The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  He laughed softly. Whatever her ideas about her companion might have been Miss Mott was at least obliged to confess that he was a very attractive and distinguished-looking person.

  “We semi-criminals,” he said, “get into the way of this sort of thing. We are quite accustomed to being blonds one evening and brunets the next. You may yet see me as Santa Claus. How thankful you should be that you are entirely on the right side of the fence. You will never need to disguise yourself.

  “On the whole I am glad that you did not wear black, although I am afraid it was a matter of obstinacy on your part. Gray with your complexion is a perfect color. You are very distracting, Miss Mott.”

  “I did not come here to listen to nonsense,” she said.

  “Of course not,” he assured her. “We will talk sensibly before long. This has been a strenuous day. We are going to have another cocktail each, and then I will take you to the little corner table upstairs which I have engaged. You shall read the menu of the dinner I have ordered and, after that, when I am quite sure that nothing would induce you to get up and leave me until after it has been served, I shall tell you just as much as I can of what you are dying to hear.”

  Lucy looked at him reflectively. After all, he did not exaggerate. Hers were very beautiful blue eyes, very beautifully set.

  * * *

  —

  They mounted the stairs a few minutes afterwards and were ushered to their table by bowing waiters, the wine steward, a maitre d’hotel, and the manager.

  Miss Mott accepted a cushion for her back, read the menu and gave a sigh of content. She had a weakness for exquisite food.

  “You were quite right,” she said. “Nothing would induce me to leave until after the strawberries, and as to what you have to tell me about the Hyacinth Club I have perhaps later information even than you.”

  He looked at her swiftly. “Yes?”

  The monosyllable was crisp, interrogative. She continued after a moment’s pause. “The whole place was upset when I came downstairs. There were policemen there. Either there had been a robbery which had been discovered or some other tragedy had happened.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Seven o’clock.”

  “How do you know that there were police there?” he asked. “You didn’t go inside the club?”

  “There was a sergeant and a constable outside. They nearly stopped me when they saw I was carrying a brief case, but fortunately the sergeant happened to know who I was. He interceded and they let me go.”

  Her companion gave vent to a little exclamation. “Good grief! That was a narrow shave.”

  “I suppose I am to take it for granted,” she said stiffly, “that you left me in the position of being subject to arrest as a receiver of stolen goods?”

  “It was one of those situations,” he said, “in which someone had to take a risk.”

  “But why should I be forced to take it?” she said indignantly. “Why should I be forced to run the gauntlet of a police inspection for your sake? You—a perfect stranger.”

  “Bad luck,” he said. “Things turn out that way sometimes. By the by, you brought my property back with you, I suppose?”

  “I did not,” she said firmly. “Now perhaps you’re going to take my dinner away from me. I’m not going to run any further risks by carting about the results of a robbery. I left it at home in my room until you can explain the situation. In case I do not get another course, may I have a piece more toast to finish my caviar with?”

  The waiter sprang attentively to the table. Miss Mott was promptly served. Her companion leaned forward and spoke to the maitre d’hotel.

  “Send out for the latest edition of the Evening News for me, will you?” he said.

  The man hurried off with an acquiescent bow.

  “What do you want an evening paper for?” asked Miss Mott.

  “I thought I should like to see the nature of the trouble at the Hyacinth Club,” he said. “It would interest me to know what exactly they believe is stolen and if they have any description of the so-called thief.”

  “I shall be able to describe him all right,” Lucy said.

  Her companion sighed. “So you would give me away, would you?”

  A cigarette girl appeared with the evening paper. Lucy Mott’s companion turned inquiringly towards her.

  “Will you excuse me if I glance at the ‘Stop Press’ news?” he asked.

  “Certainly,” she said. “I am rather interested in it myself.”

  He shook the paper open and glanced at the back page. For a moment or two he remained rigid. Looking at him curiously, Lucy found herself unable to decide whether his steady gaze indicated indifference or whether he had really found disturbing news. With calm fingers he folded up the paper.

  “Well,” she asked, “did you find what you wanted?”

  “Rather more than I wanted,” he said. “Take my advice—finish that delicious sole otero—they do it so well here—and don’t worry about what happened at the Hyacinth Club.”

  “I may be allowed a certain amount of curiosity, I suppose?”

  He sampled the champagne, nodded approval, raised the foaming glass to his lips and set it down empty. “The news,” he said, “might spoil your dinner.”

  “It certainly will not,” she assured him. “I am not your partner in crime. The worst thing that could happen to me would be the annoyance of having to hand over that package to the police and explain how I came by it.”

  “You would not try to shield me, then?”

  “I do not know the exact gravity of your crime,” Lucy replied. “Has anything happened at the Hyacinth Club besides the robbery?”

  “There seems to have been some sort of an accident,” he said gloomily.

  “For which you were responsible, no doubt.”

  “It was one of the issues which I was trying to prevent.”

  “Tell me about it at once,” Lucy said.

  He pushed the paper towards her, his little finger pointing to the few hastily printed lines under a heading in thick black type.

  Colonel Warsley, honorary secretary of the Hyacinth Bridge Club in Booker’s Buildings, was found shot to death in his private office this evening.

  * * *

  —

  An exclamation of horror broke from Lucy’s lips. She looked searchingly into her companion’s face as she pushed back the paper.

  “You knew this all the time?”

  He shook his head. “No, Miss Mott. I did not.”

  There was a brief silence. The pleasant half-jesting atmosphere seemed to have been dispelled. Their next course was served. Lucy Mott began to eat with mechanical appetite. She felt her heart beating quickly. It was possible that she was dining with a murderer.

  “Don’t let this unfortunate incident spoil your dinner, Miss Mott,” he said. “I am not sure that it is not the best thing that could have happened.”

  “How can you say that when the poor man is dead? How can you be so callous?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Did you know Warsley?” he asked.

  “We’ve exchanged greetings on the stairs.”

  “Well, that should have been enough. You are a person of observation. Were you inclined to like him?”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” Lucy said.

  “On the contrary, it has a great deal to do with it,” he insisted. “Everyone who knew Warsley—except his wife—knew that he was a wrong ’un. Unofficially you represent the law. You know that wrong ’uns ought to be punished.”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” she said.

  “It is rather grim, isn’t it?” he admitted. “I’ll tell you what—let’s dance.”

  Lucy shook her head. “I couldn’t—with you,” she said bluntly. “You act like a man who t
akes nothing in life seriously.”

  “I can assure you I do,” he said. “I find this change of your attitude towards me very serious indeed. You probably think that I made away with Warsley.”

  “Well, it would not be such a ridiculous suspicion, would it?” she said, turning upon him with flashing eyes. “You appear to treat the matter lightly enough. But I should think that when my evidence is given to the police you might find yourself in quite a serious position.”

  “So you are going to give evidence against me?” he said.

  “I shall tell the truth,” Lucy said.

  “Very well,” he agreed. “I will take what’s coming to me. At the present moment, though, what is coming to us both is that wonderful dish of asparagus and after that strawberries! Do you think I could dwell on such trifles if I had just qualified for the gallows?”

  Despite herself Lucy smiled.

  “I don’t know what to think about you,” she said. “You puzzle me completely.”

  “Embrace my motto then for the rest of the meal,” he said. “ ‘Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.’ Too often quoted, perhaps, but the soundest piece of philosophy in the world—especially as I believe that the strawberries are really ripe.”

  To a certain extent there ensued a faint revival of their former light-heartedness. They even danced twice, and for those few minutes, during which Lucy Mott discovered that her companion was the best dance partner she had ever had, she forgot everything.

  It was nearly half-past twelve when, with the gradual emptying of the room, the little party came to an end.

  “You will allow me to drive you back to your apartment?” he said, as she came out from the cloakroom. “It would give me a great deal of pleasure.”

  She shook her head. “I shall take a taxi, thanks. Whatever may happen, I have had a wonderful evening and I thank you very much for it.”

  “I’m afraid that there is one question which I must ask you,” he said, looking down at her. “What do you propose doing with my property?”

  Lucy looked around. There was no one in their immediate vicinity. “I am going to take it to Scotland Yard tomorrow morning,” she said, “and tell them how I came by it. I am very sorry, but I have no alternative.”

  “You’re going to tell them the whole story?”

  “Everything.”

  The enigma of his faint smile, which she was to understand later on, temporarily defeated her. It seemed half quizzical, half plaintive.

  “Anyway, I get the night in peace,” he murmured.

  “If your conscience will permit it,” she said, as he escorted her across the pavement.

  Lucy Mott found herself in a curiously hysterical mood during that drive home. She was inclined to laugh and to cry and at the bottom of her heart she regretted her solitude. When she had mounted to her rooms and taken off her evening wrap she dragged out the brief case from under the bed where she had left it, placed it upon a chair and opened it.

  Then for a moment all the disturbances of the evening seemed as nothing. She felt the color receding from her cheeks, felt an actual pain at the back of her eyes from their dilated stare. The case was empty!

  * * *

  —

  Superintendent Wragge was an official highly thought of at New Scotland Yard. He was careful, shrewd, and he had the reputation of seldom, if ever, making a mistake. A trifle overcautious, he was esteemed by the younger school. He listened to his niece’s story on the following afternoon with the deepest interest. When she had finished he asked her a few questions.

  “This young man who broke into your office and with whom you dined afterwards—did he never tell you his name?”

  “Joseph,” she said. “That was as much as I could get out of him.”

  Superintendent Wragge’s lips were pursed. He whistled softly. “Violet Joe!”

  “Is there actually someone with that nickname?” Lucy asked. “My burglar used a perfume of violets, I’m sure. He wore violets last night in his buttonhole and,” she added with a faint blush, “he had the impertinence to send me an enormous bunch this morning from a florist’s in Bond Street.”

  Her uncle chuckled. “You seem to have made quite an impression upon him,” he said.

  “It makes me furious even now,” she said, “when I remember how he talked and behaved. Tell me, is there some well-known criminal or anyone on the Yard’s books who has the nickname of Violet Joe?”

  Superintendent Wragge became more thoughtful. “There is a gang about which we know scarcely anything doing very serious work in London at the present moment,” he said. “They are supposed to be directed by one or two men of very important social position. The nickname of one of them is Violet Joe.”

  Lucy Mott asked her next question with a certain amount of hesitation. “Is there anything definite—anything very serious against him?”

  Her uncle shook his head. “Nothing at present. All the same we should like to establish his identity. By the way, do you know where I was all the morning when you called and found me out?”

  “They wouldn’t tell me,” she said.

  “I was at the inquest on Colonel Warsley, the late secretary of the Hyacinth Club.”

  Lucy’s face was alight with interest. “Tell me about it. What was the verdict?”

  “Suicide when temporarily insane,” Wragge said. “The usual thing.”

  She drew a long breath of relief. “Well, I’m glad about that at any rate,” she said. “Was there anything in the evidence about valuable property being missed from the locker room of the club?”

  Superintendent Wragge stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Not exactly. Yet in a way you have solved the mystery. I think I can explain now the whole episode of last night.”

  Lucy leaned forward eagerly. “For heaven’s sake, go on.”

  “It seems that this Colonel Warsley and his wife were accustomed to play competitive bridge matches with any two players who fancied themselves, and there is no doubt but that they were extraordinarily successful. Warsley himself, it appears, was always looked upon with a certain amount of suspicion, but he was tolerated on account of his wife, who is exceedingly well connected, very popular, and apparently a delightful personality.

  “Notwithstanding this, however, there were rumors in the club that on the occasion of these matches Colonel Warsley and Lady Emily Warsley, his wife, played with marked cards. There was a secret committee meeting, and it was arranged yesterday that at six o’clock, when everyone was busy in the card rooms, the secretary’s safe and all the private lockers were to be opened and searched. This scheme was duly carried out.”

  “Did they find anything?” Lucy asked breathlessly.

  “Not a thing,” the superintendent replied. “Colonel Warsley’s locker, which was known to have contained several unopened packs of cards the day before, was empty.”

  There was a brief silence. The superintendent was looking at his niece. With a little flush upon her cheeks she was working out the significance of her uncle’s narration.

  “I see,” she murmured. “My burglar knew somehow or other what was going to happen, raided the lockers first, found the marked cards and escaped with them. Naturally he did not wish to be seen leaving the club. He confessed to me that he had entered secretly.

  “I suppose he had arranged matters too so that when I left my club last night without any parcel or bag my rooms would be searched and they would be taken away. Otherwise, he knew that I would keep my word and bring them to Scotland Yard this morning. Tell me, was the scandal mentioned at all at the inquest?”

  “Only in a very vague and sympathetic manner,” Superintendent Wragge said. “When the question of motive was raised one member of the jury asked if it was true that there had been any scandal in the club which might have affected the secretary. The attorney who was watchi
ng the case on behalf of Lady Emily Warsley got up at once and admitted that, as was common in many card clubs where the stakes ran high, there had been certain rumors concerning the existence of marked cards.

  “He thought it should be publicly known that the club premises had been thoroughly searched, including the private rooms of Colonel Warsley, and that nothing in the least incriminating had been found. He branded the accusation as a libel and the chairman of the committee of the club who was present got up and said that he was convinced that the rumors which had been referred to were entirely false.

  “The coroner, in his few words, declared that no suspicion of any sort attached itself to the dead man, who was known to have been in poor health and a very unhappy disposition.”

  “I think,” Lucy Mott said, with a severity which she was very far from feeling, “that he might have trusted me.”

  Her uncle shook his head. “If your burglar friend, my dear Lucy, was really acting for Lady Emily Warsley, as seems likely, he would remember that he had the living to think of as well as the dead.

  “You know, it is perfectly possible at such a game as bridge for marked cards to be used and for only one person to know about them. On the other hand, if the truth came out it would be very hard indeed not to implicate both partners. I think your friend’s discretion under the circumstances was perfectly justified.”

  Lucy Mott sighed a little petulantly. “I cannot help feeling that I was rather made use of.”

  Her uncle smiled. “You must remember, my dear,” he pointed out, “that your friend took risks. If ever the time should come when you are able definitely to identify Violet Joe it might be a serious matter for him.”

  Lucy Mott took her leave with a faint and rather vague smile upon her lips. Somehow or other she fancied that that time would never come.

  DETECTIVE: MARIAN PHIPPS

  THE MISSING CHARACTER

  Phyllis Bentley

  KNOWN MAINLY AS A REGIONAL WRITER, Phyllis Eleanor Bentley (1894–1977) made few contributions to mystery fiction beyond her short stories featuring Miss Marian Phipps, a detective novelist who helps her friend Detective-Sergeant Tarrant, who is a young policeman when she meets him but is later promoted to Inspector-Sergeant.