“You know damned well I didn’t,” Gresham said again, hoarsely.
Then suddenly, his glaring bloodshot eyes fastened on her and he struggled to his feet. A new expression had wiped the fear off his face.
“I didn’t even know the man,” he said slowly, still staring at her fixedly. “You haven’t condescended to tell me anything about this million pound scheme, or what the set-up is where Xavier is concerned. But”—he ground the words through his teeth—“you knew Zusky! You said so. Did you shoot him, Cleo? Eh? Did you? It might have been a smart thing for you to do!”
Chapter Twenty-One – Cleo Latimer Makes A ’Phone Call
Gresham’s viciously uttered words died away into a long silence. A silence that was broken only by a taxi hooting as it rattled past.
Gresham moved towards her slowly, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, while Mrs. Latimer regarded him with faint distaste and icy contempt.
He continued:
“You said you were going to Lady Tonbridge’s party. That you’d meet me there. But you didn’t turn up. Where were you? Bumping Zusky off and making it look as if I’d done it? You had your reasons for wanting him out of the way. If you could pin a murder on me, it would get me out of the way too, wouldn’t it? And leave you with a clear million——”
“Shut your mouth, you fool!”
Her voice was a chilling whisper that brought him up with a jerk.
She went on contemptuously: “I’ve always thought you were a fool, but I didn’t know you could be quite so stupid. Why quarrel with me when all I want to do is help you? I didn’t know you were going to search the flat. I didn’t know Zusky was going to be there until you showed me the telegram. If I wanted to get rid of you, d’you think I’d leave it to chance like that?”
He was eyeing her cautiously, but she saw her words had got home. His face sagged. She touched his arm.
“Listen! Now is the time to use your head, not lose it. There’s only one thing to be done so far as you’re concerned, and that’s to get you out of the country. Quickly!”
He was listening intently to every word she had to say. She knew by his expression he was already beginning to appreciate the sense of what she said.
It was true, lie was thinking, she knew nothing about the telegram until after he had shown it to her. And that had been after he had searched the flat, after Zusky had been killed. His suspicions ebbed, his own plight loomed ominously.
“Maybe you’re right,” he started to mutter. “Maybe I’d better clear out for a time. . . .”
“You’ll need money. How much can you draw?”
“A few hundred——”
“I’ve a couple of hundred you can have. You’d better try and get a seat on the next ’plane for Paris this afternoon. Wait there until you hear from me.” She was speaking rapidly now, her voice alert and incisive. “I’ll get in touch with you within the next two or three days. Don’t try and communicate with me here——”
“Don’t rush me,” he interrupted with sudden harshness. “I’ve got to think it out. Give me a drink. . . .”
She said, “That’s the last thing you want at the moment.”
He glared at her, the old suspicion creeping back into his face.
“Is this a double-cross?”
He gripped her arm. His bloodshot eyes strove to read her mind. “Are you trying to brush me off?” he growled thickly.
She answered him calmly.
“If you don’t believe me,” she shrugged, “I can’t make you. It’s your spot, not mine.”
“For half a million you’d stop at nothing,” he muttered. “And neither would I!” He thought for a moment, pulling nervously at his lower lip. Then: “I’m going back to my rooms to pack. Give me that money.”
She went to a drawer, took out a flat packet of notes. After a quick glance at them, he thrust them in his pocket and nodded.
“Shall I see you later?” he asked.
“Not here,” she said. “I’ll be over in Paris any time within the next two or three days. With your share.”
He gave her a long, hard stare.
“For your sake, I hope so,” he said hoarsely. “Because if this is a double-cross, Cleo, I won’t rest until I’ve got you!”
And he raised his strong hands in a significant, gripping gesture.
She went to the window and watched him disappear round the corner, looking for a taxi as he went. Then she turned, unsmiling, to the telephone and dialled a number.
After a moment, Mrs. Latimer spoke quietly into the mouthpiece.
Chapter Twenty-Two – Richard Whitmore
Doctor Morelle was shown by a good-looking, dark-haired young man into the little panelled room, done in brown and gold, that was evidently used as an ante-room. There were a couple of big leather armchairs, and a Chippendale desk was placed near the window. A side-table with drinks stood near the door.
“I’m Baron Xavier’s sort of social secretary. Whitmore’s my name.”
Doctor Morelle inclined his head.
“Been trying to get hold of you for the last ten minutes,” the other went on. “I’m afraid the Baron went out before I could remind him you were coming along. An Inspector Hood’s been up here interviewing him, you know, and I think it—er—bothered him a bit.”
The Doctor frowned. He was unaccustomed to having an appointment upset.
“Have you any idea where Baron Xavier has gone?” he asked coldly. “Is he likely to be long?”
Whitmore went over to the desk and glanced at a diary.
“He has a luncheon appointment. And I’ve an idea he said something earlier about going to see how Sir Hugh was getting on. But that was before the Inspector turned up. Ghastly business, all this, isn’t it?” he continued cheerfully. “Poor old Zusky.” His face grew grave.
“Were you well acquainted with the deceased?”
The other nodded. “Of course, I’ve never had anything to do with any of the Baron’s business connected with his own country. That was what Zusky took care of. But I met him often and knew vaguely what was going on. I suppose he was done in by somebody who took a dim view of the Baron and what he stood for.”
“You are of the opinion this murder is a political assassination, then?”
“Off-hand, I’d say it was,” Whitmore agreed. “Baron Xavier isn’t popular with the party now in power in his own country, naturally. And that’d go for Zusky, too. Probably they were afraid over there the Baron might stage a come-back, or something.”
He paused, then went on thoughtfully:
“In all these political set-ups there’s a power behind the figurehead. In this case, Baron Xavier’s the figurehead, and Zusky the real power and adviser. Zusky’s whole life had been devoted to politics and the rest. He was the Baron’s father’s adviser, too.”
“Was Albany concerned in any way with the activities you have just mentioned?”
Richard Whitmore grinned at the idea, and shook his head.
“He’d be even less interested than I was. And Lord knows, I steered clear of it! I’d say it was pure coincidence he got shot on the same night Zusky was murdered.”
“Why should anyone wish to attack Albany?”
The young man shrugged.
“Some chap maybe saw an opportunity for pinching a wallet. Perhaps he was drunk. Perhaps starving, desperate. Who knows?”
“That is a possibility,” Doctor Morelle murmured. “Though it appears somewhat odd that Zusky should have been murdered in Albany’s flat. Is that not stretching the arm of coincidence too far?” He added: “Were you aware that Zusky had been staying at Albany’s residence in Sussex?”
“Not until this morning. I knew he used to pop to and fro between London and the Continent, but I didn’t know exactly where he stayed when over here. He and Baron Xavier kept that secret between them.”
Whitmore took a silver cigarette-box from the desk and offered it to Doctor Morelle. The Doctor explained that he smoked only his
own Le Sphinx brand, specially made for him. The other smiled understandingly and flicked a lighter.
“Won’t you have a drink? There’s some rather good sherry. If you like it dry.”
Doctor Morelle accepted the invitation.
While the other moved to the side-table, the Doctor murmured: “Was there any quarrel between the Baron and Zusky? Did they hold any divergent opinions in certain aspects of business or policy?”
The other appeared not to have heard the query as he bent over the drinks. A decanter clinked against a glass.
“I think you’ll like this,” he said, crossing to the Doctor with a glass of pale, straw-coloured sherry.
Doctor Morelle took the glass. Then: “Excellent.” He took another sip.
“I had the pleasure of meeting that nice secretary of yours, Miss Frayle, last night, Doctor.”
“Indeed?” Another appreciative sip of sherry. “So,” he murmured over the glass, “you found no time to become interested in the politics of Baron Xavier’s country?”
“Bags of time,” Whitmore smiled, “but no inclination. No politics for me. As I told you, I’m simply a sort of social secretary here. You know, fix luncheon engagements, see who’s coming to dinner, see that they’re not placed next to people they loathe, entertain elderly dowagers who bore everyone else to tears, keep off any undesirable types.”
He gave an amused laugh.
“I’ve got all the attributes,” he said. “I can talk for hours about nothing. Can be amusing to people even when I sometimes long to kick ’em where it would do most good! Still, it’s a job. And I flatter myself I’ve made myself useful.”
“I’m sure,” Doctor Morelle nodded. “How long have you occupied the position?” he asked casually.
“A couple of years. I was in Cannes and was introduced to Baron Xavier when he was down there for a brief stay. Zusky was with him then, I remember,” he added.
Doctor Morelle gazed reflectively at the glass in his hand, as he observed quietly:
“Would I be very far out if I hazarded a guess that, subsequent to your meeting with the Baron at Cannes, it was Stefan Zusky who suggested you should take your present post?”
The other glanced up sharply, his good-looking face alive with surprised admiration.
“That’s damned quick of you!” he exclaimed. “As a matter of fact you’re dead right. Though I didn’t know it until later. The Baron approached me with the idea, and I accepted. He told me later it was Zusky’s suggestion. How did you know?”
“I did not know,” Doctor Morelle murmured; “merely surmised. As I hinted at just now in a question which you chose not to answer, it suggested itself to me that the Baron and his secretary held political and perhaps other opinions which at times diverged. Zusky possibly resented interference from the Baron in political activities in which he, as the power behind the—ah—figurehead, was engaged. No doubt he was anxious for Baron Xavier to devote more time to social affairs. Apparently he had no—ah—social secretary before you. It appealed to me therefore, as a justifiable surmise, that Zusky might have suggested you for a post to be specially created.”
“Damned ingenious!” the other said, enthusiastically. He laughed, showing even white teeth. “I should hate to be up against you if I were a murderer!”
“Then perhaps you would be good enough to inform me,” Doctor Morelle went on with quiet insistence, “if you are aware of any personal quarrel between the Baron and Zusky?”
Richard Whitmore stared at him.
Then, after a little silence, his expression hardened and he spoke with quiet intensity.
“Are you suggesting that—that Baron Xavier himself has anything to do with this affair?” he demanded. “Because if so, you’re barking up the wrong tree. . . .”
“I am suggesting nothing,” was the Doctor’s retort.
His voice had the hard ring of steel. He continued: “It is not my place to hint at any alternative that has not the support of evidence. It is evidence I seek. Evidence and motive. Permit me to impress upon you that it is not a social digression which has been committed. It is murder! A man’s life has been taken, and it is only the interests of justice which have to be considered. Nothing else.”
The other mumbled uncomfortably: “I’m sorry, Doctor. You see, I’m in an awkward position. I realize you’ve been asking me questions in the hope of throwing some light on the murder of Zusky. I’ve been only too anxious to help. I liked old Stefan. I mean, he was quite a decent scout, except I—I—well—rather felt he liked power a bit too much. But you must see that I am in a tricky spot——”
Doctor Morelle uttered an impatient exclamation.
“Where murder is concerned,” he snapped, “the position of all people who might be concerned in it, no matter how remotely, is difficult. It may remain difficult until the murderer stands revealed. By your reluctance to answer this question, of whether or no there was any personal rift between your employer and the deceased, you lead me to infer that there was a schism of some nature. I do not care to be led to infer without evidence.”
“But I don’t know if there was anything!”
Richard Whitmore looked unhappy. Then he said slowly:
“You’re quite right when you said their views weren’t always the same on certain issues. I used to hear them having pretty acrid discussions on political matters, for instance, the pair of ’em talking pretty heatedly. But I never heard them quarrelling. In fact, the Baron thought the world of Zusky as a man. They were old, staunch friends. And anyway, Baron Xavier had been fed up with politics from the day it became clear that his country preferred a Republican Government to him!”
Doctor Morelle asked: “You were not aware when Zusky last left his native country?”
“Not to the day. But then, I never knew for certain when he was there or here. Almost from the moment I started this job, I learned that it was better for me not to ask questions about Zusky’s movements.”
“Did Baron Xavier and Zusky communicate with each other when the latter was abroad?”
“They may have done. I don’t know.” The young man paused. Then he said, firmly: “Doctor Morelle, don’t you think you’d get more satisfactory answers if you asked Baron Xavier himself all this?”
The Doctor’s smile was frosty.
“Your employer is not available at the moment,” he replied blandly. “And the questions are ones to which I would have preferred an immediate answer. However, it seems I must wait.” He tapped the ash off his cigarette and surveyed the tip for a moment before asking: “Are you aware if he left Lady Tonbridge’s party last night for any length of time?”
“That’s another answer for which you’ll have to wait,” the other said. “I just don’t know. I’m sorry to seem unhelpful,” he apologized, his face clouded and troubled.”
“Then perhaps,” Doctor Morelle persisted icily, “you can tell me if, in your capacity as his social secretary, you are aware if he received any personal messages yesterday?”
Young Whitmore frowned and studied his empty sherry glass, twiddling it about between finger and thumb.
After a moment he said thoughtfully:
“There were quite a lot of calls, but I dealt with all of ’em——” He broke off and exclaimed: “Sir Hugh rang up in the morning.”
“Albany?”
The other nodded.
“It was before lunch. He said he wanted to talk to the Baron.” He nodded towards the house-exchange telephone on the desk. “I put him through to the private sitting-room.”
“You are not aware of the nature of the conversation?”
Whitmore answered promptly and huffily: “Naturally not.”
“Of course not,” Doctor Morelle agreed amiably. “You know Albany well?”
Richard Whitmore shrugged.
“You know how it is. I’ve known him for years. We meet and chat and then go our ways.” He grinned pleasantly. “The old social round.”
One of the telep
hones on the desk began to ring. The young man glanced at the Doctor with a murmured excuse.
He crossed to the desk and sat on the edge of it, one leg swinging, as he picked up the receiver and spoke into it.
Chapter Twenty-Three – What The Butler Saw
Whitmore said: “Hullo?” He turned to look at the Doctor with the blank, unseeing stare of one listening to a conversation on the telephone.
In a formal tone he said: “I regret Baron Xavier is not available at the moment. This is his secretary. Yes. Yes.”
Doctor Morelle observed Whitmore’s reflection in a mirror. The young man nodded in answer to something the caller was saying. After a moment he said into the telephone: “I will tell him. Good-bye.”
He replaced the receiver, sat for a moment on the desk in abstracted thought, then slid off and returned to Doctor Morelle.
“Sorry for the interruption,” he said, with a casual smile. “How about another glass of sherry?”
“Thank you, no. I must not take up more of your valuable time.”
The other laughed and made a deprecating gesture. “As you can see at the present moment, it’s not all that valuable!”
As he took up his hat and stick, Doctor Morelle asked: “Are you acquainted with any of Baron Xavier’s personal friends?”
“Some of them, anyway.”
“Do you know a man called Gresham? Charles Gresham.”
“Gresham?” He thought for a moment. “Oh, yes. I’ve met him once or twice, and probably Baron Xavier has, too. But Gresham’s by no means a personal friend—he’s got a rather rum reputation, by all accounts. A friend of Sir Hugh Albany, isn’t he . . .?”
“And a Mrs. Latimer——”
“Ah, the beautiful Mrs. Latimer!” The other’s face lit up. “Now there’s a very attractive woman.”
“Would Mrs. Latimer be an acquaintance of yours?”
“Oh, I’m small fry for Cleo Latimer!” the other answered, with an easy laugh. “It’s my boss she’s interested in. You know her, then, Doctor?”
“A mere slight acquaintance,” Doctor Morelle murmured. “It is an acquaintance, however, I would like to foster. But I fear I, too, am considered somewhat small fry.”
Menace for Dr. Morelle Page 13