by Carola Dunn
Mrs. Steadman protested shrilly.
“Oh, shut up, Mavis,” said her husband, waving her out of the way and the detectives into the house. “They’re the law, aren’t they? It’s not like we’ve got anything to hide. Nor has Jim-boy, I’ll bet. The poor weed hasn’t got the gumption to pinch those sparklers.”
Tom and the D.C.s went about their business.
“I suppose you’d better come into the lounge,” Mrs. Steadman ungraciously invited Alec.
He followed the Steadmans into a sitting room furnished with a modern couch and easy chairs wildly patterned in jazz colours—mostly magenta, sulphur-yellow, and black—and matching curtains. One corner was occupied by an expensive wireless set, another by a gramophone, playing a tango. A low table held two glasses, a large glass ashtray, a fashion magazine, the pink Sporting Times, and the Evening Standard with its banner headline: MUSEUM MURDERER STRIKES AGAIN? There were no books, and no pictures on the walls. In spite of the bright hues, the room had a stark feeling.
Mrs. Steadman dropped sulkily into a chair. Picking up a lit, lipsticked cigarette between two crimson-nailed fingers she puffed it back to life, then reached for a tumbler holding a liquid much the same sickly color as her dress.
“Cigar, old chap?” Teddy Steadman offered Alec, taking his own, still burning, from the ashtray. “B-and-s? Or are you a whisky man?”
“Not for me, thanks.”
“Not on duty, eh? Never could see why anyone’d want to be a copper, no offence. I’m in insurance myself, and doing very nicely, thank you. I keep telling Jimmy he could triple his income if he joined me, but he hasn’t got the gumption to switch.”
“Now that’s not fair, Teddybear. If Jimmy gets into the pictures he’ll make a packet, and all because he knows about those stupid bones.”
Alec blinked, but managed not to let his jaw drop. “The pictures?” he said weakly.
“That’s where he’s gone tonight,” said Mrs. Steadman.
“Not the cinema, but to the Dorchester to talk to Harry Hoyt, from Hollywood! Mr. Hoyt’s going to make a film of that book by Sherlock Homes, The Lost World, that’s all about dinosaurs, and he came to London to talk to our Jimmy. He’s got Lewis Stone, who’s in The Prisoner of Zenda with Ramon Novarro, and Wallace Beery that was in The Last of the Mohicans, and Bessie Love, and …”
“And our Jimmy won’t make a penny out of it, mark my words,” said his cynical brother. “I told him he shouldn’t even talk to this bloke without a contract in black and white, but does he listen to me? He does not!”
As the pair wrangled, Alec decided that if James Steadman took it into his head to commit murder, he would start with his brother and go on to his sister-in-law. On the other hand, he might commit theft so as to be able to escape them.
“He wouldn’t know what to do with a lot of money if he had it,” Mrs. Steadman proclaimed. “What’s he do with what he’s got, I ask you, after he’s paid his share of expenses? He hasn’t got a lady-friend, and you never see him go out for a bit of fun, not even down the local.”
With a glance at the Pink ’Un, her husband shook his head. “Not even a bob each way on the Derby,” he confirmed.
Tom knocked on the door and came into the sitting room, electric torch in hand. “There’s a padlocked shed out the back, sir,” he told Alec.
“Jim-boy keeps some old bones there,” said Teddy. “Works on ’em out there evenings and weekends, if you call it work.”
“I won’t have them in the house, disgusting things,” Mrs. Steadman said self-righteously. “There’s a spare key in a drawer in the kitchen.”
“One of these, madam?” Tom held out his large hand, full of keys of every shape and size and degree of rustiness.
“I think it’s that one. Or maybe that. I never go out there.”
“We didn’t used to lock it,” Teddy said, “not keeping anything valuable there, but some kids got in once and messed about with the bones. I thought Jimmy’d have a stroke.”
He guffawed and his wife tittered at the memory.
“Treat the bones with care, Sergeant,” said Alec.
“With great care, sir,” Tom said emphatically. Departing, he murmured to Alec as he passed, “No bank papers visible, Chief.”
Alec nodded. With a word of apology, he poked around the sitting room. Bare as it was, there were few hiding places. No stolen gems in the gramophone’s or wireless’s innards, none behind the ugly modern clock on the mantelpiece, none down the sides of the chairs or sofa. As he searched he continued to encourage the Steadmans to talk about James. Not that they needed much encouragement.
Tom returned, shaking his head, and the detectives took their leave.
“No jewels,” said Tom. “Like I told you, Chief, I didn’t get a look at any financial papers. There’s a locked box—one of those metal cash boxes—in his bedroom. No key. I shook it, and nothing shifted about like the jewels would, just papers rustling.”
“But why’d he lock it, Chief,” said Ernie Piper, “if there’s nothing in there to give him away?”
“Because his sister-in-law is a snooper, I dare say.”
“There’s a key to his room in the kitchen drawer,” Tom said, “and it’s not one of the rusty ones. It’s not that big a room, but he’s got it all fitted up nice like a bed-sitter and study combined. Bookcase full of dinosaur books and desk covered with dinosaur drawings. I don’t reckon he spends much time downstairs, Chief.”
“Hardly congenial company for a gentleman of intellectual pursuits,” Alec commented, “and nosy with it. Mrs. Steadman says her brother-in-law banks at the South Ken Lloyd’s. Tomorrow, as soon as the banks open, I want appointments made for me to talk as soon as possible to all the suspects’ bank managers, Tom. Unless we strike lucky with Witt.”
Calvin Witt’s residence was a service flat in a luxury block in South Audley Street, Mayfair.
“Blimey, must cost him a pretty penny!” observed D. C. Ross as the red-carpeted lift bore them smoothly upwards.
“Fishy, on museum pay,” said Piper hopefully.
“I had a word with the porter who let us in,” Tom rumbled. “Mr. Witt’s lived here twelve years, since the building went up. Must have private means besides his salary.”
The young constables’ disappointment was reflected in the gilt mirror hanging on the back wall.
Private means could be squandered, Alec reflected, leaving their erstwhile possessor accustomed to a style of living he could no longer afford. Or fine living might lead to a desire for finer. Perhaps Witt yearned to give up his job and retire to a place of his own in the country.
The Curator of Fossil Mammals answered his own doorbell. He was as sleekly self-assured as ever, in a superbly tailored dinner jacket and Old Wykehamist tie.
“Good evening, Chief Inspector,” he said resignedly. “I was half expecting you. You’re looking for gemstones, I expect?”
“That’s right, sir.” Once again Alec explained the search warrant. Hearing voices from an inner room, he added, “We’ll disturb you as little as possible. My men will go through the rest of the flat, but I’m afraid I shall have to take a look at the—” He hesitated: not lounge; sitting room? drawing room? He chose the last. “The drawing room.”
As if reading his mind, Witt smiled a trifle sardonically and said, “I’m not so high-falutin’. Sitting room will do. Come in.”
The spacious sitting room was as modern as the Steadmans’ lounge, but of a different kind entirely. The predominant colours were ivory and lavender, with russet accents but a minimum of pattern. Chairs and sofas were leather-covered, as sleek as their owner. In contrast, a cabinet and occasional tables of probably-genuine Chippendale somehow humanized the whole.
Alec recognized at once the woman seated in one of the chairs. Maggie Weston was a well-known actress, the sort who plays Juliet or Rosalind, not the ingenue in drawing-room comedy. The couple on the sofa looked familiar, more as a type, Alec thought, than because he knew t
hem. They reminded him of Daisy’s sister and her husband, Lord John Frobisher.
“Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, from Scotland Yard,” Witt introduced him dryly. “My sister-in-law Lady Genevieve, Chief Inspector; Miss Weston; and my stepbrother Lord Meredith.”
While Alec appreciated the courtesy of the introductions, it added to the doubts aroused by Witt’s previous improbable helpfulness. A policeman, even of his comparatively superior rank, was not normally considered worthy to be presented to such company. Lord Meredith, in fact, looked surprised and made no move to rise and shake hands.
“Darling, too thrilling,” said Miss Weston in her famous throaty voice. “Has Mr. Fletcher come to arrest you?”
Witt cocked an eyebrow at Alec, who said, “Not tonight, Miss Weston.”
“Pity! One ought to see how it’s properly done, and I’m sure Mr. Fletcher would have done it properly. Well, darling, if you don’t need my support through this ordeal, I’m off. I’ve a rehearsal at an ungodly hour tomorrow.”
“We’ll give you a lift, darling,” Lady Genevieve said languidly, rising. “It’s time we made a move. Do let us know, Joker dear, if you have to be bailed out.”
Witt kissed the cheek she offered, and then Miss Weston’s—rather more warmly. Lord Meredith, who had stood up when the ladies rose, put his hand on his stepbrother’s shoulder and said in a low voice, which just reached Alec’s ears, “Don’t want to desert you, Joker. Gen can drive Maggie home and come back.”
“That’s all right, old man. Fletcher’s a gentleman, and I’ve nothing to hide.” Witt raised his voice. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Chief Inspector.” He went out to see off his guests.
Alec used his absence to peek behind the half dozen framed drawings hanging on the walls. Contraband had been stuck to the backs of pictures before. He found nothing, and when Witt returned, he was contemplating a drawing of a bison. It was crude and misshapen, yet there was something oddly satisfying, even graceful, about its sweeping lines.
“Prehistoric art,” said Witt, coming up behind him. “They’re copies of wall paintings found in caves in France and Spain: Altamira, Pair-non-Pair, Font-de-Gaume.”
“I’ve heard of them, but not seen any before. Interesting. It’s an attractive room.”
“So I’m told. I can claim no merit, at least not for the colour scheme. It was designed for me by a friend who does that sort of thing. I’m colour-blind.”
“Ah,” said Alec, in the best tradition of Tring inscrutability, but he warmed slightly towards Witt. At least his suspected lack of war service was explained. “Mind if I poke around a bit?”
“Not at all.” He grinned. “As if I had any choice in the matter. There’s just one favour I must beg, Chief Inspector.”
“Which is?” Alec asked, peering into a beautifully shaped vase with a lavender glaze.
“Please refrain from mentioning at the museum that I’m known to friends and family as Joker! A schoolboy play on my name, of course. I am not given to jokes, verbal or practical. But it wouldn’t go down well with my colleagues.”
“And you care what they think?”
“Naturally. I see them and work with them daily.”
“You’d be sorry to give up your position, then.”
Witt gave him a sharp look, then laughed, with a mocking edge to his tone. “Ah, I see, you think I might have purloined the jewels so as to be able to quit work.”
“It’s a possibility I have to consider, sir.”
“Yes,” Witt mused, “It is a possibility. I do need a job. You see, Chief Inspector, the comforts of my life are provided by my father. He’s an American—my mother divorced him and brought me back to England as a baby, then married Meredith’s father.”
“A wealthy American,” Alec assumed.
“Oh, very. The fly in the ointment, so to speak, is that Poppa came up the hard way and believes idleness is bad for the soul. He requires his offspring to hold down a job of work in order to profit from his millions. I refused to go into his ironmongery business—hardware they call it over there. Fortunately I had an alternative to offer, though it was not easy to persuade my father it qualified as a career.”
“Palæontology?”
“Yes, I was already hopelessly addicted to fossils. It is a sort of addiction, Chief Inspector. We may not all be quite as single-mindedly obsessed as Dr. Smith Woodward, but it’s not the sort of job one falls into by chance. You will have realized by now that we’re all dedicated, even passionate about our subject.”
Alec recalled Witt’s words as Tom described the man’s study: “Full of bones and books about bones, Chief, and drawings of bones, and drawings and models of mammoths and such.”
“I reckon they’re all a bit dotty,” said Piper.
Even Ruddlestone, his house crammed full of children and associated paraphernalia, had found space for a few fossils. Yes, they were all dedicated, passionate, perhaps a bit dotty!
12
Ascending the steps far enough to be sheltered by the great rounded arch, Daisy paused to shake out and close her umbrella. It was drizzling again, yesterday’s sunshine forgotten.
At the top of the steps stood a familiar figure, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. Rudolf Maximilian had arrived early at the museum. His long nose touched the glass as he peered through the door into the interior.
Daisy glanced at her watch. She was dead on time. A shadowy shape unlocked the central doors as she reached them.
“Good morning, Grand Duke,” she said.
He started, turning. “Ach, it is Miss Dalrymple. Goot morning, gnädiges Fräulein.” He bowed, and rather reluctantly let her enter first.
Sergeant Jameson had unlocked the doors and stayed to hold one open for Daisy. His greeting to her was friendly enough, but his harried gaze was on the Grand Duke behind her. “What’s he want?” he muttered. “His blasted ruby’s gorn, innit.”
“Mine ruby, he is finded?” the Grand Duke demanded.
“Not it, mate. Sir. You sure you haven’t got it at home in a teapot?”
“Teapot? Vhy you talk about teapot? Vhy you not busy mine ruby to find?”
“Not my job, sir, is it? There’s been dozens of men searching all night, and a new lot come on this morning. Just the second floor and the towers to go.”
“I help,” said Rudolf eagerly.
“Not on your nelly you don’t,” exclaimed Sergeant Jameson, but he made no great effort to stop the Grand Duke when he pushed past. “D. I. Wotherspoon’ll put a spoke in his wheel soon enough, or someone else will if he’s dropped off. Poor ole Spoony’s been up all night, but he’s set on seeing it through. And I’ll take it kindly, miss, if you won’t mention what I just called him.”
“I shouldn’t dream of it,” Daisy assured him, hoping that Alec had managed a good sleep last night. She stuck with Jameson as he went to unlock the other doors. “Have they not found anything at all?”
“They think they found the handle the flint was stuck to. Leastways they found a spare handle for a ge‘logical hammer with a splodge of the right kind of glue on it in the right place, and what might be bloodstains. It was in the basement, but they’re all over the place in fossils and minerals both, any road. They all use ’em, so it don’t mean much.”
“And anyway it was probably Dr. Pettigrew’s. No fingerprints on it, I suppose.”
“Nary a one, miss.”
“They haven’t found any skeleton keys?”
“Nor reckon to,” said Jameson, strolling back towards the police post. “The thief’s had plenty of time to get rid of ’em, seeing it could be weeks since the jewels was pinched. Me, I think it was done at night when Dr. Pettigrew was on holiday.
He’d be the most likely to notice some little thing not quite right, but after a few days away he might not. Makes sense, don’t it?”
“It certainly does,” Daisy said warmly, leaning on the L-shaped counter as the sergeant opened the flap and stepped inside his sanctum. A
bout fifteen feet square, it backed onto the front wall of the museum, with a partition filling the fourth side. “When was that?”
“First two weeks in July. I looked it up.” Jameson flipped back through the pages of a large date-book, then swivelled it for Daisy to see, and pointed. “See?”
“A couple of months ago. That’s about how long Mr. Grange said since the cases were opened, isn’t it? Just right. I bet you’re right. Were you on duty nights then?”
“No, miss, I was not,” said Jameson emphatically. “Not neither week, though some chaps’ shifts changed in the middle of that fortnight, and I done my share of night duty since. The fakes was discovered on my watch, but no one can’t say the real jools was swiped on my watch.”
“Mr. Fletcher asked for a list of all you museum police, I remember. Has he seen everyone yet?”
“Every last man Jack, or rather Sergeant Tring did, and no one saw nothing odd. Course, some of ‘em wouldn’t notice a stuffed mammoth waving its trunk, ’less you pointed it out to ’em special. Ole Westcott—he’s retired, mind, so I tell no tales—he—”
“Retired? When?”
Sergeant Jameson consulted his tome again. “Well, now, miss, the end of July it was. What d’you know?”
“What do you know?” Daisy riposted.
He opened a drawer and took out a pile of past duty rosters. “Lessee, here we are, July, second week Westcott was on evenings—closing time till two in the morning. And I happen to know the sergeant in charge used to send him upstairs and not expect to see him again till the end of the shift. But like I was saying, miss, he wouldn‘t’ve noticed nothing in front of his nose ’less his nose was shoved in it.”
“Did anyone mention him to Mr. Tring? Has anyone told Mr. Fletcher that Dr. Pettigrew took a holiday in July?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, miss,” Jameson said cautiously. “’Spect so.”
“Is Mr. Fletcher in the museum now?” Daisy asked.
“Don’t think so, miss. Sergeant Wilby that I just took over from would’ve said.”
“Do you know if—” Daisy started.