by James Lear
Worse, I was admitting to myself that I did not believe Morgan’s account of what had happened the night before. Durran had left the house—Morgan himself saw him off the premises. Bartlett was still alive at that time—when Morgan met Durran coming down the stairs, Bartlett was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. They had spoken; Bartlett had been his normal self. Durran left, Morgan went to bed, leaving Bartlett in the bathroom, the door now locked—from the inside. There was no one else in the house, no other means of access to the bathroom—it did not communicate with any other rooms. True, there was an external window, but that was closed from the inside when Bartlett was found, and it would have taken a long ladder to reach it. Morgan went to bed, got up again, mussed up the guest bed, told Bartlett to hurry up, and heard an indistinct mumbling from the bathroom. All this was long after Durran had left. He could not possibly have killed Bartlett. Poison was a possibility—but what of the razor cuts? It did not make sense. It had to be suicide—but why?
I felt helpless, trapped in the silent house. Morgan was at the police station, saying God knows what, Belinda and the children were with poor Vivien Bartlett—what a miserable time they would be having!—and the servants were out, little knowing the mess to which they would return. The house in uproar, muddy footprints—Durran’s, the police’s—up and down the stairs and, worst of all, the sealed-off bathroom. Someone was going to have to clean it up sooner or later, and even I, hardened by years in operating theaters, blanched at the thought of that job. The thought of scrubbing up all that blood, the water in the bucket turning red, the smell…
I was standing in the hall, my brain stuck in a cycle of horror and confusion, staring vacantly at the floor—the tiles—a stain on the tiles—a stain in the shape of a leaf.
Blood.
The blood I had noticed before.
Why is there blood on the hall floor?
There was on obvious explanation—it had dripped from the dead body of Frank Bartlett as the police removed him from the house. That’s what Morgan had said, and it was entirely possible. But what if that blood was telling a different story? Durran lashing out with a knife, right here in the hallway? Or, worse still, Morgan? Or a game that had gone wrong—the razor, the cut on Morgan’s finger, an accident covered up by Morgan to look like suicide. Or no suicide at all, but a way out of a tricky situation.
Damn that spot of blood! I had a good mind to fetch a brush and pail and scrub it away myself.
I needed to get out of the house and clear my head. Every avenue of thought led to the horrible possibility that Morgan had lied to me, and once that thought took hold, others followed like links in a chain. He has lied to me—he lies to Belinda—he lies to the police—he lies to Bartlett. Links in a chain that drags our friendship into the abyss, that binds Morgan on his way to the scaffold.
Sherlock Holmes never has these moments of intense confusion and distress; his mind cuts through every tangle like Alexander’s sword through the Gordian knot. Hercule Poirot simply sits in a chair, his fingertips touching, his eyes closed, and thinks it through until he reaches that eureka moment and denounces the killer in a pleasant drawing room, amid potted palms and cups of tea. Mitch Mitchell, however, was far too close to his mystery, far too emotionally and physically involved than those two cold fish—and, while I don’t think I’m a bad doctor, I’ve never regarded myself as a great detective. Those mysteries that I’ve managed to “solve” in the past have become clear more through luck than judgment, by blundering across the truth when I was looking for something else—usually cock. Now I felt like running away from the whole horrible mess, racing to Victoria to get the boat train to Paris, forgetting it all in the certainties of Vince’s embraces—and I would have, were it not for the thought of Morgan, alone and afraid in a police cell, digging himself into a hole by lies and prevarications, going to his death because I, his best friend, had been too scared and confused to wear out a little shoe leather in pursuit of the truth.
I scribbled a hasty note to the effect that I’d gone to get some air—I didn’t want the servants, the police, or Belinda to know what I was up to, if they got back to the house before Morgan did. I closed the front door behind me, realizing as I did so that there might be no one to let me in when I returned. No matter; I had everything I needed. I had over three hours to kill before my rendezvous with Stan Knight. What could I do on a Sunday afternoon in southwest London that could possibly be of use? Under normal circumstances, I’d head for the nearest public baths or fleapit movie house and hope to find a pleasant way to pass the time—but under the present circumstances that would not do.
What I needed more than anything was to find out all that I could about Frank Bartlett—what kind of man he was, what had happened in the days and weeks before his death, what possible motive he could have for suicide. Or, if not suicide—if this was the cleverest, most dastardly murder of all time—then who were his enemies? I couldn’t ask Morgan, and I definitely couldn’t go to Bartlett’s home and start pestering his widow. Who else knew him? If it were a weekday I’d go to Bartlett and Ross’s office, perhaps posing as a wealthy American investor—all Brits believe that Americans are loaded, and I grew up around enough rich folk back home in Boston to do a pretty good impression of the type. But it was a Sunday, and the office would be closed. Unless, for some reason—what was the name of that paragon of efficiency Morgan had mentioned, the industrious, selfless drone who kept B and R’s business afloat? Topper? Tiptree? Maybe, just maybe, his life was so empty that he would spend his day of rest at the office. It was a long shot, but what did I have to lose? Only the price of a phone call.
There was a pay phone at the end of Morgan’s street, and within moments I was dropping coins into the slot and being connected to the City office of Bartlett and Ross. It rang, and rang, and rang. Of course there was no one there. Now I had to think of some other way to—
“Bartlett and Ross, good afternoon.”
A man’s voice, soft, hesitant.
“Hi.” Did I sound rich enough? “This is Edward Mitchell. Who am I speaking to?”
“Arthur Tippett.”
Tippett! Of course! With the brown hair and the promising ass. “Tippett. Working on a Sunday? Good man. Frank told me you were conscientious.”
“I try to—”
“Listen, Tippett. I’ve been talking to old Frank about some investments.”
“Yes, sir?”
I listened hard for any inflection in his voice that suggested a knowledge of his boss’s recent demise, and detected nothing. “Would you mind if I came by with some papers? I won’t be in town after tonight and I wanted Frank to look them over.”
“Of course, sir. What time may I expect you?”
“I’ll be there in an hour. That suit you?”
“I’ll be here, sir.”
“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, Tippett. I can put ’em through the letterbox if you want to get off.”
“No trouble, sir. I have no plans.”
“Good. See you soon, Tippett.”
“Very well, Mr. Mitchell.”
Sherlock Holmes would summon a cab, and Poirot would get Hastings to drive him to the City in a sporty little car, but I, with neither the resources nor the wheels, was obliged to wait for a train.
The City on a Sunday afternoon is like a ghost town. Streets that in a few hours’ time would be crowded with bankers and clerks, errand boys, and secretaries were now eerily quiet. An occasional car or horse-drawn cart broke the silence, and here and there you saw the City’s hidden population, the beggars and down-and-outs who eke out a miserable existence cheek by jowl with the richest in the land. But for the most part, it was just me, the dust, and the sparrows.
Bartlett and Ross set up shop on Cheapside, just up the street from St. Paul’s Cathedral. I could happily spend the afternoon poking around that historic quarter, visiting the birthplace of Milton, brushing against the shades of Chaucer and Dickens—and I might have, if
Morgan’s life were not in peril. I looked up Newgate Street, once the home of the most notorious prison in England, toward the Old Bailey, with its figure of Blind Justice, and shuddered. Would Morgan be caught in the jaws of that implacable machine?
The B and R office was in a handsome red-brick building with bright brass plaques on the door and windows that were clearly cleaned every day. The place shone like a jewel among the dusty facades on either side, proclaiming its prosperity. I rang the bell and waited.
But not for long.
“Come in, Mr. Mitchell.”
Tippett was short and slight, the sort of build that you’d expect in a runner, light on his feet, making me feel heavy and clumsy in comparison. His wrists were thin, his hands long, and there might have been something effeminate about him were it not for the strength of his jaw and the darkness of his brow. He wore his hair in the approved City style, long on the top, short at the back and sides, parted on the left and combed back, glossy with brilliantine. His clothes were impeccable. Since it was Sunday, he had allowed himself some relaxation from the weekday uniform of collar and tie, but even in an open-necked shirt, conservatively cut gray tweed trousers, and a sleeveless argyle sweater—the only hint of color in an otherwise drab wardrobe—he looked every inch the humble clerk.
“Tippett?” I took his hand and pumped it hard, keeping up my role of the bluff, loaded Yank with money to burn. “Good to meet you. Bartlett speaks very highly of you.”
“Thank you, sir.” I watched his eyes, but there was no flicker of reaction; clearly news of Frank Bartlett’s death had not yet reached him.
“Will you come through?”
I followed him into the main office. Papers were stacked in careful piles on his desk, with ink and pen ranged neatly around them. The place reeked of method and order—things I wish I had a little more of. Perhaps I could learn something from Tippett, with that look of keen intelligence that belied his meek demeanor.
“Damn it,” I said, stopping in my tracks and slapping my forehead. “I’ve left the papers back at my rooms. Hell’s bells!”
“Would you like to come back later, sir?”
“No, it’s okay. I guess you can tell me everything I need to know.”
“What was the nature of the investments?”
“Stocks and bonds.” I was improvising wildly; I have little head for finances, and leave that side of things to Vince. “My folks have been investing heavily in African copper, and it’s been doing pretty well.”
“Yes. The Kenyan mines are providing a good return.”
“Now we’re thinking of going into rubber.”
“Rubber, sir?”
“Yes. There’s an operation in—er…”
“Malaysia?”
“That’s the place. Know it?”
“I know something about it.”
“Good. Knew you would. Now, Frank said that we should look into the legal side of things before we—you know. Took the plunge.”
“Ah. I see.”
“That something you could do for me, Tippett?”
“We do a good deal of commercial law, of course. Shipping, commodities, sale of goods, and so on.”
“Could you run a check on things?”
“If it’s for a friend of Mr. Bartlett’s—”
“Yes. I don’t like to impose, but Frank did say he’d help me out. He’s a good man, Frank.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Bartlett is a wonderful man.”
This was the turn I hoped the conversation would take—just as well, as my improvisational powers were running dry. “He sure is. He’s been a true friend to my family.”
“I don’t think you’re one of our clients, sir?”
“No. It’s always been a friendly relationship. Bartlett went to law school with my dad.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Has he never mentioned Jack Mitchell of Boston?”
“Not to me.”
“Well, he’s a busy man. Fingers in many pies, I guess.”
“Yes.”
“So, how’s business?”
“Very good.”
“Glad to hear it. Last time I was over, Frank said that things were a bit tight.”
“When was that?”
“Oh—last fall.” This was a stab in the dark if ever there was one, but I figured that if there were any hidden problems behind the prosperous facade of Bartlett and Ross, this might flush them out.
“I believe Mr. Bartlett had some personal financial issues at that time which have since been resolved.”
“Great, great. Well, listen Tippett, I’d love to spend the afternoon chatting, but I guess I’d better get back to the hotel and pick up those papers. Unless you’d like to swing by yourself when you finish up here?”
One eyebrow lifted an inch, and there was a twinkle of interest in his eyes. “Where are you staying, sir?”
I was staying in the staff quarters at Middlesex Hospital, where visiting doctors could usually find a berth—hardly the most impressive address, and difficult to pass off as the “hotel” of a wealthy Boston businessman. It was only a place to store a suitcase; when I arrived, I had hoped to spend the weekend with Morgan. How wrong that plan had gone. Still, the room had a door and a bed, and if I was going to get anything out of—or into—Arthur Tippett, then both would be necessary.
But first, charm. “In the West End. Say, why don’t we get a drink? You look like you’re finishing up here.” I gestured to the tidy piles of papers on the desk. “You can’t spend your whole life in the office. Let me buy you a pint.”
“I’m afraid the pubs will be shut at present.”
I played dumb. “You’re kidding! Wow, your laws are crazy. Well, how ’bout you take me to some bar or club.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know of any such places, sir. We could have a cup of tea—”
“Tea? Damn it, Arthur, you’ve been at work all day, and I bet you were here yesterday too. You need a man’s drink. Not a cup of tea.” I simpered as I said it, raising my little finger and wrinkling my nose like a fussy old lady. “Don’t tell me you’re a prohibitionist. We have enough trouble with them back home.”
“No, sir. I like a drink now and again.”
“Good man. Tell you what. I’ve got a bottle of scotch in my room.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t know. I told Mother I’d be back at—”
“Hey!” I held up my hand. “I swear, I won’t tell Mother.”
That made him laugh, and when Tippett laughed he was a much more likable man. Creases appeared around his eyes, and he lost the look of a disappointed vicar.
“Let’s walk.” I opened the office door.
“I just need to—”
“No, you don’t.” I took a jacket off a peg and handed it to him. “You’re all done here. Come on, Tippett. How often do you get a rich American offering you hard liquor in his room on a Sunday afternoon?”
“Rarely.”
“See? Make hay while the sun shines. Carpe diem, and all that jazz. Let’s go.”
I stood in the doorway, gesturing to the world beyond. In order to get past, he had to squeeze. I put a hand on his upper arm and guided him through. I liked what I felt.
Chapter Seven
OUT OF THE OFFICE, ARTHUR TIPPETT SEEMED TO BLOSSOM, to expand. He reminded me of Vince—when I first met him, an underpaid secretary to a rich, secretive man, oppressed by his employer’s knowledge of his true nature, waiting only for an understanding friend to come along and set him free. As soon as we were in the open air, Tippett breathed deeply, shook off his servile professional manner, and, apparently, grew an inch or so in height. We walked along Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street, through the Inns of Court, all of them deserted but for the birds and the bees that reclaimed them at the weekend. By the time we reached St. Giles, Tippett had a spring in his step. He chatted about this and that—new buildings, politics, the latest books and shows—and I found myself enjoying his company. He was a nice-looking guy—a bit on the sl
ight side for my liking, but personality could go a long way toward making up for any lack of bulk. Soon I forgot that I was luring him to my room in order to pump him for information about the late Frank Bartlett; I could think only of pumping him, period.
He took an interest in me, asking about my work, my circumstances, and I had to think on my feet: if, as I pretended, I was the scion of a wealthy New England family with money to invest, what was I doing in humble medical quarters?
“My folks insist that I get a professional qualification,” I said, “and medicine seemed the best bet. I was never going to make it in the law—not smart enough.” He accepted this with a deferential nod of the head. “As for the church—well, they would never have me. Too much of a hell-raiser.”
“Indeed?”
“Yeah. I could never do all that chastity stuff. Could you?”
“I’ve never thought about it,” said Tippett, avoiding my sideways glance as we walked along Oxford Street.
“I hope you’re not going without, Tippett.”
“I don’t have much time for that sort of thing. And I certainly can’t afford to marry.”
“Who said anything about marriage? A man doesn’t need a wife to enjoy himself.”
“I suppose not. But even the most casual enjoyments cost money.”
“They don’t have to.” We’d reached the hospital, and I held the door open. “The best things in life are free, Tippett. After you.”
My room was on the top floor of the building, at the end of a long corridor, far from the wards, if not quite out of range of the pervasive smell of disinfectant. It was quiet up there—a few doctors sleeping off night duty, perhaps, but otherwise everyone was at work. We would not be interrupted.
“Come on in. It’s not exactly a palace, but it’s enough.”
Tippett walked in, and I closed the door behind us.
“It’s bigger than my room at home.”
“You should get Frank Bartlett to give you a raise. Get a place of your own.”
“I manage.” He took his jacket off and handed it to me. His shirt was immaculate; the collar and cuffs looked brand-new. I found his pride in his appearance curiously touching. I hung the jacket on the back of the door, feeling for a moment the heat of his body trapped in the fabric.