Dead Man Twice

by Christopher Bush

  A. Notepaper the same as that used by France himself—parchment of good quality. Evidently a list of trains. Ink good. Writing probably a man’s and showing, under the glass, signs of shakiness.

  King’s Cross, (d) 9.15 (arr.) 11.35

  (d) 10.00 (arr.) 12.30

  (d) 1.20 (arr.) 2.53

  B. A piece of foolscap with the unwritten portion cut off. Ink good. Writing that of an educated person. Hand steady. Probably rough draft of something.

  wing of course a very unusual way of looking at things and not what one might have expected. They intended apparently to ignore the agreement and use the opportunity to mark time till the chance came to wash it out altogether.…

  C. A crumpled half sheet of letter, discarded probably by the writer. Paper of fair quality. Ink none too good. Writing steady and with no indication of character.

  things are come to a pretty low state with him if he talks like that. I will try to have a word with him before I go away, if I do go which doesn’t seem…

  As for the general deductions, none of the three resembled in the least degree the clumsy script of the anonymous threats. Still, that would be a matter for the expert. Had the client been of what one might call the rank and file, Franklin would have had his lunch in peace and taken his time over it. As it was, he cleared off the rest of the correspondence and, having first secured him on the phone, nipped off straight away to see Dyerson, whose name is as well known in forgery cases as those of the more gruesome experts who deal in poisons and intestines.

  * * * * *

  What actually happened was practically nothing, except that in Dyerson’s opinion the anonymous letters had been written by a right-handed person with the left hand, and all three most certainly by the same person. As for the specimens of writing, Franklin’s deductions were confirmed. Each of the styles was so remote from that of the script, that it seemed very unlikely that either of the three writers had composed the threats. Still, that would have to be gone into in detail under the microscope. Definite and immediate information was that—

  A. was by an elderly man of nervous temperament.

  B. was the work of a man of extreme fluency, using a fountain pen.

  C. was written with practically no pauses by a man whose nerves were in excellent order.

  Franklin took copies for temporary use and Dyerson promised him facsimiles by the end of the evening, and with that Franklin departed. One other thing he did know and that was that the interview of the following afternoon was certain to be a remarkably interesting one. And, of course, there was the thrill of coming into the very private centre of France’s acquaintanceship and all that that might imply.

  One other thing of little importance remains to record. As he came out of the Tube Station at Charing Cross, he heard a newsboy holler, “Two-thirty winner!” and promptly bought a paper. Racing had been possible then at Lingfield! In the Stop Press was the news—

  LINGFIELD 2.30. Kampinbolo 1. Mutchkin 2. Parson’s Pride 3. Fourteen ran. Prices 5/2, 10/1, 11 /8 (fav.) Rogers rode winner.

  But even the news that he had won a fiver didn’t take from his mind the small cloud that remained annoyingly in the background. The hero, to tell the truth was proving much more than human and unless the whole thing was a practical joke, it looked as if Michael France had sides to his character which he wasn’t too anxious to have made public. Only what you’d expect of course. Women were bound to go flinging themselves at the head of a man like that and after all, men were men and always would be. There were plenty of things in his own life, for instance, that he wouldn’t like the papers to print.

  Then a thought. What if the whole thing were carefully organised publicity? Say some elaborate stunt in view of the big fight! Then he shook his head. France, of all people, surely needed no more publicity than he already had. Then of course he started puzzling his brains again—then finally decided to leave it alone. After all, in twenty-four hours’ time he’d know as much as anybody and a damn sight more than most.

  CHAPTER V

  DEATH IN THE POT

  As Franklin left St. John’s Wood Station on the Sunday afternoon, the fog was at its thickest. On the Saturday, as Cresswold had mentioned, it had partially cleared away before lunch, and again that morning, but now even the street lamps were barely visible and then as lighted portions of fog. The darkness was so horrible as to be nerve racking—and even terrifying. Still, the experience of the Friday night came in handy and once he had made sure of No. 3, there was little trouble in carrying on along the pavement.

  A single step led to the front door and with choice of bell or knocker he chose the knocker. But nothing happened. A glance at his watch showed the time as 2.35. Surely France hadn’t expected him on the dot—and on a day like that! A second knock and still nothing happened. The third time he really hammered—and pushed the bell as an extra.

  A minute’s wait and it was obvious that there was nobody in the house, and that was curious to say the least of it, considering the implied urgency of France’s letter. What was the best thing to be done? He looked at the fog, grimaced at the smell of it, then lighted his pipe and, huddled in his heavy coat, took a seat on the step with his back in the angle. France, he decided, had gone out and the fog had kept him. By the time that pipe was finished he’d be bound to have rolled up.

  At three o’clock he was feeling chilled to the bone and uncommonly annoyed. Had his client been one with less glamour than Michael France, he’d certainly have gone away in a rage, or at the best have returned to his flat and waited for a telephone message As it was he groped his way to the gate, crossed the road and set about restoring his circulation. Ten minutes of that and he found he’d turned off to another road and by the time he’d got his bearings, it was getting on for half-past three. Even then he overshot the house and by the time he was once more mounting the step, it was exactly a quarter to four.

  A minute later, knocker and bell unanswered, he definitely decided to go. Then a final forlorn hope suggested itself—trying to find a back door, what one might call the tradesmen’s entrance. He groped his way along to the left and there in the wall was what he wanted—double doors leading probably to a garage, and a side door unlocked. A few further yards along the edge of a shrubbery and he was at the back entrance. Then, just as he was about to knock, there was the sound of steps and a figure loomed up out of the fog.

  “Hallo! What do you reckon you’re doing there?”

  Franklin pulled the muffler down from his mouth and had a look at the newcomer. Footman probably, with that elongated, hatchet face, bowler and black overcoat; a servant of some sort most decidedly, if not blatantly. Still, whoever he was, he was most damnably welcome.

  “I say! I’m most extraordinarily glad you’ve turned up. I’ve been trying to make somebody hear in this house for the last hour—off and on. I had an appointment with Mr. France for two-thirty.”

  The other put down his attaché case and flashed a look at the teller of the plausible tale; then apparently made up his mind that everything was satisfactory after all. At least he picked up the case again.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. But Mr. France is away, sir! He’s been away all the week-end. And the house has been shut up too, sir.”

  “Really! By the way, who are you exactly?”

  “Usher, sir. Mr. France’s valet.”

  “Well, Usher, strictly between ourselves, I can show you a letter in my pocket definitely making the appointment. Mr. France told me he’d be alone.”

  The valet looked still more surprised. “That’s very strange, sir! I don’t mean to question what you say, sir, but I’ll tell you what I mean, sir.” He produced a bunch of keys and slipped a Yale into the lock. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind coming in this way, sir. I’ll save time.”

  Now except for that first abrupt question which Usher had snapped out on his arrival, all this conversation had been below the usual pitch. That fog made a kind of vast, impressive interior; a cat
hedral that closed one in and made for soft speaking. Franklin’s feet made no sound as he stepped on the doormat. Then he stopped—and listened. Usher, hard on his heels, began an exclamation—“Funny sort of smell!”—then listened too. Somewhere inside the house was the sound of quick steps—then the slamming of the front door.

  “That’s Mr. France, sir—for a fiver! Just gone out again!”

  The valet dropped his case and slipped out into the fog. Franklin found the switch, turned on the light and ran his eyes round the room.

  Ludovic Travers, a collector of antiques, often felt like apologising for himself when he found his eyes instinctively roving round any room he happened to enter. Franklin’s curiosity was even more natural—the habit of keeping his eyes open, wherever he was, and recording impressions. To his left, for instance, both the top of the range and the rings of the gas cooker, on which he put his fingers, were as cold as ice. On the mantelpiece an old-fashioned, marble clock showed the time as 3.55—and his own watch agreed. Then something that registered itself as unusual—the sink wet and the tap not running. At the same time his suggested a solution—then discarded it. It wouldn’t have been France who’d been in the kitchen; really too unusual a place for him to enter. And yet, since the house had been deserted over the week-end, it wouldn’t have been anybody else.

  At that moment Usher came back. “Couldn’t catch him, sir. The fog was too thick.”

  “Never mind!” said Franklin. “He’ll probably be back again in a minute or two. But what was that you were saying about a funny smell?”

  The other sniffed and suddenly seemed to get a whiff of it. It was rather funny really, to see him like a terrier on the trail. Then his nose approached the sink—and he smiled.

  “Too much chloride of lime, sir! that’s all,” and he indicated the packet at the end of the draining board.

  “But I thought you said nobody’d been in? Mr. France wouldn’t come in here, would he?”

  Usher wondered, then guessed. “It wouldn’t have been him, sir. Somers! That’s who it was, sir!”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The butler, sir. He must have got in before me, sir… and he’s probably gone out to post a letter… or something.”

  Franklin shrugged his shoulders. Usher’s face resumed its normal impassivity as he took off his coat and placed it, with his hat and case, on the table.

  “Come through this way, will you, sir.”

  Franklin followed and listened to the further explanations that suggested themselves to the valet.

  “He must have gone out quickly, sir, or he’d have put the kettle on—and lighted the fires.”

  At the end of the short passage a door opened into a huge room, icily cold; the nearer part with its refectory table and sideboard clearly the dining-room. Half-way along it, a tall, eight-fold screen divided off the drawing room with its camouflaged electric fire, settees and easy chairs. To the left of the fireplace was a tall bookcase; to the left of that a door before which Usher stopped.

  “May I take your hat and coat, sir?”

  “Don’t trouble, Usher, thanks. I shan’t wait more than a few minutes.”

  “Then will you wait in the lounge, sir? It’ll be more comfortable than here,” and he led the way towards another door just beyond the fireplace. He opened it, felt inside and switched on the light, then drew back for Franklin to enter.

  “I’ll light the gas fire, sir.” He moved in front again—then stopped dead with a gasp. Franklin moved forward quickly.

  On the rug, head towards the door, lay a man, an oldish man; bald except for the white patches round his ears. His knees seemed half drawn-up and in front of his outstretched right hand a tumbler was lying on its side. Four feet back from the rug and parallel to the low fender was a table, with decanter and siphon on a tray. By it stood a small, blue bottle with red, poison label.

  “Keep back!” snapped Franklin. “Don’t go on that rug!” He leaned over and felt the man’s face; it was still warm! With a quick glance at Usher, he knelt and listened for the heart, then pushed his hand down inside the waistcoat.

  “Who is he?”

  “Somers, sir—the butler.” The valet was fumbling nervously with his fingers.

  “Know anything about it?”

  The other’s eyes opened wide. “Why! you saw me come in—”

  “I don’t mean that. Do you know why he did it?”

  “No, sir! I don’t know anything, sir.”

  “Well, he’s dead; dead as a doormat—and only a few minutes ago.” His eyes caught the phone and he moved quickly round the table.

  “Albany 0037!” He put the mouthpiece to his chest and stood with receiver at ear. “Where’s Mr. France likely to be?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. I thought at first that was him went out, sir.”

  “And Mr. Hayles?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but he might be—”

  Franklin cut him short. “Hallo! That Albany Street?… Any of your C.I.D. men handy? . . Oh, he is! Ask him to come round as quick as blazes to twenty-three, Regent View, and bring a doctor Never mind that! There’s a dead man here twenty-three, that’s right… Yes, I’ll be here Good-bye!”

  “Now then, what were you saying about Mr. Hayles?”

  “He might be at his flat, sir. His number’s on the pad.”

  He rang Hayles’s number and waited. At the other end a woman’s voice spoke. Mr. Hayles wasn’t in. He’d only just gone out again and hadn’t said where he was going. Oh, yes! he only came in about ten minutes before—just got back from Suffolk. It was Mrs. Burgess, Mr. Hayles’s housekeeper, speaking. Certainly she’d tell Mr. Hayles—to see Mr. France at once.

  Another brainwave. Hayles might be with the Claires and so might France too. This time the call was more successful and in a moment or two he was speaking to Claire himself.

  “Hallo! That you, Mr. Claire? Franklin speaking… Something queer has happened at Mr. France’s house… Yes, number twenty-three. We’ve just found Somers—he’s poisoned himself!… Oh! France asked me to call this afternoon and Usher let me in… I have told the police… You haven’t seen either? Well, don’t you bother… That’s right! Let them know… Yes, of course I will… Ask him to ring you up… Right-ho!… Good-bye!”

  The valet as he stood there, eyes on the dead man, was a tragic looking figure. Against his black overcoat his face seemed white as paper but there was no sign of hysteria; the hands he now held clasped in front of him were perfectly steady.

  “We seem to be having bad luck, Usher,” said Franklin. “Nobody knows where either Mr. France or Mr. Hayles has got to.”

  The valet looked up with a start and, as he did so, the other knew what had been puzzling him ever since he clapped eyes on his face.

  “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

  The valet’s eyes fell for a second, then he looked straight at Franklin. “Very probably, sir—if you’re a friend of Mr. France.”

  Franklin shook his head. “No, I thought it was somewhere else. Probably a mistake of mine.” He leaned over and sniffed at the little bottle, then crossed over to the rug and tried the tumbler and the wet patch. When he got to his feet he was nodding with satisfaction.

  “Now then, Usher; would you mind telling me what’s been happening this week-end. Where’ve you been, for instance?”

  “To Felixstowe, sir—or Martlesham rather. We’ve all been there; Mr. Hayles, Somers and myself.”

  “What for?”

  “Seeing to the training quarters, sir. Mr. France is moving down there to-morrow.”

  “You mean he’s going to do his training there and not in America?”

  Usher looked round quickly as if afraid of being overheard. “That’s right, sir. They say Mr. France has his own ideas about training, sir. At any rate, sir, he’s always used the Low Farm at Martlesham, so we had to go down there on Saturday afternoon with the heavy luggage and so on, sir. Mr. Hayles drove his own car down later, sir. We w
ent by train.”

  “When did you all come back?”

  “I don’t know when Mr. Hayles came back, sir, but he left the farm well before lunch and he said he was going straight to town. Mr. Somers went early, sir; called to see his sister at Ipswich and then came on by train. I came by bus, sir; changing at Ipswich—and got here… when you saw me.”

  The man was an excellent witness and obviously speaking the truth. His quiet, unperturbed manner gave him a certain dignity that was decidedly impressive. Franklin nodded more kindly, then, “Was there any definite time for getting back here?”

  “There was, sir. Mr. Hayles had gone but the master spoke to Somers and myself, sir. I shall be away most likely till Sunday night,’ he says, sir, ‘or it may be Monday morning, but I want you back by four on Sunday.’”

  “Then Somers got back only just before you did!”

  There was a deep regret in the valet’s voice. “I expect he did, sir—and I wish to God he hadn’t!”

  “I expect you do, Usher… and so do I. He was a good sort?”

  “One of the very best, sir,” and he shook his head.

  “Where are his things, by the way—hat and so on?”

  “I expect he took them up to his room, sir. They were his best ones.”

  Franklin nodded again and looked at his watch. “I wish to heaven Mr. France or somebody’d come! What about a cup of tea? You’d probably like one yourself.”

  “Certainly, sir! And would you mind if I took my things upstairs, sir, and I could verify Mr. Somers’s things at the same time.”

  “Do, please! Only, don’t stir out of the house till the police get here.”

  As the valet shut the door of the lounge behind him, the blind of the far window seemed to flop curiously. Franklin stood looking at it for a moment, then went over. As he released the spring and let the blind flap up, he gave a grunt. Cut clean out of the window, immediately above the catch, was a six-inch circle of glass. His eyes fell to the window sill—its paint disfigured with parallel scratches as if a foot had slipped. He felt the cut edges of the glass, then wiped his fingers.