In At The Death

by Francis Duncan

  ‘I realize that, miss,’ Boyce returned evenly. ‘It merely occurred to me that since you’d probably have to deal with the medical record cards and such like during the course of your duties you’d be more or less bound to pick up a certain amount of knowledge about the people Doctor Hardene was attending.’

  His tone was devoid of any note of suggestion or of irritation, but it was clear enough that he was giving her an opening.

  Margaret Royman’s taut form lost something of its rigidity. She said, slowly:

  ‘I see what you mean, Chief Inspector. I’m sorry. I—I’m afraid I haven’t quite got over the shock and I’m not being very helpful. Yes, of course, I couldn’t help learning something about the doctor’s patients although I naturally haven’t a great deal of medical knowledge.’ She frowned. ‘I can’t think, though, of anyone who might have called him out—unless it was old Mrs. Carhew. She’s had heart trouble for a long time and it’s possible she might have had another attack.’

  ‘Can you give me her address, miss?’

  ‘It’s in Regency Avenue,’ she told him. ‘I’m not sure of the name of the house, but it’ll be in the records.’

  Boyce turned towards Parkin. The local man pursed his lips and shook his head.

  ‘Not much help. Regency Avenue’s a good five minutes walk from the downs. No chance of his having mistaken one house for the other.’

  ‘Sure that’s the only one, miss?’ Boyce said.

  ‘It’s the only one I can think of without going over the cards,’ she returned slowly. ‘I can have a look through the records if you’d like me to, just to make sure I haven’t overlooked anyone.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, miss. We’ll have to check back ourselves as a matter of routine in any case. Besides, it’s not certain yet that the call was from a patient Doctor Hardene had been attending. It’s always possible that the housekeeper was mistaken in what the doctor said to her.’

  A door-bell rang with a peculiarly shrill note. Margaret Royman made a sudden movement.

  ‘That’s the surgery bell. There was a rather full list of appointments this morning.’ She added, as though she had suddenly awakened to the wider implications of what had taken place: ‘Doctor Hardene was due at the hospital later this morning and he was to have taken the chair at a political meeting this afternoon. I must go through his diary and see that everyone is notified.’

  She hesitated then and glanced doubtfully at Boyce.

  ‘Will that be in order, Chief Inspector? I mean to tell people about what has happened?’

  ‘Tell them,’ Boyce said, ‘that Doctor Hardene won’t be keeping any appointments. That will be sufficient for the time being. It’ll be in the newspapers later, of course, and then there won’t be any need of explanations.’

  Tremaine thought he saw her flinch and thought also that there was sudden fear in her eyes. He watched her as she went out of the room, admiring the freshness of her young beauty and the grace of her movements, but wondering besides whether it might not be a good idea to keep a very tight grip on his emotions.

  He knew his own weaknesses well enough. Pretty young women appealed to all that was sentimental in him. He wanted to see them pursuing the orthodox path to romance and marriage, and it distressed him to find any kind of cloud on the horizon.

  But at least he was aware—even though he disliked admitting it—that a pretty face was no guarantee that all was well within. It helped him to ensure that he did not make a fool of himself.

  Boyce looked at Parkin.

  ‘We’ll see whether the doctor’s papers can give us any help.’

  There was an unspoken question in his voice and the inspector knew what he meant.

  ‘I haven’t done anything in that line yet, sir. There may be something useful to be picked up.’

  Doctor Hardene’s professional quarters appeared to have consisted of three rooms—a well-furnished and comfortable waiting room for the benefit of his patients, and, on the opposite side of the entrance hall, two smaller rooms, one in which the receptionist carried out her duties and one he had used as a surgery.

  Margaret Royman had already begun to deal with the papers on her desk when they entered. She looked up in a startled fashion.

  ‘It’s all right, miss,’ Boyce said, lifting his hand in a reassuring gesture. ‘No need to disturb you. We shall have to spend some time with the doctor’s things but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t do what you have to do at the same time. In fact, you may be able to help us if we come across anything that looks a bit—well, doubtful.’

  She made a slight inclination of her head, apparently relieved. Tremaine gave Boyce a sideways glance.

  It wasn’t like Jonathan to be careless. He must be well aware that he was giving Margaret Royman the opportunity of destroying anything she might be anxious to prevent inquisitive policemen from finding, which meant that he was doing it deliberately.

  It rather looked, Tremaine reflected uncomfortably, as though the attractive Miss Royman was being presented with enough rope to hang herself—if she was unwise enough to make use of it.

  4

  DEAD MAN’S EFFECTS

  THE SURGERY WAS a small room but it was neat and orderly so that there seemed to be no lack of space. A roll-top desk, an examination couch, and three chairs made up the main furniture. On the wall, over the built-in gas-fire, were several framed, rather macabre coloured cartoons depicting the fate of an unfortunate compelled to call in his doctor in the eighteenth century. The anguished expressions on the faces of the patients and the surgeon’s fearsome array of implements must have evoked mixed feelings in Harden’s own patients. Obviously he had possessed a certain sense of humour.

  The desk was locked but Parkin produced a bunch of keys.

  ‘These were in his pocket. Daresay one of them will do the trick.’

  One of them did. The inspector rolled back the lid. The surface of the desk was not as tidy as the rest of the room had promised. It looked as though Hardene had merely pulled the lid down over the results of his day’s work.

  Glancing over Boyce’s shoulder Tremaine saw that most of the papers scattered over the desk were covered with the inevitable scrawl of the medical man wearied by years of notetaking as a student and resentful of being turned into a clerk; they were routine prescription and other forms. Several textbooks occupied the small shelf at the back—he saw one on skin diseases, one dealing with chest conditions, a work on toxicology and a well-thumbed medical dictionary.

  Boyce began at one side and dealt methodically with everything the desk contained. He made no comment until he had finished.

  ‘Nothing there,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘Not to my eye, anyway. We’ll get a medical opinion, of course, just in case.’

  At the rear of the desk was a small drawer. It, too, was locked, but the small key that fitted it was on the bunch Parkin held.

  Boyce pulled it open and his expression changed.

  ‘This,’ he observed, ‘looks a little more interesting.’

  The drawer contained several used cheque books, a small, blue-covered note-book, and a number of loose papers, including half a dozen newspaper cuttings. Boyce flicked through the pages of the note-book.

  ‘Supposed to be a diary but he seems to have used it as some sort of appointments book,’ he remarked, and handed it to Parkin.

  Whilst the local man stood glancing at the note-book Boyce turned his attention to the remaining contents of the drawer. The cheque books he placed on one side for examination later and then he picked up the newspaper cuttings.

  The door communicating with the room where Margaret Royman was working had been left open, so that Boyce had only to glance to one side in order to see her. It meant, also, that her voice was clearly audible when she used the telephone, and Tremaine heard her make several calls, cancelling appointments of various kinds that Hardene had evidently made for this particular day.

  Her voice sounded normal enough, allowing for what
was no more than a natural hint of strain, and she parried the questions which it was obvious she was asked with a calm that left no room for suspicion on the part of the people at the other end of the wire. There was nothing in her attitude to which Boyce could take exception or that could arouse doubts in his mind and Tremaine felt a sense of relief.

  He realized that Boyce was holding one of the newspaper cuttings out to him and he took it and read it through.

  It was a report of the death of a pawnbroker, Charles Henry Wallins, who had been found lying on the floor of his shop with severe head injuries from which he had died without regaining consciousness. From the fact that he had been wearing pyjamas and dressing-gown it appeared that he had been disturbed at some time during the night and had gone down to investigate. He had been an elderly bachelor who had lived alone over his shop premises.

  Since Wallins had managed his business on his own it had been difficult to state definitely whether anything had been stolen, but a window at the rear of the building had been forced, so that it had seemed clear that some unauthorized person had made an entry.

  The goods in the shop, however, did not appear to have been disturbed nor had there been any signs of a struggle. A small safe in a room behind, containing a few pounds in money, had been intact and unmarked.

  The report added that the police theory was that the unfortunate pawnbroker had disturbed an intruder, who had attacked him with a heavy marble statue which had been found near the body—and which had proved to be an unredeemed pledge—and had then made a panic-stricken escape without staying to carry out the robbery for which he had come.

  Tremaine realized then that a second clipping was pinned to the report he had been reading, evidently a follow-up account of a later date. It said very little, merely that the police were pursuing several lines of enquiry but that there had been no further developments.

  Jonathan Boyce had by now finished the cuttings he had retained and he handed them across with an expressive lift of his wiry eyebrows.

  His meaning became clear enough when Tremaine glanced down at the printed reports, for they, too, dealt with death by violence.

  This time the victim had been a seaman, believed to be a Patrick Marton, whose dead body had been found by a charlady taking a short cut across Druidleigh downs on her way to her place of employment in one of the large houses on the far side of the downs which had been taken over by a government department.

  The dead man had been lying under a clump of bushes just off the path. The sight of a foot sticking out of the leaves had attracted the charlady’s attention and had led her to make the discovery that had first paralysed her with fright and then sent her white-faced and palpitating for assistance.

  Marton had been shot through the heart at close range. His pockets had been rifled and his empty wallet had been found near the body. Enquiries had shown that he had been paid off some two or three months previously from a ship which had docked at Bridgton from the West Indies. He had joined the crew at Kingston, Jamaica, and had signed on merely for the one voyage.

  After his arrival at Bridgton he had apparently done no work, but his landlady had said that all his bills had been paid promptly and he had never seemed to be short of money There was no trace of his having possessed a bank account and nothing valuable had been found in his room.

  Investigations, said the reports, were still being made, but little information as to Marton’s antecedents had so far been obtained.

  There was a frown on Tremaine’s face. This was what he had known about Bridgton; this was what had been on his mind in the train coming down.

  Both accounts had stirred his memory and he was recalling now references he had seen in the national dailies. No arrest had been made in either case; the usual reports that the police were in possession of certain facts had been published, but the weeks had gone by with no news of any developments and the murders had gradually slipped into the accepted list of unsolved crimes.

  Boyce was regarding him significantly.

  ‘Seems to have taken quite an interest in crime,’ he remarked. He took the cuttings again and handed them to Parkin. ‘Mean anything?’ he asked.

  The inspector did no more than glance at the cuttings. It was evident that he recognized them.

  ‘They’re all from the Evening Courier—local paper,’ he returned. ‘Off-hand I’d say they were about six months old.’

  ‘Anything special about the pawnbroking killing? Or about this fellow Marton?’

  Parkin cleared his throat a little more noisily than was really necessary.

  ‘Only,’ he said, ‘that we haven’t pulled in the people who did it.’

  Tremaine admired the impassiveness of Jonathan Boyce’s face. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He merely nodded, as if he considered the matter unimportant, and turned back to the desk.

  Despite the surface confusion, Graham Hardene appeared to have been a man of fairly—and conveniently—methodical habits. In addition to the contents of the drawer, the desk contained a number of completed cheque books, neatly held with a rubber band, three account books—two filled and one about half used—several half-yearly bank statements, and a loose leaf folder holding details of various investments.

  ‘That seems to be the lot,’ Boyce said, straightening. ‘He’s made it nice and easy for us. We’ll put the rake through this little collection as soon as we’ve finished looking around.’

  He made a neat pile of the items he had considered worthy of further examination and placed them on one side of the desk. Tremaine expected that he would take them with him but a little to his surprise Boyce left them on the desk and then led the way out through the room in which Margaret Royman was working. She was still speaking on the telephone and she did not look up as they passed her.

  There was a uniformed constable in the hall. He saluted as Parkin approached.

  ‘Newspaper reporters, sir,’ he announced. ‘I didn’t disturb you since you were with the Chief Inspector.’

  ‘All right, Constable. It’s time they were around, anyway. What have you done with them?’

  ‘They’re still outside, sir.’

  Parkin nodded and opened the front door of the house. Just inside the entrance gate a group of men stood talking to another constable. One of them carried a camera.

  The constable at the gate turned at the sound of the opening door and came smartly to attention. Parkin scanned the newcomers, then turned to Boyce.

  ‘Daily Echo and Evening Courier,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Both local. Young fellow is Rex Linton—does the crime for the Courier. Other chap belongs to the Echo. Don’t know the chap with the camera but he’s probably working with Linton. The Echo doesn’t go in much for the sensational stuff—it’s more of the business man’s paper.’

  ‘Not much competition between them, I take it?’

  ‘No. They aren’t tied up financially, but one being a morning paper and the other an evening they don’t get in each other’s way and they seem to work together all right.’

  The newspaper men at the gate were regarding them with interest. Parkin walked down the path, and one of the group, whom Tremaine judged to be the reporter who had been called Linton, detached himself from his companions.

  He was a well-built youngster, clean-shaven, neatly dressed, and with an air of confidence to which Tremaine found himself responding sympathetically.

  ‘ ’Morning, Inspector. Anything for us?’

  ‘Too early yet,’ Parkin returned. ‘I daresay you’ve already got the main facts?’

  The reporter nodded.

  ‘Somebody knocked Doctor Hardene on the head and left his body in one of the houses facing the downs.’

  ‘Right,’ Parkin said. ‘It gives you enough for the first editions, anyway. You can always build up with a few personal details—I’ve never known you fellows not be able to do that!’

  Rex Linton grinned a little wryly.

  ‘No crumb of comfort, Inspec
tor? How did Hardene get there, for instance? Was he called out during the night?’

  ‘He had an emergency call,’ Parkin admitted. ‘But there’s nothing yet to say that it was connected with what happened.’

  The reporter was looking curiously at the two men who had accompanied the inspector, and Parkin noticed his glance.

  ‘This is Chief Inspector Boyce,’ he said drily. ‘Of Scotland Yard.’

  There was a sudden gleam in the newspaper man’s eyes.

  ‘So you’ve called in the Yard already! I must say, Inspector, you haven’t lost any time—on this occasion.’

  There was a barb in his words, although there was no pure malice in them. Tremaine saw Parkin frown and saw, in the same instant and not without embarrassment, that the reporter’s interest now seemed to be centred upon himself.

  ‘You haven’t completed the introductions yet, Inspector,’ Linton said meaningly.

  ‘This gentleman is accompanying the Chief Inspector,’ Parkin told him, and his voice made it plain that he did not intend to deal with any further questions on that particular subject.

  Linton raised his eyebrows and glanced at Tremaine with an even deeper curiosity, but he made no other comment.

  Jonathan Boyce had so far taken no part in the conversation. He had patently been leaving it to Parkin, as the local man, to take the lead. But he saw that Linton was about to accept matters philosophically—at least for the time being—and take his departure to hand in his story, and he stepped forward.

  ‘Just a moment, Mr. Linton,’ he called, and the reporter turned eagerly. ‘I daresay you know most of what goes on in the city—reporters usually do. Perhaps you can help me.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can—naturally.’

  Boyce was looking unusually mild and benevolent. Tremaine smiled inwardly at the soothing guilelessness of his manner. It was clear that Jonathan had diagnosed a mutually beneficial tolerance between the police and the Press in Bridgton and was intending to turn it to advantage.

  ‘What can you tell me about Doctor Hardene?’ Boyce went on, and the reporter stared at him.