Tenant for Death

by Cyril Hare

  “Then we can’t even be sure that this letter was signed on the thirteenth of October?” Mallett pursued.

  “Oh, yes, we can,” answered Lord Henry confidently. “That was one thing I always made certain of—the dates. You see, it was the only thing I could make sure of understanding. Come to think of it, I tripped up rather badly once when I altered a date which was wrong. It seemed that it had been put wrong on purpose—some dirty work of Ballantine’s, I suppose—and my putting it right again messed the whole show up. There was quite a stink about it. After that, I don’t remember getting one that wasn’t dated correctly.”

  “Only one more question,” said the inspector. “All these documents which were put before you for signature would be typed in the office, I suppose?”

  “Lord, yes! We had hosts of girls. Some jolly good lookers among ’em, too.”

  “Then you ought to be able to find the machine that typed this particular letter,” put in Lord Bernard.

  Mallett frowned. The idea had, of course, occurred to him, but he did not relish the suggestion that anyone could teach him his business.

  “Proper enquiries will be made,” he said severely, and folding up the paper, put it carefully away. Then he stood up.

  “That is all I have to ask you, Lord Henry,” he said. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  “But we can’t let you go like this!” cried Lord Bernard. “You haven’t even had a drink yet!”

  “I never drink before meals, thanks,” replied the inspector austerely.

  “Quite right—it’s a silly habit,” Lord Bernard warmly agreed. “But you do have meals, I suppose? Then why not stay on here, and have a bite with us?”

  As if in support of his plea, a delicious smell of cooking was wafted from the kitchen near by to where they sat. The inspector’s resolution weakened, but he resisted temptation.

  “I’m afraid I must be back in London tonight,” he said.

  “So must I,” was the answer. “If you’ll stop and dine with us, I’ll run you back. My car’s outside.”

  “Was that your car at the station, then?” asked Mallett.

  “Did you notice her?” said Lord Bernard with animation. “Yes—that’s mine. I left her down here last week. Some miserable learner on the front caved a mudguard in, and I came down to see my brother and bring her back. She’s a Visconti-Sforza, you know—supercharged. You’d like her.”

  Mallett combined a man’s appetite for food with a childish passion for speed. The joint appeal was irresistible.

  “I’d like to very much,” he said. “But what about my clothes?”

  “That’s all right,” said Lord Henry, unexpectedly coming to life again. “Dine in the gallery of the restaurant. Needn’t dress there. Watch the dancing. There are some devilish pretty girls here.”

  “That’s settled, then,” said Lord Bernard, and the party broke up, to reassemble later for the meal.

  Before rejoining his hosts, Mallett put through a telephone call to Scotland Yard. He briefly told Frant of the new developments and gave instructions for specimens of the work of all the typewriters at the offices of the London and Imperial Estates Company to be secured as soon as possible. Then he asked for news.

  “Nothing fresh has happened,” was the reply, “unless you count that Mrs. Eales was seen in Bond Street today with her husband, which is a record, by all accounts. But someone is very anxious to see you as soon as he can. Most urgent, he says.”

  “Who is that?” asked the inspector.

  “Fanshawe.”

  “Oh!” said Mallett. “Did he say why?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see about it.” He rang off and made his way to the restaurant gallery, deep in thought.

  He found the brothers already at table, and the meal ordered. A gold-topped bottle stood ready in its ice-pail. Lord Bernard indicated it with an apology.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “It’s not stuff I care about in the ordinary way. There’s an air of artificial gaiety about it which always depresses me in the end. That’s why it’s so peculiarly appropriate at weddings.” (Lord Bernard’s matrimonial misadventures, Mallett was reminded, were notorious.) “But on an occasion like this, I think it is indicated. It will help us to cheer my brother up.”

  Mallett could not but smile at thus finding himself in a conspiracy to restore the spirits of a man who had quite certainly been implicated, however ignorantly, in a colossal fraud, and who had laid himself under suspicion of being privy to a murder. But he adapted himself to the odd situation with a good grace and settled down to enjoy his dinner.

  It did not prove difficult. Lord Henry, as his brother had predicted, brightened considerably under the influence of the champagne, and if his contributions to the conversation consisted mainly of somewhat scabrous anecdotes, they were at least amusing, and to Mallett, whose learning did not lie in that direction, had the merit of being new. As for Lord Bernard, he was not only a good talker but, more surprisingly, a good listener. He seemed unaffectedly glad of the inspector’s company and interested in what he had to say. It was obviously as unusual an experience for him to be dining with a detective as it was for Mallett to dine with the son of a marquis, and he seemed as pleased with his unaccustomed acquaintance as a child with a new toy. He listened with flattering interest to all that the inspector had to tell him of his past cases, and punctuated the recital with shrewd and racy comment. Sooner or later, as it was bound to do, the conversation turned on Ballantine. Here Mallett discreetly fell silent, but Lord Bernard had plenty to say.

  “It’s easy to be wise after the event,” he remarked, “but I always distrusted that man. Exactly why, it would be difficult to say. In my amateurish way, I make it my business to study people, and to do that I try to get on with people. I could never begin to get on with him. He was always very agreeable when one met him, he was intelligent and amusing to talk to, but there was always something about him that put me off.” He pondered the problem for a moment or two, and then said seriously: “I think it was his clothes, chiefly.”

  “His clothes?” said Mallett in surprise.

  “Yes. Clothes are an important part of one’s life, you know, and Ballantine’s clothes distinctly told me something about him which I didn’t like. It’s difficult to put into words, but there it is.”

  “Surely”, said the inspector, “one of the advantages of being very rich is that you can wear exactly what you like. I’ve heard of lots of millionaires who dressed like tramps.”

  “Exactly,” said Lord Bernard, “but what if you find a millionaire—or a man who’s supposed to be a millionaire—who is always, consistently, too well dressed? Perhaps that’s the wrong phrase—you are either well dressed or not—over-dressed, shall I say? The impression that Ballantine always gave me was that of a man who had dressed himself for a part, the part of a great captain of business, and overdone it. And that, I suppose, bred the suspicion that he wasn’t genuine, but merely an actor all the time.”

  “You’re laying down the law a lot,” grumbled Lord Henry, “but damn it, you didn’t see very much of the man yourself.”

  “Quite a bit,” his brother answered, “I was continually running up against him—at race meetings, and so on.”

  “Well, of course he’d dress up for a race meeting; who doesn’t?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t only at races. He was just the same at other times. Don’t you remember, Harry, when you took us down to his place in Sussex for the annual office staff beano, what a sight he looked? They ran a rather good dramatic society,” he explained to Mallett, “and I got up a little play they were doing for the occasion. And that reminds me——”

  He paused to knock the ash off his cigar, and Mallett, contentedly puffing at his own, waited absently for the fact of which Lord Bernard had been reminded. It did not come. Instead, there was a loud ejaculation from his other side.

  “By George!” exclaimed Lord Henry. “There’s a real
good looker down there at last!”

  Human nature being what it is, a live good looker is always a more attractive subject than a dead financier. By common consent, the topic of Ballantine was abandoned, and the three men craned over the balcony to see.

  In the restaurant beneath them, the tables had been filling up as they talked, and already the early diners were beginning to dance on the oval floor in the centre of the room. It was one of these that Lord Henry indicated—a tall fair girl in a white dress, with a mass of short-cut chestnut hair. She was pretty with a more than merely conventional prettiness, in part, perhaps, because she was so obviously radiantly happy. With sparkling eyes and lips parted in ecstasy, she danced as if she wished she need never stop.

  Lord Henry twisted round in his chair to get a better view. He stared for some time before he spoke. Then he said: “Jenkinson!”

  “Eh?” said his brother.

  “Jenkinson. That’s the name. Couldn’t get my tongue to it at first. Her father lives near here. Retired soldier—general or something. With me at Harrow.”

  “Well, Miss Jenkinson seems pretty pleased with life this evening,” Lord Bernard remarked.

  “Umph! You mean, pleased with the young feller she’s with,” grunted Lord Henry.

  Mallett had taken no part in this conversation. Beyond casually glancing at Miss Jenkinson and noting the fact that she was pretty, he paid no attention to her. He was considerably more interested in “the young feller” dancing with her.

  “Who is he, d’you know?” said Lord Bernard’s voice in his ear.

  “Haven’t an earthly.” Lord Henry turned back to his liqueur.

  But Mallett, his attention now thoroughly aroused, continued to watch. For here, within a few yards of him, dancing contentedly in one of the most expensive hotels in England, was young Harper—Harper the superior estate agent’s clerk, whose father had lost all his money five years ago, who had thrown up his job that morning without apparent cause, who. . . .

  The inspector’s thoughts raced. Acting on a sudden impulse, he rose, asked his hosts to excuse him and left the table. He came down the stairs just as the dance was ending and the couples were drifting back to their seats. Then a curious incident occurred. Harper’s bow tie, inexpertly tied, had become disarranged, and the ends were hanging loose. The girl, with a laugh, began to tie it for him where they stood within a few feet of the watching detective. It was a pretty sight, but the bow that she had tied was scarcely a thing of beauty. Harper evidently felt that something was wrong and turned to rearrange it in one of the mirrors that flanked the wall. In order to do this, he half turned his back on the inspector, who looking carefully over his shoulder could see his face reflected quite clearly. Their eyes met, and as they did so Mallett saw something that almost made him start. It was the expression on the young man’s face—a fleeting look of mingled fear and horror that he could not have believed possible in that handsome carefree countenance. The whole affair was over in an instant. Harper recovered himself almost at once, the bow was retied to his satisfaction, and he turned again to his partner with a smile. Then the lights were dimmed, the orchestra struck up a waltz, and they were in each other’s arms once more. Mallett remained in the shadows, staring and wondering.

  A hand fell on his shoulder.

  “Well,” said Lord Bernard’s voice. “If you’re ready, shall we be off?”

  “Thanks,” Mallett answered. “I think I’ve seen all I want to here.”

  Lord Bernard raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. It was characteristic of him not to ask what the inspector had seen, or why he had left the table so abruptly. Clearly he was a man who could keep his own counsel and respect that of others. Silently he followed his guest out of the hotel and into the waiting car.

  * * *

  “It’s a new experience to have a policeman in the car with me,” said Lord Bernard as they passed the pylons which mark the boundary of Brighton. “Up till now they’ve always been on the other side of the fence, so to speak. D’you mind if I let her out a bit?”

  Mallett did not mind. The rush through the darkened countryside over a road gleaming fantastically white in the headlamps was exhilarating. The Visconti-Sforza, he was glad to observe, was not one of those pseudo-racing cars which seek to give an impression of speed by making a noise like an old-fashioned aeroplane. It ran silkily, silently—and fast. The inspector leaned back in his cushioned seat and luxuriated in the pace. Lord Bernard, like most good drivers, was not given to talk while at the wheel, and the journey was accomplished for the most part in silence. Mallett had had a long and tiring day, but now as the car sped on, he found his thoughts speeding too, as though to keep up with it.

  He concentrated his mind on the mysterious letter of recommendation to the bank, which had brought him down to Brighton. In a sense, he had been disappointed, in that the signatory had been able to tell him next to nothing about it. But was it really such a disappointment after all? He had never suspected—no sane person ever would have suspected—that the amiable nobleman he had just interviewed would prove to be concerned in the murder of the man whose innocent tool he had been. Nobody, of course, could be wholly exempt from suspicion in a case such as this, but, so far as he, Mallett, was concerned, he accepted without reservation his account of the board meeting and what went on there. And that account was, after all, of considerable value. It meant that somebody in the London and Imperial Estates Office had successfully endeavoured to get a director to vouch for Colin James. It seemed clear that most of the board took their duties as lightly as Lord Henry, and it was probably the merest chance that it was his signature that happened to appear on the letter. His mind went back to Lord Henry’s description of the procedure—Ballantine with a big wad of papers in front of him, Du Pine with another. From which set of documents had this one come? He toyed for a moment with the theory that one of the other directors might have contrived to shuffle it into Lord Henry’s pile unobserved, but dismissed it as improbable. Remained then, the chairman and the secretary. Whichever it was, one thing was clear. Either was perfectly competent himself to recommend a client to the good offices of a bank. That it should have been done in this roundabout way led to only one conclusion—that the real author of the letter was anxious that his connection with James should not come to light. And this, he remembered, was the first time that his name had appeared at all—the birth, so to speak, of Colin James, who was to walk away into blank space a bare month later along the pavement of the Avenue Magenta, leaving a corpse behind him in Kensington. On the face of it, it did not seem probable that Ballantine had assisted him. Men are not usually privy to their own murder. On the other hand, there must be some connection, as yet unestablished, between the two, or how did Ballantine come to go, apparently of his own free will, to the house where he met his death? There were, he knew, many dark corners in the financier’s life which had yet to be cleared up. Perhaps James was a jackal of his and privy to some of his less reputable activities, who knowing that Ballantine’s time was running short had seized the opportunity to make away with him and with the spoil which he had prepared for his flight?

  Mallett pulled at his moustache and frowned. No, that didn’t seem quite to fit the case either. For if James had been working for Ballantine it must have been for some time past. By October Ballantine must have known that a crisis in his affairs was approaching. And yet it was in October that, according to this theory, he began to interest himself in James’s affairs. He turned to the other possibility—Du Pine. All that he had seen of the man and all that he had heard of him led him to believe that he was capable of most things. He had been Ballantine’s confidant and assistant in large and complex operations—therefore he was intelligent; he had been a partner to his frauds, therefore unscrupulous. But what could his motive have been for engineering his employer’s murder? Scarcely robbery. If he had been anxious to get a share in the booty which Ballantine intended to make off with, a little judicious blackmail woul
d have served his turn, and, the inspector judged, would have been more in character than the brutal expedient of killing him. Besides, there was still the initial difficulty of solving the problem of how Ballantine came to go to James’s house. If Du Pine were responsible for James establishing himself in Daylesford Gardens, that only removed one stage further the missing connection between Ballantine and James. There could be no doubt, from his demeanour at the inquest, that the secretary was thoroughly frightened, but of what? Perhaps merely of whatever shady actions of his might come to light in the records of the “Twelve Apostles”. Possibly—but if he stood to lose by the exposure of Ballantine’s financial crookedness he would be the less likely to commit a crime which would make its discovery doubly certain. If Du Pine had plotted Ballantine’s death he would surely have had the common prudence to make his own position secure beforehand.

  Casting back in his mind, he recollected something else about Du Pine—his dramatic introduction of the name of Fanshawe at the inquest. Was it a blind? If so, it was a singularly unskilful one. For he must have known that the police would not be long in discovering that James had been vouched for by the company a full month before Fanshawe was released from prison. That was yet another argument against attributing the authorship of the letter to him. Had Du Pine said the truth about Fanshawe’s visit to the office? Well, Fanshawe could help to clear that up himself. But why blurt the name out in the most public way possible, instead of quietly informing the police as any reasonable man would have done? It was almost as if he wanted to concentrate attention on Fanshawe and away from himself. Why? Or alternatively, perhaps he genuinely believed that Fanshawe had taken vengeance on Ballantine, and feared a like fate for himself in return for his share in the events of five years ago. On the whole, that theory seemed most plausible, but it left the mystery of the letter as deep as ever.