The Case of Naomi Clynes

by Basil Thomson

  “You see, sir, the French public has been brought up for seven or eight months to believe that every sudden death of a functionary is a political murder. It makes good copy for the sensational newspapers.”

  “Look here, my dear fellow; somehow this must be stopped. Telephone to Dr. Hoskyn and go with him to the police, and if necessary be present when the post-mortem examination is made. Young Everett may have committed suicide; that would be bad enough; but whatever we do we must keep the gutter Press at arm’s length. You might ring me up and let me know how you get on.”

  Eric Carruthers went down to his own room in the Chancery to use the telephone. He rang up Dr. Hoskyn, whose voice began to flutter when he learned that the call came from the Embassy.

  “I hope that you have no bad news about Sir Wilfred,” he said.

  “No, doctor, but I want you to take a taxi at once and come here and ask for me, Eric Carruthers. I’ll tell you why when I see you.”

  While waiting for his visitor Carruthers sent for the second secretary, Percival Maynard.

  “Maynard, the ambassador tells me that you were the first person to receive news of Everett’s death. Who brought the news?”

  Maynard was a young man with a languid manner, who talked French more fluently than his own language. He was a welcome guest at French luncheon-tables and was a mine of information upon the intrigues in the lobbies of the Chamber and the Senate, and the latest political scandals.

  “A police commissaire, who said that he came from the ninth arrondissement, came in about an hour ago. He had Everett’s Embassy card in his hand and he said that the body had been found in Everett’s flat, with some sanguinary details. I gathered that he was the man who was first called in by the concierge.”

  “What did you think of Frank Everett? You saw more of him than I did.”

  “Everett? Well, he seemed like any other newspaper man that one meets in Fleet Street and avoids if one can—quite a decent young man within his natural limits and, I imagine, fairly good at his job.”

  Carruthers was drumming on the table with his fingers. His complaint was that one could never get a straight answer out of Maynard.

  “Do you know who his friends were?”

  “Do you mean here in the Embassy or outside?”

  “Both. First, in the Embassy.”

  “Well, I should think that Ned Gregory saw most of him. I used to hear his voice and his laugh—what a laugh he had, poor devil!—coming from Gregory’s room. Gregory’s a bit of a wag, as you know.”

  “So I’ve heard,” observed Carruthers dryly. “Did Everett ever tell you about his people in England?”

  “Never. I never asked him. Our intercourse was always on official matters. He was quite well informed about Paris Press matters.”

  The messenger opened the door to announce Dr. Hoskyn.

  Carruthers rose. “Thank you, Maynard. I’m going out with Dr. Hoskyn for an hour or two. Will you mind the baby?”

  Dr. Hoskyn was a fussy little man with white hair, purpling cheeks and a soothing, bedside manner. When there was a considerable British colony in Paris, he had had a good private practice and it was natural that he should be called in by the people at the Embassy when a doctor was required.

  “Sit down, doctor,” said Carruthers, pointing to the chair beside his table. “You’ve heard, no doubt, of the death of poor Everett, our Press attaché.”

  The doctor’s cheeks deepened in hue. “Dead! That healthy-looking young fellow? What did he die of? An accident?”

  “The police give us the choice between suicide and murder. There was a knife wound in the throat. I don’t know whether you have had any experience in police medical work, but the ambassador has great confidence in you, and he wants you to make a post-mortem examination of the body and furnish him with an opinion if you can.”

  “I have never had to do anything of that kind since my old hospital training days,” said the doctor doubtfully.

  The taxi was announced.

  “Come along, doctor,” said Carruthers. “I don’t know how these things are done in Paris—whether they hold inquests as we do, or whether the police get busy and turn the case over to a Juge d’Instruction.”

  “They will have moved the body down to the Judicial Medical School by this time,” said the doctor gloomily.

  Carruthers directed the taxi-man to drive them to the police office of the ninth arrondissement. There they found a senior police officer and were ushered into his room. Carruthers made the necessary introductions. “This is Dr. Hoskyn, monsieur le commissaire, medical officer of the British Embassy, and I am the first secretary. We have called about that distressing case of M. Everett, a member of our staff.”

  “Ah! You mean the case of the gentleman found dead in an appartement in the rue St. Georges this morning.” The officer touched a bell-push and a constable made his appearance. “Chairs for these gentlemen.”

  Two chairs were brought in, dusted and placed at a corner of the table.

  “May I inquire, monsieur, whether you have reached any conclusion?” asked Carruthers.

  “Monsieur is, of course, aware that the body bore a deep wound in the throat. To judge from the state of the appartement it seemed clear that there had been a violent struggle. Furniture was over-turned; a table-lamp was broken and on the floor was lying this knife.” He flung open a drawer and took from it a heavy dagger in a sheath with blood-stain upon it; on the blade were engraved the words, “Blut und Ehre!”

  “These daggers, we understand, are carried by young schoolboys in Germany when they march along the road on the German side of the frontier. You will notice the symbol in the coloured shield on the handle—the swastika in the middle. It is Hitler’s device for fostering a warlike spirit among German schoolboys.”

  Carruthers examined the weapon, which was about a foot long. The blade was stained with dried blood. He passed it to Dr. Hoskyn who said, “Does this mean that young Everett was murdered by a German?”

  “We do not know, monsieur. When the concierge was interrogated she said that when dusting the appartement she had often noticed this dagger lying on the table in the sitting-room. It must have belonged to M. Everett himself.”

  “I believe it did,” said Carruthers. “I remember hearing that Mr. Everett had displayed a dagger like this to his colleagues in the Embassy. He said that a journalistic colleague on the frontier had sent it to him to use as a paper-knife.”

  “We should be grateful, monsieur, if that could be verified. It will help us in reconstructing the case. This much we know already from the concierge: Mr. Everett had arranged with her that she should prepare his petit déjeuner every morning and bring it up to the door of his appartement; then she would knock and set down the tray. Sometimes he opened the door and took it from her; more often it stayed for some minutes on the landing before he took it in. It was so this morning. She left the breakfast on the landing and went downstairs to her other duties. When she went up to do her dusting the breakfast was still lying untouched. She knocked repeatedly but could get no answer, and on opening the door was shocked to find that her tenant was lying fully dressed on the floor. She thought at first that he had had some kind of seizure and that in falling he had pulled the table over him; but on going to the body she saw blood on the floor, and she left the body as it was and ran down to telephone to us. As I told you the room was in the utmost disorder, and so much blood on the floor that they thought Mr. Everett must have bled to death. The concierge did not think that Mr. Everett brought anyone back with him last night and she heard no one go upstairs.”

  “You have formed a theory, monsieur?”

  The officer spread his forearms wide. “We have not yet had time to consider theories beyond this: at some time after the poor gentleman returned to his appartement he received a visitor—a person who must have known him well or he would have had to make inquiries of the concierge. For some reason yet to be ascertained there must have been a quarrel; one of
them must have attacked the other and in the struggle that ensued the visitor must have snatched up this dagger and plunged it point first into his adversary’s throat. Then he must have shut the door behind him as gently as possible and made off without awaking the concierge. At present officers are searching the appartement for finger-prints, but these seldom lead to identifications, unless they were made by some well-known criminal. I do not think that this crime was the work of any known criminal.”

  “Where is the body now?”

  “It has been taken to the Medico-legal School. If you desire to see it I will send one of my officers with you.”

  “I should be very glad if you would. I was hoping that you would allow Dr. Hoskyn to join your medical officer in making the autopsy.”

  The commissaire bowed politely. “That does not rest with me, monsieur, but with the authorities of the School; but I imagine that they would be very glad to avail themselves of Dr. Hoskyn’s good offices. I will inquire.”

  “I suppose that you have not yet had time to look through the papers found on Mr. Everett’s body or in the appartement?”

  “I have them all here, monsieur, including a number of notes and coins which no ordinary thief would have left behind him. I shall not fail to present a copy of my report to his Excellency the ambassador when it is complete. Now, if you are going to the School I think it might be wise for you to go there early. I will ring up our police surgeon and arrange to meet you there.”

  The laboratory attached to the Medico-legal School is the most depressing spot in Paris. It seems always to be tenanted; the bodies of the unrecognized are laid on sloping slate slabs behind plate-glass windows. The public, who come to look for missing friends, pass in front of the windows, where they may find their nearest and dearest lying exposed to the general gaze like the wares in a fishmonger’s shop.

  A youngish man in a black wide-awake hat, who appeared to have been waiting in the doorway, came forward as the taxi pulled up. He swept off his imposing headgear, disclosing a domed head polished like a billiard ball, and introduced himself as Dr. Audusson, a professor of the School. Leading the way into the building, the police officer explained to him the object of the visit of the two Englishmen, and they were taken straight into the room fitted up for post-mortem examinations. There, covered by a sheet, lay the body of Carruthers’ late colleague. The sheet was stripped off, disclosing the body dressed in its ordinary day clothes, which were stiffened and discoloured by extravasated blood. Dr. Audusson clicked his tongue and observed to his British colleague that the cause of death was not far to seek. He pointed to the deep incision in the throat. The two professional men consulted in an undertone, and then Dr. Hoskyn came over to Carruthers.

  “I suppose that the ambassador wants a complete post-mortem. He wouldn’t be satisfied by a report that that wound in itself would account for the death?”

  Carruthers had his share of Scottish caution. “The question of drug-taking or poison might arise hereafter. I think that it would be wise to cover all points.”

  “Very well; my French colleague is quite willing. and we shall have the help of the public laboratory for analysing the contents of the stomach.”

  “Then you won’t want me any more?”

  “No. As soon as the examination is completed I will come on to the Embassy with my report.”

  “You won’t forget the possibility of suicide, doctor?”

  “We will not.”

  Carruthers had scarcely shut the door of his room when Maynard, the second secretary, entered with care graven on his features.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” he said; “I’ve had a perfectly awful time with the old man upstairs. He expects everything to be done at lightning speed—made me telegraph to Everett’s next-of-kin to announce the death, and I suppose that now we shall have a tribe of them on our backs. Then the ambassador wanted me to account for every moment of Everett’s time, and I had to tell him that I knew very little about the poor fellow, but that I would find out as much as was known about him.”

  “You’re lucky not to have the place beset by reporters.”

  “Oh, we’ve had them by the dozen. I refused to see them. I told Gregory to shoo them out. He must have done the job effectively, for they’ve left us alone for nearly half an hour.”

  “Gregory is the man who knew Everett best, isn’t he?”

  “Yes; he saw more of him than we did.”

  “Let’s have him in.”

  Maynard left the room and returned with the third secretary.

  “Sit down, Gregory, and tell us all you knew about poor Everett.”

  Ned Gregory was a curly-headed youngster with red hair. He was trying to discipline his features to the expression which he imagined to be suitable for funerals, but it was an effort; the natural levity in his vivacious eyes was difficult to subdue.

  “When did you last see him?” continued Carruthers.

  “Yesterday morning. I used to see him practically every morning.”

  “You knew him pretty well, I suppose?”

  “Fairly well. I never went out with him, but he used to tell me a lot about his job.”

  “Was he sometimes depressed?”

  A cloud crossed Gregory’s eyes for a moment.

  “He used to confide in me a lot, but he seemed generally to be in good spirits.”

  “Always?” Carruthers had not missed the momentary cloud.

  “Always, except once. I don’t like betraying the poor fellow’s confidence.”

  “I quite understand, but with this mystery about his death…”

  “Well, he was very much in love with a French girl he had met somewhere or other. He told me that he intended to marry her. I tried to dissuade him, and then, much to my surprise, he came in yesterday morning and told me that it was all off—that he’d found out the girl was a married woman. He seemed to be very hard hit. He wanted my advice as to whether he ought to break with her entirely. I told him that if it was my case I should. He said that if he dropped her like a hot potato she would feel it acutely; she had told him that she hated her husband.”

  The two secretaries exchanged glances, and Carruthers said, “Thank you, Gregory. If you remember anything else that would tend to clear up Everett’s death, please come and see me.”

  “There’s one thing I should like to ask before I go. Does the French Penal Code prohibit the use of man-traps for journalists? You never saw such a crew as I’ve had here this afternoon—camera men as well as reporters. If I’m led away with gyves upon my wrists it will be because I’ve sent one or two of them to the place where they belong.”

  “Maynard tells me that you’ve been very successful with them…”

  Before Gregory had time to reply the messenger opened the door. “There’s some more reporters asking for you, Mr. Gregory,” he said.

  Ned Gregory threw up his hands and disappeared.

  “What he’s just told us, Maynard, cuts both ways. It might have been murder by an injured husband or it might equally have been a suicide.”

  Published by Dean Street Press 2016

  All Rights Reserved

  First published in 1934 by Eldon Press as Inspector Richardson C.I.D.

  Cover by DSP

  Introduction © 2016 Martin Edwards

  ISBN 978 1 911095 72 9

  www.deanstreetpress.co.uk