Dead Man Twice

by Christopher Bush

  Wharton took a deliberate look at the drink, nodded, then took a first pull. “Travers, eh?… What’s he know about it?”

  Franklin told him the case as presented by a study of the books. The mysterious mission to Dijon he kept to himself, seeing that it rather looked like an attempt to check Wharton’s official arrangements.

  “Do you know, there’s a lot in it!” said Wharton, uncommonly graciously. “As I’ve always said, Mr. Travers has got a head on him. My own opinion is that Hayles’ll make a slip sooner or later. Either he’s innocent and knows who did it, or else he’s what we’ve made him out to be.”

  “What about the pistol? Claire confirm it?”

  “Absolutely! He said he didn’t notice exactly which drawer France put it back in, but he saw it all right. Norris got hold of Dunally at a big boxing show at Blackfriars, and he confirmed Hayles’s story—over the phone, of course.”

  “News about the maid in yet?”

  “Some. I had to go very carefully. She had supper in the servants’ room after Mrs. Claire left on the Saturday, and was under observation till half-past eleven when she went to bed. As she shares a room, I may get that later. On the Sunday morning she was allowed to go to her home at Marfleet by Mrs. Claire’s special permission, as she was to be away herself. That end’s being gone into now.”

  Franklin nodded. “And what’s the next move?”

  “Trace Hayles after he left Marfleet—every inch till he got back to town. Interview everybody with whom he came in contact and find out if he was playacting all the time or not. Also I’m still hopeful of finding something against Claire. He’s got too strong a motive to be let out easily.”

  He finished off the drink. “No, not another! I’ve got a lot of work to do to-night. And that reminds me. To-morrow—say at half-past eight, which’ll give you aristocrats time for your coffee and cigars, come along to twenty-three and see if there’s any news.… Perhaps you might bring Mr. Travers along… if he cares to come.”

  Franklin forebore any leg-pulling.

  “Eight-thirty to-morrow. Right-ho, George! We’ll be there!”

  CHAPTER XXIII

  TRAVERS FINDS A HAMMER

  The weather report for the following morning, as far as concerned the three professional upholders of the law, was “most unsettled.” Wharton had already set in motion the machinery for following the course of Hayles’s erratic pilgrimage. Then he saw the doctor, on the question of the advisability of relying on his patient for information immediately necessary. What he learnt was disquieting. The doctor was not only in perfect agreement with his patient’s account, but feared a recurrence of the amnesia. The nerves were in such a condition that one too tragic reminder and he’d be off again.

  In spite of that, Wharton chanced his arm and called round at the flat. Hayles was asleep and his mother was of little help. As far as he could gather, the patient had had no further revelations from the subconscious. Complete amnesia began with him at Marfleet and ended at St. John’s Wood Station, and Wharton, suavely sympathetic, cut short his visit.

  Then that alibi of the maid had turned out exasperatingly right, as far as concerned the Sunday. She had spent that day at Marfleet, and couldn’t therefore have been in the house in Regent View; moreover, as she had not left Claire’s house on the Saturday evening before eleven-thirty, he decided on elimination. Those hairs, therefore, that had been found on the settee in France’s bedroom were either not hers—in spite of what the experts said—or had got there by other than the obvious means.

  Thereupon Usher was hauled upstairs again and shown the position where the hairs were found. Wharton even placed them cunningly and told the man to find them—which he did.

  “You see, sir,” explained Usher, “if they were short hairs, it’d be different. These curl up and catch the light. And the vacuum couldn’t have missed ’em, sir.”

  Wharton saw all that for himself, but still stubbornly refused to admit that the hairs were not there on the Saturday morning after Usher had done the room.

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, sir,” said Usher frankly, “I’m afraid you’re wrong. In the first place, sir, I was in all day on the Friday and I’m dead sure nobody called—at least, with hairs like those. And I shook those cushions out on the Friday morning. And then they had to dodge the vacuum on the Saturday. I tell you, sir, those hairs got there after I left the house.”

  Wharton had an idea. “But why did you do the bedroom at all on the Saturday? If Mr. France was going away, why not have left it for the woman on Monday? And you wouldn’t have wanted it then. You were all going away!”

  “As a matter of fact, sir,” said Usher, “Mr. France told me specially to do it. If I might say so, sir, there seems to be a connection with the—er—roses and the biscuits.”

  “Hm! And did Mrs. Claire ever come up here?”

  “Never, sir—not to my knowledge.”

  “Then they couldn’t have come off her clothes after contact with the maid,” said Wharton, thinking aloud. He moved off down the stairs with Usher at his heels.

  “You sent Mr. Claire about five reports in all?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you told him everything?”

  Usher ventured on a smile. “If I hadn’t done that, sir, there wouldn’t have been anything to report at all.”

  “Hm! Suppose not. You had to earn your keep. Mr. Claire was here on the Saturday?”

  “I told you that, sir. And he was here on the Friday.”

  “Hm! So you did. Came on the Friday, did he? Well, come along into the lounge and tell me just what happened.”

  * * * * *

  Franklin, pausing in the middle of his ordinary work for a pipe and a pull up at the fire, soon found himself in all sorts of difficulties. Upon whatever mental path he felt his feet going, there was soon a snag in the way to hit his feet against, and the logic began to halt. The fact that France had been shot with his own pistol and that Hayles and Claire knew where it was kept and had easy access to that place, seemed certain proof that one or the other had shot him. And yet neither had! Then had either of them given the pistol to the murderer? Surely not, or they’d have given him a key at the same time and made that forcible entry unnecessary. Or had that entry been merely a blind in order to suggest a murder? If so, why go to the trouble of staging a suicide?

  Franklin wriggled in his chair and told himself the thing must be reasoned out carefully. France had been shot, and only Mrs. Claire knew he’d been shot. Then why pretend it was suicide? Mrs. Claire had only to open her mouth and everybody’d know it was murder. Then the murderer must have known that she daren’t open her mouth, and therefore the murderer must have been one who had that information—in short, either Usher or Claire or Hayles. And neither of the latter could have shot him because they were scores of miles away!

  Franklin wriggled again, relighted his pipe and set off once more. That confession, found under Somers’s body; why hadn’t the General questioned Hayles about it? Surely one of the most vital pieces of information and one that shrieked aloud for exhaustion. And then that business of Travers and the man at Dijon; twenty quid it’d probably cost him! He glanced at the clock. Word might come through at any minute… and what sort of word? What was it all about?

  Then his mind went back to that couple of photos of Hayles which he’d touched up. Cresswold’s brother was sure the man had been Hayles and he’d be prepared to swear to it. But just how did it help? Wharton had hit the nail clean on the head when he’d said that everything Hayles had asserted could be proved wrong by one person, and one person only, and that person—France—was dead. Would it sound too preposterous, for instance, if Hayles said that in following France’s car and posing as a detective, he was merely following France’s instructions, in view of the threatening letters? As for that visit to the Air Ministry’s building, why shouldn’t he say again that he was under France’s orders? After all, France’s plans were likely to be very considerab
ly affected by the fog.

  Franklin wriggled once more in his seat, bit hard on the cold pipe, and began all over again.

  * * * * *

  Norris, in a car travelling from Chingford, was wandering about in the same hypothetical circles and was finding hypothesis exceedingly remote from lucid reality. For all that, he was to arrive at much the same conclusions which were at that identical moment forcing themselves on Wharton and Franklin.

  Norris had precious little use for the wide net and gradual elimination of his immediate superior. In his younger days he had been taught reliance on the ready-to-hand; in other words, motive makes crime and, except in cases of mental derangement, there’s no crime without motive. The motive of Hayles, however high-falutin it might seem to the uninformed, stuck out like a barber’s pole. And as for the motive of Claire, Norris was damned if he knew what the old General was up to. “A man rings me up,” he said to himself, “and tells me on first-class authority that my missis is putting in the night with another man. What do I do? Go away and let her get on with it? Just buy a couple of extra racehorses? Do I hell!” That statement of Claire’s about knowing it was nothing but a night club frolic was all flapdoodle. Claire must have done something! Was his alibi as tight as it had appeared when he’d tested it at Royston? Norris felt a cold trickle down his spine.

  A minute’s hasty recalling of the details for his own reassurance, and Norris was off again. What would be the ideal solution? Two people involved, almost certainly; therefore Hayles and Claire. Hayles made his low-down, back-stair attempt and got Somers instead. Surely that other affair—the shot in the dark—looked like Claire? It was a sort of direct levelling up of the grudge right in the place where the adultery was going to take place. But Claire wasn’t there! Yes, but suppose he had been there! How beautifully everything would sort itself out! Even that confession might have been forced out of him and.… Then Norris frowned once more as he found the alibi be-straddling that too convenient exit.

  * * * * *

  Ludovic Travers, also presumably on the side of law and order, was, in a subdued sort of way, quite pleased with himself. Thanks to the last night’s investigations, whatever the report from Dijon, the point he’d set out to make was proved. The thing was, would Wharton act before the whole case was complete? Had he anybody—the other man, for instance—in his mind? If Franklin’s accounts were complete, the General was, for him, remarkably quiescent. All the more reason therefore for something being up his sleeve, ready for production at the auspicious moment.

  The latter half of his morning was spent at Brooklands. Except for a couple of cars and a motor-bicycle or two, the track was deserted and he sauntered casually round by the garages till he found one open. Inside were two mechanics, listening to the ticking over of a Sunbeam.

  “Seen anything of Mr. Claire?” he asked.

  The dungareed mechanic came over, wiping his hands on a piece of waste.

  “Mr. Claire, sir. He’ll be here this afternoon, so one of his men told me.”

  The Sunbeam raced noisily and under cover of the roar Travers plucked up courage to ask his question. “Suppose you haven’t any asbestos tubing about?”

  The other motioned to throttle her down. “Asbestos tubing, sir? What bore?”

  “Oh—er—about three-quarters of an inch.”

  There was a look of amazement. “Three-quarter-inch! Never heard of it. What’s it for?”

  “To kill a man with!” was on the tip of Travers’ tongue. Instead he produced a crumpled note from his trouser pocket and began to smooth it out.

  “Fact of the matter is,” he said, “I don’t actually know what the chap wants it for. What would you do if you wanted any asbestos tubing of that bore? Take a piece of ordinary piping and lag it round with asbestos cement?”

  “The very thing, sir. It’d be the simplest way. Thank you very much, sir!” He nodded back to the other to let her out and Travers slipped away. On the whole he was not dissatisfied. It certainly had been asbestos cement Claire was using at Marfleet.

  It was just after his usual lunch hour when he drew the Isotta into the kerb outside No. 23, and in the second or so that elapsed between the ringing of the bell and the opening of the door, removed his gloves and rubbed his hands on the grimy surface of the wall. The gloves were replaced.

  “Morning, Usher!” said Travers genially, and stepped into the dining-room. He peeped round to the drawing-room, then began to move over to the fire. “Tell Mr. Wharton I’d like to see him a minute, will you?”

  “I’m afraid he isn’t in, sir,” said Usher, fluttering in his wake. Travers was now at the fire, removing his gloves and warming his hands. “As a matter of fact, sir, there’s nobody in but myself.”

  “Dear oh dear!” said Travers, and continued to chafe his hands. “Devilish cold to-day!” Usher was looking as if he’d let a python into the family hen-run. Then to his relief, the caller got up.

  “You don’t know when he’ll be in, I suppose?”

  “I don’t, sir.”

  “Well, I’ll just push off again.” He suddenly caught sight of his hands. “I seem to have got myself into the devil of a mess. Is there anywhere I could wash? Sorry to—”

  “In here, sir.” Usher opened the cloak-room door, saw to the towels and set the water running.

  “Capital! Any chance of a spot of paraffin to get this grease off my hands?”

  Usher bustled off to the kitchen. Travers, like an exceedingly active mosquito, nipped across the room.

  * * * * *

  When Travers finally returned to his office, it was to find Franklin’s chit about that night’s conference with Wharton. Then, just after five, came the telegram, and Franklin with it.

  “Here’s your wire, Ludo. Something’s happened, though I’m damned if I know what it is.’’

  Travers gave his glasses a quick polish, then had a look.

  Requested post letter self Wednesday last. Full statement taken. Returning as arranged.

  He contemplated it for a moment, then, “Don’t you think you’d better see Wharton at once? This rather alters things.”

  “I say!” expostulated Franklin. “What the devil do you think I am? A thought reader?”

  “I’m sorry!” said Travers with his most apologetic smile. “I’m getting rather flurried. But it’s really frightfully important Wharton should know. Will you try to get hold of him and say you’re coming round at once?”

  Franklin located him first time—at his room at the Yard. The General would see them immediately.

  “I say, you shouldn’t have said anything about me!” said Travers, genuinely alarmed. “I’ll tell you just what happened and then you can slip round and pass it on to Wharton.”

  “I’m damned if I do!” said Franklin. “Get your hat and come along and tell me about it on the way. Wharton might want to ask you half a hundred questions for all you know, and a pretty fool I’d look then. It’s got to come out sooner or later.”

  “So it seems,” said Travers mildly. He reached for his hat. “Truth will out—as they say—but that’s no reason why I should be made to shout it through a megaphone.”

  Franklin took his arm. “Now, what’s the yarn?”

  “Well,” began Travers, “it was like this …”

  * * * * *

  Wharton popped up all smiles and affability.

  “Come along in! How are you, Mr. Travers? Take a seat. And what about a cup of tea?”

  “It’s more like cocktail time,” said Franklin. “You won’t want any tea! Travers here has got something for you that’ll cheer—and inebriate. All alone he did it!”

  Wharton smiled tolerantly as he swivelled round the desk chair, but his tone was anxious beneath the geniality.

  “That’s good news. We always expect something original from Mr. Travers. And what is it—er—this time?”

  “He’ll tell you!”

  Travers gave him a look, then cleared his throat. “Well, it was like th
is. By the way, do you want me to start at the end or the beginning?”

  Wharton shrugged his shoulders humorously. “Either end—so long as we get the whole of it.”

  “Good! I only asked because I may be a bit long-winded and—er—unnecessarily mysterious. The start was that Franklin and I had been interested in Hayles before all this business began, owing to certain peculiarities of conduct. Early last week, for instance, we caught him out in what looked to be an unnecessary lie. That, of course, is nothing at all. We all have to tell ’em occasionally; even you and I and Franklin here. The bigger you are, the bigger the stretch as it were; publicity the mother of mendacity and so on.”

  “Quite so!”

  “The actual facts were that Hayles didn’t seem any too keen on anybody knowing he’d been in the Hampstead Road at a certain time. I should say we weren’t interested in that to any great extent, only when this murder business cropped up—and Hayles with it—naturally that cropped up too. Still, that’s hardly the point. The whole thing is that suicide confession in France’s writing. The way I thought about it was asking myself a question. If I wanted France to write it, how should I proceed? Or, if I’d put myself sufficiently into the hide of Hayles, how would he have proceeded? Certainly by some far from dangerous means; by what we might call the safely spectacular or the furtively safe. He’s that sort—and his books show it. Then naturally I thought of a method and Franklin sent a man of his to Dijon to prove it. He couldn’t tell you about it because I was his client. What I thought of was this.

  “Hayles would have a letter sent to himself from abroad, from people he could trust. The letter, written in, say, French, would contain a certain passage he might ask France to translate. Later on, I saw the flaws in that. It was, very frankly, extremely crude. In the first place France, for all we knew, had no better acquaintance with French than Hayles had. Then I thought, ‘Why not Italian—or German—or Spanish—or—?’ Then, of course, I had it. The passage would have to be in Russian—the language which France spoke like his own and which Hayles certainly wouldn’t know. You see that?”