were some­where or other, and I think mother was reading. Pat had gone out. Come to think of it, she must have gone to Jamestown to—”

  “Quite,” Maria interrupted. “But you have missed something.”

  “I have?” Dick thought, then a startled look came into his eyes. “Good lord, Jean! On that day....”

  Maria gave a grim smile. “On that day a blonde young lady called—during the afternoon—with a message for you. She was left alone in the hall for ten minutes....”

  “Yes, it was I,” Jean said frankly, suddenly appearing. She was looking concerned. �
�I came along to find what was keeping Dick. I—I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying. You don’t have to hide anything, you know. I know Mr. Black was murdered. Dick told me he suspected it long ago and he also told me how you had proved the fact beyond doubt....”

  “Why did you call on Richard that afternoon?” Maria asked quietly.

  “I had a section of the draft play I wanted Dick to check. It was not feasible to ring him up about it; besides, it needed information from one of the technical books in his father’s library. I knew he rested in the afternoon so rather than bother him I sent up Walters with a note. He rewrote the section I wanted and said he’d let me have the library book later on.”

  “And you waited in the hall?”

  “Yes. I didn’t give my name in case Mr. Black happened to be about. I knew it was most unlikely but I was taking no chances. He’d have had the door slammed in my face and would probably have made things unbearable for Dick, too....”

  “I suppose,” Maria mused, “nobody saw you as you sat in the hall?”

  “No. I heard a typewriter clicking away noisily in the lounge but I didn’t see anybody.”

  Maria was silent for a moment, then she smiled.

  “Well, Jean, thank you for being so frank. I don’t doubt it will all straighten out finally.... Now I really must be going.”

  She pressed the lift button, waved to the two as she presently began to descend to the street level again. She was smiling grimly to herself as she started off back for home. She was inclined to think she had spent a most profitable afternoon.

  * * * *

  Walters intercepted her as she entered the house.

  “There has been a telephone call for you, madam, from police headquarters. An Inspector Davis would like you to call him.”

  “Oh?” Maria looked puzzled for a moment. “Get the number for me, Walters. I’ll phone from my room.”

  She hurried on upstairs and by then the call was through. Davis’s clipped voice came over the wire.

  “Hallo, Miss Black.... I’ve just had word through from the District Attorney’s office saying that he will reopen the Salter trial seven days from today. Thought I’d better tell you so you can make your arrangements to stand by as a witness. You’ll probably be needed.”

  “I will, yes,” Maria said. “Did the District Attorney give any hint as to the possible outcome of the trial?”

  “He could hardly do that, Miss Black. But unofficially, you can take it for granted that Salter and his wife are as good as free right now.... Good-bye.”

  “Thanks...good-bye.” Maria hung up and drummed her fingers on the table for a moment. “Seven days. One week. Once the trial starts it might last any length of time and I’d lose all the ground I have covered. I have got to finish this job in seven days come what may. And I think I can....”

  She brought her diary to light, compared her notes with the type­written dossier, then started to write steadily—

  “Have met Jean Conway, Richard’s fiancée—a very likeable girl and extremely intelligent, I should imagine. She is a sound (acoustic) engineer. I am worried by the fact that she has outlined a perfect plot for murder—presumably intended for a play. It could have been used to kill Ralph, and Jean Conway alone (at least so far as I have found up to now) had the time, the motive, and the necessary knowledge. I am wondering if she realizes that she gave me a clue. She referred to ‘taut wire under immense strain—’ Is that the other necessity which matches the spring? I believe I might find out from the book Electrical Reactions.

  “Did Jean Conway sit quietly in the hall for the ten minutes that she was alone? She says she heard the typewriter clicking in the lounge, which seems to check up. Investigate further.

  “The time is exactly—4:45 p.m.

  “P.S.—She says her brother is employed by Edward Layton & Asso­ciates of England. Why “Associates”? This either is a deliberately false statement or else a quite natural mistake due to her being an American. Check same.”

  With a nod of satisfaction Maria put her diary away, then hurried downstairs to the library. A search through the card index soon gave her the position of the book she required. She took down Dunsant’s Electrical Reactions, moved to the desk with it and began to browse through the pages. It took half an hour...an hour...before she was through. Then she closed it up and tightened her lips.

  “Very, very interesting,” she muttered; then getting up she rang for Walters.

  In a moment or two he entered, as impersonal as ever.

  “Madam?”

  “Waiters, I want you to obtain for me a length of single-gauge wire—about six feet length will do. It must be steel, not copper, and its width must not exceed one hundredth of an inch. Its tension must be capable of standing a strain of two pounds under full load.”

  Walters made notes. “In a steel wire, madam, that is going to be very brittle,” he remarked.

  “Yes, I know.” She studied him keenly as he waited, then she went on, “I want that wire at the earliest moment.”

  “I’ll have it obtained from the electrical stores within fifteen minutes.”

  “Thank you, Walters. I’ll wait here for it— Oh, Walters!” He turned at the door and waited.

  “Walters, have you ever had a similar request from anybody?”

  “No, madam—never.” And as Maria nodded he went out silently. She thought for a moment then hurried upstairs to her room and took the typewriter spring from her box. By the time she had returned to the library Walters was just re-crossing the hall. He came in behind her and laid a length of hair-thin wire on the blotting pad.

  “Is that correct, madam?”

  “I think so, yes.” Maria pulled the wire gently in her fingers. “I shall now require a pair of stepladders, if you please.”

  Walters hesitated. “Is there something wrong, madam? Can I possibly be of service in any way—?”

  “No, no. Just have the stepladders sent in.”

  He swallowed something and retired majestically. The ladders were duly brought, then when she was alone again, Maria locked the door and stood the ladders in front of the crossed antique guns nearest to the chair where her brother had died.

  Wire in hand she mounted up, made a loop in the wire and put the loop on the nail that supported the barrel of the downwardly-pointing gun. Her eyes gleamed at what she saw. The faint scratch in the rust was exactly of the same infinitesimal width as the wire itself.

  “So, Maria, you were right,” she muttered. “A wire similar to this was looped round this nail—and the spring loop was round the other nail which supports the gun butt. Now let us see....”

  She stepped down and recovered the .38 automatic. Ascending the ladder again she laid the automatic over the antique gun, using the central nail as support through the trigger guard. It struck her as being more than coincidence that the .38 was almost exactly the same size as the antique gun. The nails, if anything, were too large for the antique, but projected just far enough to also support the .38.

  “Now let me see...,” she mused. “This automatic could not hold up like this. But if the spring were fastened to the trigger and drawn back to the butt-nail—so; and the wire were fastened at just sufficient tension to prevent the trigger being pulled—being looped round the barrel nail, so—we have the gun secure. Then what? Obviously the snapping of the wire would allow the spring to pull back and fire the revolver. The support would go at the same time and the gun would jump off the center nail support to the floor.... So! Splendid!”

  Glowing with triumph she got down to the floor again, put her wire away carefully, and the gun back in the desk drawer. She had the stepladders removed again, then she made her way thoughtfully into the lounge where Alice was reclining preparatory to dinner.

  “I shan’t ask you where you’ve been, Maria,” she said, rather hopelessly. “Ever since you arrived you seem to have slipped in and out of the house like a phantom....”

  “I may do so for quite a t
ime yet,” Maria smiled, seating herself. “Slowly but surely, Alice, I am getting to the root of the mystery surrounding Ralph’s death, and of course, nearer to the identity of the murderer.”

  Alice raised her eyebrows and waited in obvious expectancy.

  “Alice, on the afternoon preceding Ralph’s death in the evening you were reading on the terrace, were you not?”

  “Was I?” Alice reflected. “Really, my dear, I don’t remember. In any case, how you could know of it I can’t imagine.”

  “It so happens that you have a very observant servant in Walters,” Maria replied calmly. “He has a tabulated record of what happens in the house every day—and for June 4th, the fatal day, he has you sitting on the terrace all afternoon, reading.”

  Alice looked irritated. “Doesn’t he know what I did in the morning?”

  “You may be sure he does—but that is irrelevant. You see, whoever arranged the murder of Ralph did it apparently between lunch hour and the time Ralph came home at twenty to five.”

  “Really!” A variety of expressions chased across Alice’s face. “Really! So you are on a rampage of suspicion again, eh? You don’t stop at anybody, do you? Not even me?”

  “Not even you,” Maria admitted blandly. “How much I suspect you, Alice, depends on whether you can prove you were reading all through the afternoon.”

  She shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t prove it—nor for that matter do I see any particular reason why I should. You can ask Janet if you like, or Mary. Both of them were in the lounge next to the terrace, in this very room, typing letters all the afternoon. As I recall it was about half-past four when I moved in here.”

  “Do you remember,” Maria asked, “if either Janet or Mary moved out of here at all?”

  “I don’t know! They might have done. I believe I dozed part of the time.... Why? Where do you suppose they might have gone?”

  “Possibly to the library....”