The Silk Stocking Murders

by Anthony Berkeley

  In an extravagant impulse not many months ago Roger had walked into the Albany, fortified by a visit to his publisher’s and the news of the sales of his latest novel, and demanded rooms there. A set being fortunately vacant at the moment, he had stepped straight into them. Thither he led the helpless Chief Inspector, now gently perspiring all over, thrust him into a chair, mixed him a short drink in spite of his protests in which the word “beer” was prominent, and went off to see about lunch. During the interval between his return and the serving of the meal, he regaled his victim with a vivid account of the coffee-growing business in Brazil, in which he had a young cousin.

  “Anthony Walton, his name is,” he remarked with non chalance. “I believe you met him once, didn’t you?”

  The Chief Inspector had not even the spirit left to forget his earlier promise and retort in kind.

  Let it not be thought that Chief Inspector Moresby shows up in an unworthy light in this episode. Roger had him in a cleft stick, and Moresby knew it. When police inquiries are in progress that necessitate the most profound secrecy, the smallest whisper of their existence in the Press may be enough to destroy the patient work of weeks. The Press, which may be bullied on occasions with impunity, must on others be courted by the conscientious Scotland Yard man with more delicate caution than ever lover courted the shyest of mistresses: Roger knew all this only too well, and only too well Chief Inspector Moresby knew that he knew it. But this time the situation was not amusing at all.

  In the orthodox manner Roger held up any discussion of the topic at issue until the coffee had been served and the cigarettes were alight, just as big business men always do in the novels that are written about them (in real life they get down to it with the hors d’æuvres and don’t blether about, wasting valuable time). “And now,” said Roger, when that stage had arrived, “now, Moresby, my friend, for it!”

  “For it?” repeated Chief Inspector Moresby, still game.

  “Yes; don’t play with me, Moresby. The boot’s on the other foot now. And what are we going to do about it?”

  The Chief Inspector tidily consumed the dregs in his coffee-cup. “That,” he said carefully, “depends on what we’re talking about, Mr. Sheringham.”

  “Very well,” Roger grinned unkindly. “I’ll put it more plainly. Do you want me to write an article for The Courier proving that Lady Ursula must have been murdered—and not only Lady Ursula, but Elsie Benham and Unity Ransome as well? Am I to call on the police to get busy and follow up my lead? It’s an article I’m simply tingling to write, you know.”

  “You are, sir? Why?”

  “Because I’ve been following up the Ransome case since the day after the death,” said Roger with emphasis but without truth.

  In spite of himself, and the traditions of Scotland Yard concerning amateurs, the Chief Inspector was impressed. Nor did he take any trouble to hide it. “You have, sir?” he said, not without admiration. “Well, that was very smart of you. You tumbled to it even then that it was murder?”

  “I did,” said Roger, without blenching. “Ah, now we’re getting on. You agree that it was murder, then?”

  “If you must know,” said the harassed Chief Inspector, seeing nothing else for it, “I do.”

  “But you didn’t realise it as soon as I did?” pursued the unblushing Roger. “You didn’t realise it, in fact, till Lady Ursula’s case came along?”

  “It’s only suspicion, even now,” replied Moresby, adroitly avoiding a direct answer.

  Roger drew for a few moments at his cigarette. “I’m sorry Scotland Yard’s tumbled to the idea of murder,” he said, after a pause. “I’d been looking on this as my own little affair, and I’ve been putting in some hard work on it too. And you needn’t think I’m going to drop out just because you’ve stepped in. I’m determined to get to the bottom of the business (I’ve something like a personal interest in it, as it happens), with or without the police. And at present I’m far and away ahead of you.”

  “How’s that, Mr. Sheringham?”

  “Well, to take only one point, do you know Unity Ransome’s real identity?”

  “Not yet, we don’t, no,” the Chief Inspector had to confess.

  “Well, I do,” said Roger simply.

  There was another pause.

  “What’s in your mind, Mr. Sheringham?” Moresby broke it by asking. “There’s something, I can see.”

  “There is,” Roger agreed. “It’s this: I want us to work together on this case. I wanted to at Ludmouth last summer, but you wouldn’t. Now I’m in a much stronger position. Because don’t forget that I can help you very considerably as your assistant. I don’t mind your looking on me as an assistant,” he added magnanimously.

  “You could help me, could you, Mr. Sheriagham?” the Chief Inspector meditated. “Now I wonder exactly how?”

  “No, you don’t,” Roger retorted. “You know perfectly well. In the first place there’s the material I’ve got together already. But far more than that, there’s the question of the murderer. The circumstances of Lady Ursula’s death make it quite obvious to me that the murderer is a man of good social position, or, at the least, somebody known to her (all Lady Ursula’s friends weren’t of good social position, I admit). Well, now, this is going to be a very difficult case, I think. We’re dealing, I take it, with a homicidal maniac who is probably quite sane on all other subjects. There are only two ways of getting him: one is to catch him red-handed, and the other is to get into his confidence and attack him from behind (and we needn’t have any sporting scruples in this case). Do you agree so far?”

  “All that seems reasonable enough,” Moresby conceded.

  “Quite so. Well, as to the first method, does one usually take homicidal maniacs of the sexual type red-handed? You people at the Yard ought to know, with your experience of Jack the Ripper. And I’m assuming that our man isn’t quite such a dolt as Neill Cream, who almost invited the police to come and investigate him. Then only the second method remains. Well, now, Moresby, I don’t want to be offensive, but are you the fellow to get into the confidence of such a man? Let’s look at it quite reasonably. We narrow our suspicions down, say, to an old Etonian, who is a member of, perhaps, the Oxford and Cambridge Club. Do you think you could induce a man like that to confide anything further to you than the best thing for the three-thirty? You can’t join his club, you see, and get at him that way, can you?”

  “I see your point all right, Mr. Sheringham,” Moresby smiled. “Yes, there’s a good deal in that. But of course we’ve got plenty of people at the Yard who could do all that. What about the Assistant Commissioner? He was at Eton himself.”

  “Do you really imagine,” said Roger with fine scorn, that a man who has committed at least three murders is going to confide in the Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard? Don’t pretend to be puerile, Moresby. You know well enough that nobody even remotely connected with Scotland Yard is going to be any good for that. It’s just there where my position is so useful to you. I’m not connected with Scotland Yard. I’m known to the general public simply as a writer of fiction. Why, the man we’re looking for has probably, never seen even a copy of The Courier in his life.”

  “Well, as I said, there’s plenty of sense in all this, Mr. Sheringham. And if I do refuse to take you on as an assistant, I suppose you mean you’ll blow the gaff and do your best to queer our pitch?”

  “I shall hold myself free to write what I choose about these cases,” Roger corrected with dignity.

  “Um.” The Chief Inspector tapped absently on the table and appeared to be ruminating. “I’m in charge of the investigation at present, of course. But we’re not by any means certain yet that they are murders. There’s a lot in that stuff you wrote in The Courier the other day about suggestion acting on a certain type of mind, you know.”

  “Ah! So you read my articles, do you?” said Roger, childishly pleased. “But Lady Ursula’s wasn’t that type of mind, you know. That’s the whole point. St
ill, we’ll go into that later. Are you or are you not going to take me on?”

  “We’re not allowed to do anything like that, not without permission, you know,” the Chief Inspector demurred.

  “Yes, and I know equally well that you’ll get the permission in this case for the asking,” Roger retorted, without modesty.

  The Chief Inspector ruminated further. “Well,” he said at length, “I’m not saying that you might not be able to help me, Mr. Sheringham, in this particular case. Quite a lot. And certainly you’re no fool,” he added kindly. “I thought that at Ludmouth, though you were a bit too clever there. But it was really smart of you to tumble to murder in the Ransome case, before those others. I’ll admit that it never occurred to us at all. Yes, very well, then, sir; we’ll consider that settled. I’ll apply for permission to take you in with us as soon as I get back to the Yard.”

  “Good man!” Roger cried in high delight. “We’ll open a bottle of my precious ‘67 brandy to celebrate my official recognition.”

  Over the reverent consumption of a couple of glasses of the ’67, Roger made known to his new colleague the result of his researches into the case of Unity Ransome, first stipulating that her real identity should not be made public unless circumstances absolutely necessitated it; he was resolved to use any influence he had to save that unhappy family from further trouble. The Chief Inspector agreed readily enough and, now that it was no longer a case of rivalry but of collaboration, complimented his companion ungrudgingly on his astuteness. He had himself already paid a couple of visits to the Sutherland Avenue flat, but had made little progress from that end of the complicated case.

  “What put Scotland Yard finally on the suspicion of murder?” Roger asked, having told all he knew.

  “Something beyond your own knowledge, Mr. Sheringham,” replied the Chief Inspector. “On examining Lady Ursula’s body, our surgeon reported that there were distinct signs of bruises at her wrists. I had a look at them myself, and though they were faint enough, I’m ready to swear to my belief that her hands had been tied together at some time. Well, she wouldn’t have tied her own hands, would she?”

  Roger nodded. “And the other cases?”

  “Nothing was noticed at the time, but we’re taking steps to find out.”

  “Exhumation? Yes. Well now, Moresby, let’s hear your theory about it all.”

  “Theory, sir’? Well, I suppose we do have theories. But Scotland Yard works more on clues than theories. The French police, now, they work on theories; but they’re allowed a good deal more latitude in their inquiries than we are. They go in a lot for bluff, too, which we can’t use. All we can do is to follow up the pointers in a case, and see where they lead to.”

  “Well, let’s examine the pointers, then. What do you consider we’ve got to work on, so far?”

  Inspector Moresby looked at his watch. “Good gracious, sir,” he exclaimed, in artless surprise, “I’d no idea it was as late as this. They’ll be wondering whatever’s happened to me. You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Sheringham. I must get back to the Yard at once.”

  Roger understood that not until official permission had actually come through would the Chief Inspector discuss the case with him further than to pick his brains. He smiled, well enough content with the result of his lunch-party.

  CHAPTER VII

  GETTING TO GRIPS WITH THE CASE

  SOON after eight o’clock that same evening, in response to a telephoned hint from Roger, Chief Inspector Moresby again visited the Albany, official permission to discard his reticence at last duly obtained. Roger welcomed him with a choice of whisky or beer, pipe tobacco or cigarettes, and they settled down in front of the fire, pipes alight and a pewter tankard at each elbow, to go into the case with real thoroughness.

  “By the way, have you seen The Evening Clarion?” Moresby remarked first of all, pulling the paper in question from his pocket. “You journalists do give us a lot of trouble, you know.” He handed it over, marking a certain paragraph with his thumb.

  The paragraph was at the end of an account of the inquest on Lady Ursula that morning. Roger read: “From the unobtrusive presence among the spectators at the back of the court of a certain highly placed official at Scotland Yard, it may be argued that the police are not altogether satisfied with the case as it stands at present. Certainly there seem to be many obscure points which require clearing up. It must not be supposed that the said official’s interest in the proceedings necessarily means that Scotland Yard definitely suspects foul play, but it is not too much to assume that we have not yet heard the last of this tragic affair.”

  “Very cleverly put,” was Roger’s professional comment. “Damn, the fellow!” he added, unprofessionally.

  “It’s a nuisance,” agreed his companion. “I’ve put a stop to any more, of course, and I dare say there’s no harm done really; but that sort of thing’s very annoying when you’re doing all you can to keep your inquiries a close secret. Anyhow, there’s one blessing: nobody’s brought up the Monte Carlo business yet.”

  “Monte Carlo? What’s that?”

  “Oh, didn’t you know about that, Mr. Sheringham?” asked the Chief Inspector, his eyes twinkling. “I made sure you had that at your fingers’ ends. Why, a French girl—a croquette, or whatever they call ’em over there——”

  “A cocotte,” Roger corrected without a smile. “Described as an actress. Yes?”

  “Well, a French cocotte was found dead in her bedroom in February in just the same way. She’d lost a good deal of money in the Casino, so of course they assumed she’d hanged herself. It was more or less hushed up (those things always are there) and I don’t think it was even mentioned in the papers over here. We heard about it, unofficially.”

  “Monte Carlo this February, eh?” Roger said thoughtfully. “That ought to be a bit of a help.”

  “It’s about all we’ve got to go on,” said the Chief Inspector, rather dolefully. “I mean, assuming that this is murder at all and that the same man’s responsible for it. That, I should say, and the note.”

  “The note? Oh, you mean the note Lady Ursula left. Yes, I’d realised of course that if it was murder, all those notes must have been written with quite a different meaning than the one everybody gave them later. The murderer’s a clever man, Moresby, there’s no getting away from it.”

  “He is that, Mr. Sheringham. But there’s a bit more to be got out of Lady Ursula’s than the others. If it was murder, then that note must have meant something quite different, as you say. But its importance to us is that it was creased. You can see it at the Yard any time.”

  “I see,” Roger nodded. “And it hadn’t been left in an envelope, you mean. In other words, it must have been in another envelope at one time, and therefore was definitely not written on that occasion.”

  “Or in somebody’s pocket. The paper’s a tiny bit rubbed at the creases as if it had been in a pocket. Well, Mr. Sheringham, find the person to whom that note was written, and we’ve gone a long way towards solving the mystery. It’s the only clue we’ve got, but I shouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t going to be the only one we shall want. Mark my words, sir, it’s that note that’s going to clear up this affair for us, if we can only find out who it was written to.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” Roger replied noncommittally. Privately, however, he did not feel so sure. He recognised that Scotland Yard was going to regard the letter as the Dominant Clue; but the method of the Dominant Clue, though often brilliantly successful (or rather, not so much brilliantly as painstakingly), was liable to fall to the ground when the clue in question did not come up to scratch. By disregarding the side-issues in these latter cases Scotland Yard had many failures in its records which a less single-aimed method, such as the French with its inductive reasoning, would almost certainly have solved; and it was no palliative to point out that the reverse also was equally true, and that there are unsolved mysteries in the French annals which the more laborious method of Scot
land Yard would probably have cleared up.

  A really rogue-proof detective-service, Roger had long ago decided, should not stick to one method at all, but make use of them all; and he determined that the partnership between himself and Moresby should be such a service in miniature. Let Moresby pursue the Dominant Clue and call on the organised resources of Scotland Yard to help him do so; he himself would look at the problem as a whole, from every possible side, and do his best to combine the amazing deductive powers of the Austrian criminological professors with the imaginative brilliance of the star French detectives. It is characteristic of Roger that he took this tremendous task on his shoulders with complete composure, between two pulls at his tankard.

  The two settled down into a steady talk.

  During the next half-hour Roger found himself much impressed with the common sense level-headedness of his colleague, whom he had been inclined to regard, in consequence of his preference for, a Dominant Clue, as lacking in perception of the finesses of scientific criminology. He was also a little chagrined to find that Moresby’s knowledge of criminal history was even more complete than his own.

  As the discussion progressed Roger was not the only one to make discoveries. The Chief Inspector, too, hitherto disposed to regard Roger as a volatile-witted amateur intent only upon proving impossible theories of his own erection, now found himself considerably more impressed than he had anticipated by his companion’s quick grasp of essentials and the vivid imagination he was able to bring to bear on the problem. If he had felt any misgivings about taking a leaf out of the story-books and admitting an amateur into his councils, they were not long in disappearing. By the end of half an hour the partnership was on a firm basis.

  As if to mark the fact, Roger rose and replenished the tankards. The beer, it may be remarked, was a good sound XXXX, of a dark fruity colour, from a cask in the next room, Roger’s study. Oh, all you young women, distrust a man who does not drink good sound fruity XXXX with zest as you would one of your own sex who did not care to powder her nose.