The Silk Stocking Murders

by Anthony Berkeley

  “Um!” The Chief Inspector did his best not to look sceptical, for he was a kind man and he saw that Roger was seriously perturbed, but his effort was not very successful. “Well, I hope you’ll find out plenty more, Mr. Sheringham,” he said politely.

  “When are you going to arrest Newsome?” Roger asked bluntly.

  “That depends. He’s not going to run away, is he? You’ve taken on the responsibility now, Mr. Sheringham, and you’ll have to be answerable for him.”

  “Very well; I agree to that. No, he won’t run away.”

  “Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do. We were going to arrest him to-day, but if you undertake that he’ll hold himself at our disposal so to speak, and not on any account leave London, then I’ll put it off till the day after to-morrow to give you a last chance, Mr. Sheringham. That’s the very best I can do, and that’s stretching things a lot, you know.”

  “Forty-eight hours to prove Jerry’s innocence,” murmured Roger. “My sacred hat! All right. Moresby. Thanks. That’s a bargain.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  MR. SHERINGHAM IS BUSY

  ONE promise Moresby obtained from Roger before he left, and that was that Newsome’s impending arrest should remain a profound secret between the two of them; he had no objection to Newsome himself being told as he must already have guessed so much and there was no object in secrecy, but beyond that it must not go. Roger bound himself to silence, although this meant that he would not be able to share his knowledge with his two lieutenants, and gave a similar promise on behalf of Newsome.

  As he taxied back to the Albany he tried hard to grapple with the problem. If he was to establish Newsome’s innocence in a paltry two days he had got to get to work without delay, but where was he to start? He could see no jumping-off place from which to attack in a new direction. The valet and the note, perhaps? That seemed the only new fact that had come to light.

  His first action on arriving at his rooms was to ring up Pleydell. While keeping strictly to his promise, he told the latter that events of great importance might be expected at any minute, and it was essential that the arrangements made yesterday should be put in hand with the utmost speed. Pleydell replied that they had been in hand since yesterday, but that he would hurry them up so that the first sitting could be held that same afternoon; he had already warned the men that had been allotted to him. On Roger’s surprised query as to how this could be done, as it was already past eleven o’clock, he said laconically that if he said it should be done, it would. Accepting this, Roger asked him if he would mind taking the sitting that afternoon as he himself was going to be busy in another direction. Pleydell replied that he would, with pleasure.

  “My aunt, that man doesn’t let grass grow under his feet,” Roger commented as he hung up the receiver.

  “Pleydell?” said Newsome. “Whatever was all that about?”

  Roger told him of the alliance that had been formed, and its plans.

  “The Jerry Newsome Defence League, I think we ought to call it now,” he concluded. “By the way, you mustn’t tell anybody about it, or what we’re going to do; especially not the police.”

  “But good Lord, is there the slightest hope that you’ll get any results?”

  “Not the faintest, I should imagine,” Roger replied equably. “If the man does turn up, he must be mentally deficient in all ways instead of only one; and I’m quite sure he’s not that. But there is a tiny hope in the plan, and there’s none in any other that I can see, so we’re going to give it a trial at least.”

  “I’d like to meet that girl again,” remarked Newsome. “Anne Manners, by Jove! I wouldn’t have believed it. She must be a well-plucked ‘un.”

  “She’s got the smallest body and the biggest heart of any nice girl I’ve ever met,” affirmed Roger, with unwonted feeling. “I’m jolly well going to make her the heroine of my next book.”

  “The poor kid!” commented Mr. Newsome, into whom not even impending arrest could apparently instil any respect for his boyhood’s friend’s literary talents. “Whatever has she done to deserve that?”

  Roger disregarded this ribaldry. “Stop being funny, Jerry, and tell me this; did the police ask you about a note Lady Ursula was supposed to have left for you the day before she was killed?”

  “Yes, they did say something about one. But they’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I never, had one from her. She called in to wash a dog or something equally mad, Johnson told me (that’s my man), but——”

  “Come on,” Roger interrupted. “We’ve got no time to waste.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To have a word with Johnson.”

  They hurried off.

  Johnson proved to be a small, desiccated man with protruding teeth, who was plainly devoted to his master, and just as plainly not at all devoted to the police. Before he had been speaking to him three minutes, Roger began to realise what a task they must have had to extract from him such information as they did.

  Yet his story was simple enough. Lady Ursula had left such a note. He had seen it with his own eyes lying on the table when she went into Mr. Newsome’s bedroom to tidy herself after washing the dog (one gathered that the minor conventions meant nothing in Lady Ursula’s life). Undoubtedly it was the same one that the police had got.

  Johnson had had no idea that his master had not received it, or he would not have said a word about it.

  “It was lying flat on the table, then?” Roger asked. “Not folded and put in an envelope?”

  No, it was lying flat. Johnson would not have read it if he had known what it was, it went without saying, but seeing it lying there he had fancied it was something of Mr. Newsome’s and was going to tidy it away till he saw that it was Lady Ursula’s note.

  “What was written on the top?” Roger asked. “Was there a name or anything like that?”

  “To the best of my knowledge the word‘Jerry’ was written on the top, sir,” replied Johnson, with a deprecatory air, as if apologising for having to allow his master’s nickname to pass the barrier of his teeth.

  “I see. Now, who came here between Lady Ursula’s departure and Mr. Newsome’s return?”

  “No one, sir,” Johnson replied with decision.

  “No one? Then how did the note vanish?”

  “I can’t say, sir, I’m sure. I left it here, I know. I can only surmise that Mr. Newsome overlooked it, and it was tidied away the next morning without my noticing it.”

  “So that both of you overlooked it? No, that doesn’t seem right. Now this is an important point, Johnson, so try and jog your memory. Are you certain you let nobody else in here that afternoon?”

  “Quite certain, sir. You see, I went out myself shortly after Lady Ursula went. I remember distinctly. Mr. Newsome was going to be out till late, and he had kindly said that I need not stay in if I cared to take a little air. I remained out till past six o’clock.”

  “What doing?” Roger asked sharply.

  Johnson looked hurt. “I went to a cinematograph performance, sir,” he replied, with dignity.

  Roger forbore to comment on Johnson’s preference in air. “Well, this seems a mystery,” he said. “Somebody’s got hold of that letter somehow, I’m convinced. Has the porter downstairs a pass-key to this flat?”

  “No, sir. But since you raise the matter I might mention that one of our own keys appears to have been mislaid. There used to be three, and now there are only Mr. Newsome’s and my own. The spare one has been lost.”

  “For how long?”

  “Oh, for some months now. But perhaps it would be as well not to attach too much importance to that, sir.” Johnson’s parched face again took on its deprecatory look. “Mr. Newsome sometimes does lose things, if he will forgive my mentioning it.”

  “Johnson’s trying to tell you politely that I lost the extra key myself,” Newsome laughed. “It was my own key, and I had my pocket picked. I not only lost the key, but my pocket-book as well, with a nice li
ttle bundle of notes in it. There’s nothing in that.”

  Roger nodded. “Thank you, Johnson. That’s all.”

  When they were alone he turned to Newsome. “It’s deuced odd about that note. It can’t have been overlooked by both of you. Is Johnson absolutely reliable?”

  “Absolutely,” Newsome said emphatically. “He’s been with our family since he was a boy.”

  “Well, he had one interesting thing to tell us,” Roger mused. “The note was not in an envelope, you heard. Well, when we got it it had been folded.”

  “Wouldn’t the fellow who got hold of it have folded it?”

  “He would, yes. But the interesting part is the way in which it was folded. Not that it helps us in the slightest, and I’m afraid it won’t interest the police; as a matter of fact it’s just a tiny point in your favour, but we won’t bother about it now. I’ve got to run up to Maida Vale and warn Anne Manners to be ready for the sitting this afternoon.”

  “I’ll run up with you,” said Newsome promptly.

  “Right you are,” Roger agreed. “And your sleuth can run behind.”

  They went out into the street and Newsome looked up and down it. “Hullo,” he said. “My sleuth doesn’t seem to be here.”

  Roger looked. Not a lounger, a passer-by or a loiterer was in sight. “Well, that is sporting of Moresby,” Roger said warmly. “I’ll tell the world it is.”

  Anne and Miss Carruthers received them kindly, and Newsome proceeded to renew his slight acquaintance with the former. Roger, however, had no time for light dalliance. He was not quite sure what he ought to do, but he knew it had got to be done at once. Newsome, on the other hand, could very well be left where he was for the time being. Apparently there was nothing more to be learnt from him, and his present surroundings might be even better for his morale than Roger’s own flat.

  On pretext of being shown out, Roger drewAnne out on to the landing with him, firmly shut the sitting-room door and told her that the sittings were to begin that very afternoon.

  Anne’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, I am so glad,” she said. “The men were in here so early this morning that I hoped we might be able to begin to-day. I told the landlord they were plumbers to see the kitchen taps, and he seemed so relieved at not being expected to pay for them that he took it without a word. He lives on the ground-floor.”

  “And you’re not a bit frightened, Anne?” Roger asked.

  “I shan’t have time to be frightened; I shall be too busy longing to catch him. But did I say you could call me ‘Anne’?”

  “Didn’t you?” Roger smiled. “How forgetful of you, if you didn’t. But I warn you, I always call my female accomplices by their Christian names. And all girls under the age of twenty-one, too.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Sheringham,” said Anne, and took a step towards the door.

  “Oh, and by the way, Anne,” Roger said quickly, “be kind to my excellent friend Jerry, won’t you?”

  “I’ll be polite. But you’re not forgetting that he’s on our list of suspects, are you?”

  “He’s not, any longer. But you’re not to tell anyone that, even Pleydell. It’s a deadly secret. Between ourselves, Anne (and this is highly confidential), he’s not our man, but the evidence looks very much as if he were.”

  “Do you mean that the police are after him?” asked Anne, round-eyed.

  “If they’re not,” Roger replied evasively, “they’re failing in their duty. He’s in a very ticklish position. I’ve told him of our plans, by the way.”

  Anne looked doubtful. “Was that wise, Mr. Sheringham?”

  “May I remind you, Anne Manners,” retorted Roger, with dignity, “that I am in charge of this investigation? To your duty, girl. I shall be up at four-thirty to see if you’re still alive. Till then, au revoir.”

  As he ran down the steps outside Roger glanced at his watch. The time was just after half-past twelve. He would pay a flying visit to Gray’s Inn Road before lunch.

  It was in Roger’s mind that, when it came down to hard facts, the only way of definitely clearing Newsome was to find out who really had committed the murders; in face of the accumulation of evidence anything less than that would not meet the case. And besides, how was he to prove by any other means that Newsome could not be guilty? The facts at present showed almost conclusively that he was. Even in the case of Janet Manners the connection was there.

  But if Gerald Newsome had not killed Dorothy Fielder, then who had? The artisan was cleared, the solicitor-like old gentleman was not on the premises. The only conclusion was that the real murderer must have arrived after the porter had gone to his lunch, past one o’clock. But as against this, there was the fact that Jerry had received no answer to his ring at one o’clock exactly.

  Seated in his taxi, Roger tried to thrash out this particular point. Dorothy Fielder had asked, almost blatantly, to be taken out to lunch. Was it likely that she would not have answered his ring, knowing from the time that it must be he, if she were in a position to do so? Certainly not. Then she could not have been in a position to do so. Why not? Assuming that she had not changed her mind, the only answer seemed to be that’ she had been forcibly detained. But she could not have been forcibly detained, because the murderer could not have arrived before one o’clock; that was definitely established.

  “Hell!” said Roger, and lit a cigarette.

  But was it definitely established, though? There was that gap between eleven o’clock, when the other girl, Zelma Deeping, came out, and twelve o’clock when the porter began his observations. Could the murderer have arrived during that interval? In that case he must have been in the flat till, after the girl’s death at about one-thirty. Why, if that were the case, did he put off killing her so long.? Was it because he knew that the porter would not be looking out between one and two and he would be able to escape unobserved? That, thought Roger, was a very interesting idea; it argued a close acquaintance on the murderer’s part with conditions in the Mansions—in other words, close acquaintance with Miss Dorothy Fielder herself. How did this square with Pleydell’s theory of an actor? Uncommonly well. But then one came up against Sir James Bannister and Billy Burton again, and neither the stately Sir James nor the lanky and elongated piece of humorous quicksilver, known to a hilarious public as Billy Burton, could possibly be the man they were after. Damn!

  But was the field of actors so very limited? Must the murderer have been at Monte Carlo at the time of the first death? Couldn’t (and here Roger sat up with a jerk) the truth be that the Monte Carlo death was a genuine suicide, which had so tickled the imagination of the super-sadistic murderer that he had felt impelled to go and do the same thing for himself? Now there was an idea.

  It brought him to the front door of the Mansions.

  Shelving further consideration for the moment of this new possibility, Roger sought out the porter.

  “Good morning,” he said briskly. “You remember me. I was here with the police last Thursday, regarding the death of Miss Fielder in flat Number Six.”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” murmured the porter.

  “There are one or two further points I want to learn from you,” Roger continued in a tone of authority. “It seems obvious from what you tell us that the murderer must have arrived either after one o’clock or before twelve. Now is there any way of obtaining information as to the arrivals here between the time when Miss Deeping went out, soon after eleven, and twelve o’clock?”

  The porter shook his head. “No, sir. I’m afraid there isn’t. Anybody might have come then, and none of us be any the wiser.”

  “I see. That’s a pity. Well, tell me this. Supposing the murderer entered the Mansions between eleven and twelve, but for some reason did not want to get into the flat till considerably later: is there any place where he could have remained in hiding? A cupboard, say, or a box-room at the top—anything like that?”

  Again the porter shook his head. “No, sir. The stairs are quite bare, as you can see. There’s no
cupboards or anything like that. Without he’d been in one of the other flats, I don’t see how he could have stayed out of sight inside the building.”

  “Ah!” said Roger thoughtfully. “Yes, it hadn’t occurred to me that he might have been—— Look here, I want a list of the names and professions of the other people who have flats in this block. Will you tell them to me while I write them down? No. 1, that’s yours. No. 2?”

  The porter proceeded to supply him with the information. “You seem to have a lot of stage-folk here,” Roger commented, as the list proceeded.

  “There’s stage-folk and stage-folk,” said the porter darkly. “I mean, there’s them that say they’re on the stage because they really are on the stage, and there’s them that say they’re on the stage because they’ve got to say something.”

  “‘Described as an actress,’ in other words. But you don’t mean to say you’ve got any of that sort here?”

  “Bound to have all sorts in a big place like this, sir,” said the porter, with an air of resignation.

  “But isn’t the landlord strict?”

  “Well, he is, sir, yes. But it’s not always too easy, you know. I mean, if it’s a lady like No. 7, who only has… Well, what I mean, sir,” said the porter desperately, ceasing to make efforts to wrap up stark facts, in a decent piece of circumlocution, and explained what he did mean.

  “Dear, dear!” said Roger. “I suppose it would be indiscreet to ask anything further?”

  “I’m well enough paid to keep my mouth shut, sir,” replied the porter significantly.

  Roger, who had no intention of paying him well enough to open it again, for information of a purely scandalous interest, smiled with equal significance and went on with his list.

  CHAPTER XX

  ALARMS AND EXCURSIONS

  WHEN Roger arrived back at the Albany, ten minutes late for his lunch, he had the list in his pocket; but that did not say that he quite knew what to do with it. To investigate in person the circumstances of the twenty-odd people whose names appeared on it would take far more than the three short days he had at his disposal; yet he was not at all sure that such an investigation should not be undertaken. The case was so dark that any possible means of throwing light upon it must not be ignored; and improbable though it might seem, who knew whether the vital clue he was seeking did not lie inside that block of Mansions rather than outside it?