Murder of a Snob

by Roy Vickers

  She assumed that he had no more questions for her, and got up. He went to the door and let her out—then, on an afterthought, turned, as if to bar her way.

  “I don’t suspect Cornboise of murdering his uncle,” he said, watching her eyes. “But you do!”

  “I do not!” Her voice held both surprise and reproof. “But he’s so nervy. As soon as he gets frightened of you, he’ll bluster and say silly things and contradict himself.”

  “Why should you think he’ll ‘get frightened’ of me?” Crisp was puzzled, “I haven’t bullied you, have I?”

  “No—but I’ve told you ten times as much as I meant to.” She added: “You’re the only formidable man I’ve ever met.”

  That last bit was inverted flattery, he told himself when she had gone. Most civilian men liked to be thought formidable—she had taken a bet that the same applied to himself.

  But he had to admit that she had not tried any tricks while she was giving evidence. He found himself approving her. She had given straight answers, told her tale without trying to lead him in this direction or that. The tale was consistent with the known facts, corroborated in detail by Mrs. Cornboise and by Bessie, the maid.

  At the back of his head was the suspicion that there was a catch in it somewhere.

  “That Will is the catch!” he exclaimed.

  As before, he ran his fingers over the envelope, wondering at its slimness. One would expect a millionaire’s Will to be a complicated, bulky affair. He was certain now, that there was only a single folded sheet inside the long envelope.

  “If Cornboise gives me the same tale I’ll open it in his presence.”

  He was about to call Benscombe, when the latter came in.

  “That artist, Arthur Fenchurch, sir. Do you want to see him before he goes? He gave an address about half a mile from here.”

  “All right! I’ll see him before I see Cornboise.”

  Arthur Fenchurch registered elaborate indifference. Crisp recognised his type too—the poseur who explains that he is posing.

  “I’d like to know your business here this evening, Mr. Fenchurch?”

  “Businesss? None. That is, not directly. I consented to come in order to kow-tow to a wealthy client. I was to paint him, including—my God!—his wig.” He added: “I have to do portraiture to make a living. My portraits are very vulgar, and so I am becoming very popular.”

  Crisp eyed the sports coat and flannel trousers—noticed that the leather-bound sketch-book was no longer in the side-pocket.

  “D’you mean you were asked to dinner?”

  “Yes. I never wear evening dress. When I turn up like this, people think I’m much better known that I am. That helps to stiffen my prices.”

  Crisp consulted the list of dinner guests. Mr. Fenchurch. Mrs. Fenchurch, followed by a local address and telephone number.

  “The other guests had all left by about eight at my request. It’s now ten.”

  “I apologise. I lingered partly out of morbid curiosity, partly in the hope of publicity, and partly because I know Ralph Cornboise and Miss Lofting very well.”

  “But Mrs. Fenchurch went home alone? I take it the lady is your wife?”

  “Yes—but not legally, of course! Everybody knows we’re not married.”

  “And she was asked to dinner as your mistress?” Crisp was sceptical.

  “In effect, yes. People who can afford to have their portraits painted always expect an artist to have a mistress. As a matter of fact, my relations with the fair Glenda are what you would probably call blameless. She believes she’s my secretary—she’s actually my domestic help. She likes people to think she’s living in sin, so the arrangement pleases everybody. Only, for some reason, she funked turning up tonight.”

  Crisp was framing a question, when the explanation came of its own accord.

  “She cried off yesterday on the ground that Watlington was a nasty old man who had—er—I think you call it?—made advances to her. It may or may not have been true. She is very pretty and very vain. I adore her vanity but detest her prettiness.”

  Putting himself over, thought Crisp. He let a silence hang, knowing that this type could rarely endure inattention. His eye lighted on the dun coloured cotton glove on the other’s left hand.

  “In hot weather, I am afflicted with a slight eczema—due to excessive drinking,” he explained, and added: “By the way, am I suspected of guilty knowledge of the murder and—that kind of thing?”

  “Theoretically, you are—until we have checked you out. Where were you between lunch and dinner?”

  “Heavens, have I to produce an alibi? I must take fantastic care not to contradict myself.” He possessed himself of one of the pencils exhibited on the table and made notes on the back of a typewritten letter. “I remember trying to go to sleep after lunch, but it was too hot. I went out alone and wandered by the river. I lay down under that oak near the lock until I began to bore myself. Then I came on here, apparently arriving at the right time.”

  “Perhaps someone saw you during that time who could identify you?” suggested Crisp.

  “Undoubtedly! People tend to point me out to each other. But I myself don’t know a soul in these parts. We might advertise in the local paper, asking all those who stared at me to come forward. Otherwise, I warn you, I can’t prove a word of my story.”

  “In your case, I don’t think we need worry you about proof.” Crisp surprised an unguarded look of relief on the other’s face. “If you find you can remember anything for us to check, you might ring me at headquarters, will you? Goodnight!”

  “I wonder,” said Fenchurch as he rose to go, “why people think the police subject them to third degree or whatever it is. I’ve enjoyed our chat immensely.”

  “So have I. Would you mind returning that pencil which you have pocketted?”

  “Oh, sorry! I’m so glad you told me! People generally hate to mention it. My studio is littered with other people’s pencils and fountain pens—mostly belonging to autograph hunters.”

  When Fenchurch had left the room, Crisp summoned Benscombe, gave him the list of guests.

  “Before Fenchurch can reach home, ask Mrs. Fenchurch—that’s what she’s called—what time he left their flat this afternoon, and where he was going. She may not know that Watlington is dead. She may not know that you are in the Force. Her name is Glenda, in case she mistakes you for a cocktail party boy friend.”

  Benscombe made for the telephone. Crisp called an orderly.

  “Tell Mr. Cornboise I’d be obliged if he would come to the morning-room.”

  Before Cornboise appeared, Crisp put the envelope containing the Will on the mantelpiece, seal downwards.

  Chapter Five

  Ralph Cornboise seemed to Crisp to be no more nervy than any young man might be in the circumstances. He made a graceful response to condolences on the death of his uncle. As the hard light from the Victorian chandelier fell full on his face, Crisp spotted signs of a sedative drug, and suspected the hand of Claudia.

  A playboy, Crisp decided, but of the kind that takes itself seriously—floating through life with highfalutin’ intentions but never actually breaking free from a routine of trivial amusements, which might include the amusement of playing at work. Strange that a woman like Claudia Lofting could be attracted to such a man—and to the extent of asking other men to be gentle with him.

  Rather impertinent of her, now he came to think of it.

  “As you probably know,” said Crisp, putting it as gently as Claudia could wish, “we have to tick off everybody’s movements.”

  “Where d’you want me to begin, Colonel?”

  “Begin at the point where you last saw your uncle alive, and work backwards.”

  Ralph Cornboise nodded, while he weighed his words.

  “I last saw him alive at a quarter past five this afternoon. In the library.”

  Crisp was surprised. That was the time given by the old lady in the garden. Ralph Cornboise had made a go
od beginning.

  “Give the full circumstances, please—how and why you went to the library, and so on.”

  “That will be difficult without dragging in family matters.” He spoke as if Crisp’s convenience were his sole concern. “After lunch, Miss Lofting, Querk and myself went with my uncle into the library, where we were occupied with family affairs for half an hour or so, after which Miss Lofting and I drifted into the garden.

  “As a matter of fact, Miss Lofting and I were discussing a rather offensive remark of my uncle’s which, in my opinion, implied that she was not a suitable woman for me to marry. You never met him? He used to make a point of being rougher than he really was—and that was a lot! Miss Lofting thought I was exaggerating the importance of the remark. After a couple of hours, she said she would go at once to my uncle and get him to define his attitude. I told her I hoped she would not do so, as it could only make matters worse. I asked her instead to come with me to a swimming pool—the Three Witches, a roadhouse ten minutes’ drive from here. She said she did not want to. My last words as she left me were: ‘Please don’t go to the library’.”

  Benscombe came quietly into the room and sat down. Ralph continued:

  “I saw her go into the house by the front door, not the window, which was nearer. I hoped she had decided to take my advice and do nothing. I hung about a bit. I admit I was rather worked up about it. When I felt I could stand the suspense no longer, I went to the library window and opened it.”

  He paused, looked Crisp in the face, and added:

  “Then I was very relieved to see that Miss Lofting had not gone to the library after all.”

  That was Crisp’s second surprise—that Ralph and Claudia had not put their heads together and agreed on their tale, though they had had ample time and opportunity to do so.

  “How could you tell? She might have gone to the library and left before you arrived?”

  “My uncle was asleep.” Ralph’s tone had become sulky.

  “He wouldn’t have had time to go to sleep if she had been talking to him a few minutes before I came in.”

  “Go on. Don’t leave it to me to pull the facts out of you.”

  “You want such tiny details!” Ralph sank back in the easy chair and covered his eyes with his hands. “I was uncertain what I wished to do. It’s a bit of an effort to remember every single thing … I saw a metal thing on the floor, near his feet, as if he had knocked it off the writing table. I picked it up. It was an address die-stamp, I think.”

  His voice tailed off into silence.

  “Was it this one on the table here?” asked Crisp.

  Ralph did not remove his hands from his eyes.

  “Yes. I saw it just now. That’s the one.” He added querulously: “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  The effect of the sedative drug seemed to be wearing off, leaving him irritable and suspicious.

  “What did you do with it?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute—it’s no good hurrying me! I put it on the table with a bit of a clatter. But it didn’t wake him up. Then I hoped he wouldn’t wake up, as I’d forgotten what I meant to say to him. I went out by the window just as that beastly clock was chiming a quarter past five. I tripped on the lawn and fell down. Then I remembered that I had decided to have a swim. So I went and had the swim.”

  “That’s better!” approved Crisp. “I gather you were in a somewhat agitated state from about two-thirty onwards, weren’t you?”

  “I certainly was!”

  “Why?”

  Ralph dropped his hands and stared at Crisp.

  “Why?” repeated Crisp. “You’ve told me that your uncle made some disparaging remark about Miss Lofting. It must have been a very mild remark, or Miss Lofting would have walked out of the house. But she intended to stay on for the weekend. Surely the remark can’t have been worth all that hullabaloo! She didn’t seem to think herself insulted when she was talking to me just now.”

  “In my own mind I may have exaggerated the insult element,” admitted Ralph. “But I didn’t exaggerate the practical element. If his Will left me penniless in the event of my marrying Miss Lofting—”

  “If! But I understand from Miss Lofting that he read the Will to the three of you: then locked it up and put it in his safe, sealed and addressed to his solicitors?”

  Ralph groped for an answer. “You don’t understand the atmosphere—”

  “I don’t!” Crisp frowned. “But that Will is growing more and more mysterious. Do you object to my seeing it?”

  “Yes, I do!” cried Ralph. “I’m very sorry, Colonel, but I definitely object. I can tell you the contents!”

  “Then why not let me read ’em?”

  Ralph pouted and fidgetted like a resentful child.

  “I wish we could leave that Will alone!” he whined. “Besides, I don’t know where it is. You’re talking as if I had it in my pocket.”

  Crisp took the sealed envelope from the mantelpiece.

  “Is this the Will?”

  Ralph stopped fidgetting.

  “That?” He took the envelope, ran his fingers the length of it, as Crisp had done in the library. “No,” he said. “At least—that is—I don’t think it is.” And then that vacuous little question again: “Why should it be?”

  Crisp’s eyes were on the envelope as he asked:

  “Did your uncle produce some letters written by Miss Lofting?”

  “Yes. An abominable trick! But there was nothing in it as far as I was concerned. Miss Lofting had told me all there was to tell.”

  “What did he do with those letters?”

  “I don’t know.” The words were uttered with sulky defiance.

  “We’ll see what’s in that envelope.”

  Crisp opened the door and called Inspector Sanson.

  “You and Benscombe witness this,” he ordered. “I’m going to open a sealed document.”

  The envelope was still in Ralph’s hand.

  “Perhaps you would prefer to open it yourself, Mr. Cornboise?”

  Ralph made no move. His expression was vacant and listless. Crisp took the envelope from his fingers, slit the flap and removed the contents, a single folio sheet, folded. He unfolded it, spread it on the table.

  He read the Will aloud, in summary, addressing Ralph.

  “Hm! Residuary estate left to you, Mr. Cornboise, ‘provided that … he shall hold himself in readiness to marry and shall so marry before his fortieth year a woman of reasonable education and unblemished social reputation.’ Witnessed by the housemaid and the caretaker two days ago.” Crisp looked up. “I don’t see that that is an insult to Miss Lofting.”

  The remains of the sedative drug proved ineffective. From Ralph Cornboise came a burst of high-pitched laughter—and another.

  Crisp watched him with almost clinical interest. So this was why Claudia had begged him to be gentle—she knew that he was subject to hysteria. Moreover, the hysterical attack had been brought on at sight of a Will, of which Ralph already knew the contents—taken from an envelope in which he had, presumably, seen the Will sealed up.

  Ralph had recovered and was lighting a cigarette. His cheeks glistened with tears he had already forgotten.

  “You’re steady enough now to answer a question. You expected me to find something in that envelope beside the Will—”

  “That’s not a question. It’s a statement. And it’s not true.”

  “My mistake,” grinned Crisp. “Here comes a proper question for a plain yes-or-no answer. But take your time.”

  “Go ahead, Colonel.” Ralph had swung to the other extreme, and was now unnaturally calm.

  “When you entered the library through the window, at a quarter past five—” Crisp held himself ready for another outburst “—was your uncle already dead?”

  There was no more than a slight catch of the breath before Ralph answered:

  “No. He was not dead until I killed him.”

  “Ah!” sighed Crisp. “I was afraid yo
u’d say that!”

  “The worst of it is,” continued Crisp, “I have to pretend to take you seriously. Benscombe, you might bring the typewriter in here for Inspector Sanson.”

  Ralph was wearing an expression of arrested determination, so that he suggested the still photograph of a film star in his big scene. Crisp knew that the hysteric perpetually dramatises himself and that his statements should not be taken seriously. Nevertheless, the young man was forcing police procedure along a line Crisp had wished to avoid.

  “Well, Cornboise, how did you do this murder of yours?”

  “So you don’t believe me!”

  “My dear fellow, you can’t stop a police investigation by accusing yourself. What’s to prevent you withdrawing your confession when we’ve packed up?”

  Sanson inserted paper and carbon in his typewriter.

  “I’ll make you believe me. I’ll give all the tiny details you’re so fond of,” said Ralph. “My uncle was asleep, as I said he was. That thing—” he pointed to the die-stamp—“was on the floor, as I said it was. I picked it up. At first I intended only to put it on the table. And then—well, I didn’t see any red as is supposed, but there was the illusion of a kind of mist: yet the physical eye could see through the mist.”

  “Well?” prompted Crisp. “What did you do?”

  “I swung that die-stamp thing to his head and killed him instantly.”

  “Did you indeed!” grinned Crisp. “What did he look like the moment after you killed him?”

  “Oh—” Ralph shuddered elaborately. “The blow damaged the wig. It stuck out behind his ears like—like a bat’s wings.”

  Crisp glanced at Benscombe before asking his next question.

  “Apart from the wig, what did he look like?”

  “I don’t know. I felt—spiritually sick. I wanted to run away from myself.”

  “What did you do with the thing you call the diestamp?”

  Ralph’s mouth twitched violently.

  “I don’t remember. Oh yes, I do! I let it drop on the floor—where it was when I picked it up!”