A Sticky End

by James Lear

  “Bad business, this,” he said, indicating a chair. I sat; he remained standing.

  “Sir?”

  “Frank.” He paced the room.

  “Ah.” I did not know whether to offer my commiserations, or to tut-tut over Bartlett’s indiscretions. Ross was clearly building up to some statement; I would take my lead from him.

  “The police were here this morning,” he said.

  He knows.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Frank Bartlett was like a brother to me.”

  “Yes.”

  “But damn it all, Doctor Mitchell,” he said, spinning around on the balls of his feet and banging his hands on the desktop, “why did he kill himself?”

  “The police are sure it was suicide?”

  “Of course.” He frowned and searched my eyes with his. “What else could it be?”

  I had no desire to promulgate any idea that this was murder, seeing as there was really only one possible suspect in the case. “I understand that they have to establish these things with a certain amount of evidence.”

  “Quite so. Well, it seems they have done so.”

  “Good.” Good? What a ridiculous thing to say. But I was baffled. If the police were satisfied that this was suicide, why was Morgan still being held? What of the mystery of the strychnine in the mouthwash?

  “Between you and me, Mitchell, it might be better for all of us this way. Tippett, here, tells me that you are acquainted with Harry Morgan.”

  “Yes. Is that why you wanted to see me?”

  “I want you to do me a favor, Doctor Mitchell. I know this is a lot to ask. You don’t know me from Adam. Why should you help me? Truth is, we’re in a damned awkward position, and I want as few people to suffer as possible.”

  “When you say ‘we,’ who do you mean?”

  “The firm will close, of course. I was about to retire in any case. There’s enough money in the bank, even after—well, enough to give Mrs. Ross and me a very comfortable few years. What’s left of the business I will pass on to our Mr. Tippett. Ambitious man, Tippett, and very capable. If anyone can salvage something from this wreck, it’s him. Good luck to him. But it’s curtains for Bartlett and Ross. After all these years…” He sighed. “Well, so be it. Reputations come and go. It’s no skin off my nose.”

  “Then—whose nose, exactly, do you wish me to protect?”

  “Doctor Mitchell, let me ask you a direct question. I hope you do not object.”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Do you trust Harry Morgan?”

  I hesitated just long enough to make my “yes” sound anything but convincing.

  “The thing is, there have been a few irregularities in Frank’s business dealings in the last couple of years. I’m not saying that Morgan is behind them, simply that they coincide with the period of their…acquaintance. A suspicious mind might think that Morgan was in some way…”

  “Implicated?”

  “Implicated. That’s the word. You would make a good lawyer, Mitchell.”

  “I doubt that,” I said, thinking of the job I’d done on the “ambitious” Mr. Tippett over a bottle of scotch in my room. “But thank you.”

  “The police came here looking for answers,” said Ross. “They wanted to know if Bartlett had been stealing from the firm, not to put too fine a point on it.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I said no, of course, but that didn’t satisfy them. They asked me to look into it, and I had to comply. They have given us twenty-four hours in which to make a survey of Bartlett’s financial dealings. Now, I know perfectly well that he had been borrowing from the firm in order to make…ex gratia payments to one or more individuals. Tippett tells me that these payments were sometimes made under duress. Do you follow me?”

  “All too clearly.”

  “Some of the sums are large. Very large.”

  “Yes.” The house.

  “And then there is the matter of Frank Bartlett’s will.”

  Here it was at last; the most damning fact of all, that change of will in Morgan’s favor. “What of it?”

  “Shortly before his death, Frank Bartlett revised his will to leave a very substantial part of his estate to Mr. Morgan.”

  “Oh. How much?”

  “The lion’s share, shall we say.”

  “And his wife?”

  “She will be provided for.”

  “From the estate, or by…?”

  “There is an annuity to be managed by the executors.”

  “You, I take it.”

  “Correct. This is damn unpleasant, Mitchell. Vivien Bartlett is a fine woman. I’ve always admired her. To be forced to hand her money in this way, as if I’m paying her wages, is humiliating for all concerned. She should have had everything.”

  “The house?”

  “The house will probably have to be sold to pay the death duties. But what remains—and it’s a considerable amount—will make Mr. Morgan very rich indeed.”

  “I see. And you are suggesting that Morgan somehow engineered this.”

  “It seems an irresistible conclusion.”

  “Is this what the police believe?”

  “We did not discuss it plainly. But I imagine, yes, that is their theory.”

  “So they want you to give evidence that money was being signed over by Frank Bartlett to Morgan, and once they’ve established that, they’ll have all the proof they need to charge him with extortion, blackmail—what else?”

  “What else, indeed.”

  Driving Bartlett to kill himself.

  Neither of us said it.

  “I understood that the source of Bartlett’s financial difficulties was elsewhere,” I said, though I didn’t believe it. Jack McDermott might be a blackmailing whore, I thought, but I did not think he was capable of such extremes.

  “Where?” A light of hope shone in Ross’s eyes.

  “He had other…connections.”

  “I know that. He’s always been one for the lads. We can speak openly, can’t we, Mitchell? Bartlett never shared the details of his private life with me, but I’ve known him for many years, and one reaches an understanding. There are plenty of chaps like him in the City. Plenty in all walks of life—parliament, the church, the universities, even the armed forces. I don’t judge and I don’t condemn. Fine men, many of them, and Bartlett was one of the finest. A gentleman. Understood the importance of appearances. At least, he always did, until…recently.”

  “You think Morgan had undue influence on him?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Mitchell. You tell me. I understand you’re Morgan’s closest friend. He seemed like a nice enough chap to me—not the brightest of sparks, to be honest, but the sort of fellow you wouldn’t mind marrying your daughter. Promising. Upright.”

  “He’s all those things.”

  “And yet—it all comes down to appearances, does it not? Who would have believed it of Bartlett? A secret life. Secret passions. Borrowing from the company—sums of money that it would take him years to pay back. I call it borrowing, because I do not wish to call it theft.”

  “I cannot believe that Morgan is that kind of man.”

  Can I?

  “I no longer know what to believe. What I am asking you, Mitchell, is to give me proof that Harry Morgan did not deliberately cause the death of Frank Bartlett. I know it won’t bring him back. Poor Frank is dead whatever the outcome, and he must have been desperately unhappy and frightened at the end. It’s an unbearable thought.” He passed a hand over his brow, and suddenly I realized that it was only through a superb effort of will that Ross was keeping the agony of grief at bay. “I do not want any more damage to be done. I don’t want Morgan and his family to suffer, and I don’t want scandal to wreck the life of Vivien Bartlett. She’s suffered enough already. I want to find out what happened, before the police jump to their conclusions. If Morgan is found guilty, the repercussions will not only destroy two families, but will q
uite possibly bring down the London Imperial Bank and set off a witch hunt, both in the City and in certain quarters of the West End, that could have cataclysmic results.”

  “I see.”

  “And on a personal level, Mitchell, I want to bloody well know what happened to my friend.”

  The poor man was reaching the end of his tether. I did not want to see him cry—I knew that would pain him more than it would pain me.

  “I will do everything I can.”

  “Thank you, Mitchell.” He pumped my hand. “I’m counting on you. I would help you, if I could, but—” His voice wobbled, but he passed it off as a frog in the throat. “If you require any resources, please speak to Tippett.”

  What was this—a private commission? Was I to be paid, like Hercule Poirot?

  “Thank you, sir. I’m sure that won’t be—”

  “Anything you need!” He was shouting now, covering his misery in a blustering show of authority. I thought it would be best to leave.

  Tippett was sitting at his desk as ever, scratching away.

  “Ah. Doctor Mitchell.” He handed me a thick envelope. “Mr. Ross asked me to give you this.”

  “I see.” It felt like a substantial sum; I pocketed it.

  “I hope you will be able to help.”

  “I hope so too, Tippett.”

  “There must have been someone else,” he said. “Not Mr. Morgan. Don’t you think?”

  “I believe there was,” I said, thinking of McDermott and the flimsy possibility that he was our culprit.

  “That’s a relief. Thank goodness. We’re all counting on you, Mitch.” He lowered his voice, and his eyes. “I know you won’t let us down.”

  “I’ll do everything I can.”

  “I knew it couldn’t be Mr. Morgan,” said Tippett. “It must be this other fellow. It must be.”

  God knows I wanted it to be, and I could have kissed Tippett right there and then for his faith in good and evil, right and wrong. Morgan was “one of us”—our class, our professional world, our little band of brother-lovingbrothers—and he could not be guilty of such a crime as this. It must be “this other fellow”—whoever he was, however scant the evidence. For a moment, I almost settled the question in my own mind; of course McDermott was to blame. Far too good-looking, far too easy with the answers and ready to please. Was he not the handsome, film-star type—and didn’t that just fit nicely with Sean Durran’s tale of a Douglas Fairbanks look-alike who had commissioned him to deliver that final, fatal package to Frank Bartlett? Whatever it contained—one last demand for money, one last threat of exposure—had driven Bartlett to suicide. Yes, that had to be it. It was not Morgan. Nothing to do with Morgan. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught up with a man with unsavory connections, a man whose chaotic, criminal ways had thrown the shadow of suspicion on all those who came into contact with him.

  But just a couple of hours ago, I’d convinced myself that McDermott was thoroughly incapable of such a crime.

  My head ached. I nodded a farewell to Tippett, who watched me leave with hungry eyes, and reentered the stream of humanity outside the office door. It was some time before my appointment with Jack McDermott—the interview that would establish whether or not we could pin Bartlett’s death on him—and whatever I did with those precious minutes, I could not afford to wander, woolgathering, up and down the City streets. I must do something, talk to somebody, establish more facts. Facts—that’s what I needed. I am a doctor, I said to myself, and I am making a diagnosis. Not the bogus bullshit with which I’d overpowered McDermott, but a real clinical diagnosis. I must first look at outward signs, then I must ask about symptoms, and finally, using my own knowledge, I must decide on a cause and a treatment.

  Given that the principals were out of my reach, either temporarily (at the police station) or permanently (in the morgue), I would have to rely on secondary sources. It was around Morgan’s character and integrity that this whole dismal business revolved, and it occurred to me that I knew little if anything of Morgan’s professional standing, other than what he told me himself. (And even then, I was usually more intent on getting in his ass than hearing about his job at the bank.)

  As it happened, my footsteps led me to a splendid edifice on the corner of Cornhill and Bishopsgate, an elaborate white stone building with green domes, crenellations, an antique frieze, and other signs of solidity and stability—the head office of the London Imperial Bank.

  If I was going to find answers anywhere, it was here. But answers to what? How could I ask what I needed to ask without immediately raising suspicions? Presumably the police had got here before me as well—they would be investigating every aspect of Morgan’s life, public and private, in order to find what they needed. God, even now they were probably back at his house in Wimbledon, subjecting poor Belinda to a none-too-delicate interrogation—perhaps even going so far as to suggest that she was in on it, that she had encouraged her husband to exploit Bartlett’s interest in him, that she, a Lady Macbeth in petticoats, had pushed him further than he had ever intended to go, his weakness becoming her strength.

  I felt angry and sick, and, bolstered up on that unpleasant wave, I marched into the London Imperial Bank looking like a very dissatisfied customer.

  “I want to see the manager.” The bank was full, and ears were straining—perhaps just idle curiosity, the delight we all take in another’s discomfiture. Or perhaps more, if the police had already been here.

  The clerk wasted no time and got me off the business floor as quickly as possible.

  My unpleasant mood proved to be just what I needed. I’d started playing a part—I might as well see it through to the end.

  “Are you the manager?” I barked at the first man over 40 that I saw.

  “No, sir,” he said, fawning a little, “but allow me to ask you what your business is and I will see if he can—”

  “My business?” I sounded every bit the irate Bostonian brat. “I’ll tell you what my business is. My business is going down the pan, thanks to your mismanagement. There’s something wrong here,” I said, gesturing up at the vaulted ceiling, the marble columns. “Someone’s been playing fast and loose with my family’s money, and I don’t like it. No, sir. I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Please, sir, do keep your voice—”

  “I’ll shout if I want to! Now please tell your boss that I demand some answers!”

  The poor man backed away from me, moving his lips and making little sounds of concern, then disappeared behind a door.

  What the hell was I doing? What did I hope to find? Why was I acting like a bull in a china shop, when surely a softer approach would have been appropriate?

  A plan had started to form in my mind—vague, as yet, but I had nothing to go on but instinct, and I might as well follow it. Reasoning had led me only to the worst possible conclusions. It was time, now, for improvisation.

  “If you’d like to come in, sir,” said the nervous assistant, “Mr. Sturley will see you now.”

  “He the top man?”

  “He is, sir.”

  “He’d better be.”

  If he wasn’t, he was doing a good impression of it. Mr. Sturley sat behind a desk larger than the room in which I was currently staying, a masterpiece of the furniture maker’s art, all adornment and elaboration. Behind him hung a large portrait of him in oil, a flattering version of the jowly, gray-haired reality. And above that, one cream-colored wall stretched up and up to an oval window and, above that, a ceiling surrounded by swags and garlands of plaster. I was way out of my depth, and my policy in these situations is to plunge ever deeper.

  “So, you’re responsible for this fiasco, are you?” I said, scowling.

  “Would you take a seat, Mr.—?”

  “Mitchell,” I said. “Edward Mitchell. Of Boston.” I sat.

  “The Mitchell account, please, Mr. Moore,” said Sturley, clicking his fingers at the poor, confused flunky. It would take him a long time to
find it.

  “What the hell is the meaning of this?” I produced a piece of paper from my jacket pocket—one of those useful circulars about corn cure that I’d already deployed for McDermott’s benefit.

  “May I?”

  “No, you may not!” I replaced the letter in my pocket. “If you don’t know what you’ve written to me, then you’re an even worse fellow than I took you for. ‘Funds lacking,’ according to you, ‘to meet your current monthly obligations. ’ I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life! Mitchell and Mitchell has never, I repeat never, failed to meet its financial obligations.”

  “I’m sure there’s been some error, sir. As soon as Moore returns with the account file—”

  “You know perfectly well that we recently deposited a huge amount from the sale of our London premises. And you have the nerve to suggest that this has somehow been lost?”

  “Might I ask, sir, with whom you have been dealing?”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “One handles many accounts, sir. One does not remember every detail.” He was doing a good job of keeping a lid on it, I must say; if I ever do have money to spare, I might consider putting it in the care of the London Imperial Bank.

  “Young fellow by the name of Morgan,” I said, referring to that piece of paper again. “Yes. I remember now. Dark hair. Firm handshake.”

  “Ah. Mr. Morgan.” Was that a frown I saw on Sturley’s brow? Was I about to uncover a nest of vipers?

  “Well?”

  “If there has been an error, sir, I’m sure it is just that. An error.”

  “This Morgan—is he on the level?”

  “Sir, the agents of the London Imperial Bank are absolutely—”

  “Save your breath. I asked you a question. We’re on the verge of pulling the account. Tell me straight: is Morgan on the level?”

  “When Mr. Moore returns with the file…”

  I stood up. “If I suspect for one moment that there has been some kind of wrongdoing here, I will have the law down on you. Mitchell and Mitchell is a respected name in Boston. You should know that. Your Mr. Morgan—he better not have done anything wrong.”

  “I’m sure there is a perfectly simple explanation, sir.”