Patrick, coming from the dining room, said, “It seemed to be just one fuse gone …” He stopped.
Colonel Easterbrook tugged at the small black mask.
“Better see who the fellow is,” he said. “Though I don’t suppose it’s anyone we know….”
He detached the mask. Necks were craned forward. Mitzi hiccuped and gasped, but the others were very quiet.
“He’s quite young,” said Mrs. Harmon with a note of pity in her voice.
And suddenly Dora Bunner cried out excitedly:
“Letty, Letty, it’s the young man from the Spa Hotel in Medenham Wells. The one who came out here and wanted you to give him money to get back to Switzerland and you refused. I suppose the whole thing was just a pretext—to spy out the house … Oh, dear—he might easily have killed you….”
Miss Blacklock, in command of the situation, said incisively:
“Phillipa, take Bunny into the dining room and give her a half glass of brandy. Julia dear, just run up to the bathroom and bring me the sticking plaster out of the bathroom cupboard—it’s so messy bleeding like a pig. Patrick, will you ring up the police at once?”
Four
THE ROYAL SPA HOTEL
I
George Rydesdale, Chief Constable of Middleshire, was a quiet man. Of medium height, with shrewd eyes under rather bushy brows, he was in the habit of listening rather than talking. Then, in his unemotional voice, he would give a brief order—and the order was obeyed.
He was listening now to Detective-Inspector Dermot Craddock. Craddock was now officially in charge of the case. Rydesdale had recalled him last night from Liverpool where he had been sent to make certain inquiries in connection with another case. Rydesdale had a good opinion of Craddock. He not only had brains and imagination, he had also, which Rydesdale appreciated even more, the self-discipline to go slow, to check and examine each fact, and to keep an open mind until the very end of a case.
“Constable Legg took the call, sir,” Craddock was saying. “He seems to have acted very well, with promptitude and presence of mind. And it can’t have been easy. About a dozen people all trying to talk at once, including one of those Mittel Europas who go off at the deep end at the mere sight of a policeman. Made sure she was going to be locked up, and fairly screamed the place down.”
“Deceased has been identified?”
“Yes, sir. Rudi Scherz. Swiss Nationality. Employed at the Royal Spa Hotel, Medenham Wells, as a receptionist. If you agree, sir, I thought I’d take the Royal Spa Hotel first, and go out to Chipping Cleghorn afterwards. Sergeant Fletcher is out there now. He’ll see the bus people and then go on to the house.”
Rydesdale nodded approval.
The door opened, and the Chief Constable looked up.
“Come in, Henry,” he said. “We’ve got something here that’s a little out of the ordinary.”
Sir Henry Clithering, ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard, came in with slightly raised eyebrows. He was a tall, distinguished-looking elderly man.
“It may appeal to even your blasé palate,” went on Rydesdale.
“I was never blasé,” said Sir Henry indignantly.
“The latest idea,” said Rydesdale, “is to advertise one’s murders beforehand. Show Sir Henry that advertisement, Craddock.”
“The North Benham News and Chipping Cleghorn Gazette,” said Sir Henry. “Quite a mouthful.” He read the half inch of print indicated by Craddock’s finger. “H’m, yes, somewhat unusual.”
“Any line on who inserted this advertisement?” asked Rydesdale.
“By the description, sir, it was handed in by Rudi Scherz himself—on Wednesday.”
“Nobody questioned it? The person who accepted it didn’t think it odd?”
“The adenoidal blonde who receives the advertisements is quite incapable of thinking, I should say, sir. She just counted the words and took the money.”
“What was the idea?” asked Sir Henry.
“Get a lot of the locals curious,” suggested Rydesdale. “Get them all together at a particular place at a particular time, then hold them up and relieve them of their spare cash and valuables. As an idea, it’s not without originality.”
“What sort of a place is Chipping Cleghorn?” asked Sir Henry.
“A large sprawling picturesque village. Butcher, baker, grocer, quite a good antique shop—two tea shops. Self-consciously a beauty spot. Caters for the motoring tourist. Also highly residential. Cottages formerly lived in by agricultural labourers now converted and lived in by elderly spinsters and retired couples. A certain amount of building done round about in Victorian times.”
“I know,” said Sir Henry. “Nice old Pussies and retired Colonels. Yes, if they noticed that advertisement they’d all come sniffing round at 6:30 to see what was up. Lord, I wish I had my own particular old Pussy here. Wouldn’t she like to get her nice ladylike teeth into this. Right up her street it would be.”
“Who’s your own particular Pussy, Henry? An aunt?”
“No,” Sir Henry sighed. “She’s no relation.” He said reverently: “She’s just the finest detective God ever made. Natural genius cultivated in a suitable soil.”
He turned upon Craddock.
“Don’t you despise the old Pussies in this village of yours, my boy,” he said. “In case this turns out to be a high-powered mystery, which I don’t suppose for a moment it will, remember that an elderly unmarried woman who knits and gardens is streets ahead of any detective sergeant. She can tell you what might have happened and what ought to have happened and even what actually did happen! And she can tell you why it happened!”
“I’ll bear that in mind, sir,” said Detective-Inspector Craddock in his most formal manner, and nobody would have guessed that Dermot Eric Craddock was actually Sir Henry’s godson and was on easy and intimate terms with his godfather.
Rydesdale gave a quick outline of the case to his friend.
“They’d all turn up at 6:30, I grant you that,” he said. “But would that Swiss fellow know they would? And another thing, would they be likely to have much loot on them to be worth the taking?”
“A couple of old-fashioned brooches, a string of seed pearls—a little loose change, perhaps a note or two—not more,” said Sir Henry, thoughtfully. “Did this Miss Blacklock keep much money in the house?”
“She says not, sir. Five pounds odd, I understand.”
“Mere chicken feed,” said Rydesdale.
“What you’re getting at,” said Sir Henry, “is that this fellow liked to playact—it wasn’t the loot, it was the fun of playing and acting the hold-up. Cinema stuff? Eh? It’s quite possible. How did he manage to shoot himself?”
Rydesdale drew a paper towards him.
“Preliminary medical report. The revolver was discharged at close range—singeing … h’m … nothing to show whether accident or suicide. Could have been done deliberately, or he could have tripped and fallen and the revolver which he was holding close to him could have gone off … Probably the latter.” He looked at Craddock. “You’ll have to question the witnesses very carefully and make them say exactly what they saw.”
Detective-Inspector Craddock said sadly: “They’ll all have seen something different.”
“It’s always interested me,” said Sir Henry, “what people do see at a moment of intense excitement and nervous strain. What they do see and, even more interesting, what they don’t see.”
“Where’s the report on the revolver?”
“Foreign make—(fairly common on the Continent)—Scherz did not hold a permit for it—and did not declare it on coming into England.”
“Bad lad,” said Sir Henry.
“Unsatisfactory character all round. Well, Craddock, go and see what you can find out about him at the Royal Spa Hotel.”
II
At the Royal Spa Hotel, Inspector Craddock was taken straight to the Manager’s office.
The Manager, Mr. Rowlandson, a tall florid man with a hearty mann
er, greeted Inspector Craddock with expansive geniality.
“Glad to help you in any way we can, Inspector,” he said. “Really a most surprising business. I’d never have credited it—never. Scherz seemed a very ordinary, pleasant young chap—not at all my idea of a hold-up man.”
“How long has he been with you, Mr. Rowlandson?”
“I was looking that up just before you came. A little over three months. Quite good credentials, the usual permits, etc.”
“And you found him satisfactory?”
Without seeming to do so, Craddock marked the infinitesimal pause before Rowlandson replied.
“Quite satisfactory.”
Craddock made use of a technique he had found efficacious before now.
“No, no, Mr. Rowlandson,” he said, gently shaking his head. “That’s not really quite the case, is it?”
“We-ll—” The Manager seemed slightly taken aback.
“Come now, there was something wrong. What was it?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know.”
“But you thought there was something wrong?”
“Well—yes—I did … But I’ve nothing really to go upon. I shouldn’t like my conjectures to be written down and quoted against me.”
Craddock smiled pleasantly.
“I know just what you mean. You needn’t worry. But I’ve got to get some idea of what this fellow, Scherz, was like. You suspected him of—what?”
Rowlandson said, rather reluctantly:
“Well, there was trouble, once or twice, about the bills. Items charged that oughtn’t to have been there.”
“You mean you suspected that he charged up certain items which didn’t appear in the hotel records, and that he pocketed the difference when the bill was paid?”
“Something like that … Put it at the best, there was gross carelessness on his part. Once or twice quite a big sum was involved. Frankly, I got our accountant to go over his books suspecting that he was—well, a wrong ’un, but though there were various mistakes and a good deal of slipshod method, the actual cash was quite correct. So I came to the conclusion that I must be mistaken.”
“Supposing you hadn’t been wrong? Supposing Scherz had been helping himself to various small sums here and there, he could have covered himself, I suppose, by making good the money?”
“Yes, if he had the money. But people who help themselves to ‘small sums’ as you put it—are usually hard up for those sums and spend them offhand.”
“So, if he wanted money to replace missing sums, he would have had to get money—by a hold-up or other means?”
“Yes. I wonder if this is his first attempt….”
“Might be. It was certainly a very amateurish one. Is there anyone else he could have got money from? Any women in his life?”
“One of the waitresses in the Grill. Her name’s Myrna Harris.”
“I’d better have a talk with her.”
III
Myrna Harris was a pretty girl with a glorious head of red hair and a pert nose.
She was alarmed and wary, and deeply conscious of the indignity of being interviewed by the police.
“I don’t know a thing about it, sir. Not a thing,” she protested. “If I’d known what he was like I’d never have gone out with Rudi at all. Naturally, seeing as he worked in Reception here, I thought he was all right. Naturally I did. What I say is the hotel ought to be more careful when they employ people—especially foreigners. Because you never know where you are with foreigners. I suppose he might have been in with one of these gangs you read about?”
“We think,” said Craddock, “that he was working quite on his own.”
“Fancy—and him so quiet and respectable. You’d never think. Though there have been things missed—now I come to think of it. A diamond brooch—and a little gold locket, I believe. But I never dreamed that it could have been Rudi.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” said Craddock. “Anyone might have been taken in. You knew him fairly well?”
“I don’t know that I’d say well.”
“But you were friendly?”
“Oh, we were friendly—that’s all, just friendly. Nothing serious at all. I’m always on my guard with foreigners, anyway. They’ve often got a way with them, but you never know, do you? Some of those Poles during the war! And even some of the Americans! Never let on they’re married men until it’s too late. Rudi talked big and all that—but I always took it with a grain of salt.”
Craddock seized on the phrase.
“Talked big, did he? That’s very interesting, Miss Harris. I can see you’re going to be a lot of help to us. In what way did he talk big?”
“Well, about how rich his people were in Switzerland—and how important. But that didn’t go with his being as short of money as he was. He always said that because of the money regulation he couldn’t get money from Switzerland over here. That might be, I suppose, but his things weren’t expensive. His clothes, I mean. They weren’t really class. I think, too, that a lot of the stories he used to tell me were so much hot air. About climbing in the Alps, and saving people’s lives on the edge of a glacier. Why, he turned quite giddy just going along the edge of Boulter’s Gorge. Alps, indeed!”
“You went out with him a good deal?”
“Yes—well—yes, I did. He had awfully good manners and he knew how to—to look after a girl. The best seats at the pictures always. And even flowers he’d buy me, sometimes. And he was just a lovely dancer—lovely.”
“Did he mention this Miss Blacklock to you at all?”
“She comes in and lunches here sometimes, doesn’t she? And she’s stayed here once. No, I don’t think Rudi ever mentioned her. I didn’t know he knew her.”
“Did he mention Chipping Cleghorn?”
He thought a faintly wary look came into Myrna Harris’s eyes but he couldn’t be sure.
“I don’t think so … I think he did once ask about buses—what time they went—but I can’t remember if that was Chipping Cleghorn or somewhere else. It wasn’t just lately.”
He couldn’t get more out of her. Rudi Scherz had seemed just as usual. She hadn’t seen him the evening before. She’d no idea—no idea at all—she stressed the point, that Rudi Scherz was a crook.
And probably, Craddock thought, that was quite true.
Five
MISS BLACKLOCK AND MISS BUNNER
Little Paddocks was very much as Detective-Inspector Craddock had imagined it to be. He noted ducks and chickens and what had been until lately an attractive herbaceous border and in which a few late Michaelmas daisies showed a last dying splash of purple beauty. The lawn and the paths showed signs of neglect.
Summing up, Detective-Inspector Craddock thought: “Probably not much money to spend on gardeners—fond of flowers and a good eye for planning and massing a border. House needs painting. Most houses do, nowadays. Pleasant little property.”
As Craddock’s car stopped before the front door, Sergeant Fletcher came round the side of the house. Sergeant Fletcher looked like a guardsman, with an erect military bearing, and was able to impart several different meanings to the one monosyllable: “Sir.”
“So there you are, Fletcher.”
“Sir,” said Sergeant Fletcher.
“Anything to report?”
“We’ve finished going over the house, sir. Scherz doesn’t seem to have left any fingerprints anywhere. He wore gloves, of course. No signs of any of the doors or windows being forced to effect an entrance. He seems to have come out from Medenham on the bus, arriving here at six o’clock. Side door of the house was locked at 5:30, I understand. Looks as though he must have walked in through the front door. Miss Blacklock states that that door isn’t usually locked until the house is shut up for the night. The maid, on the other hand, states that the front door was locked all the afternoon—but she’d say anything. Very temperamental you’ll find her. Mittel Europa refugee of some kind.”
“Difficult, is she?”
Craddock smiled.
Fletcher resumed his report.
“Lighting system is quite in order everywhere. We haven’t spotted yet how he operated the lights. It was just the one circuit went. Drawing room and hall. Of course, nowadays the wall brackets and lamps wouldn’t all be on one fuse—but this is an old-fashioned installation and wiring. Don’t see how he could have tampered with the fusebox because it’s out by the scullery and he’d have had to go through the kitchen, so the maid would have seen him.”
“Unless she was in it with him?”
“That’s very possible. Both foreigners—and I wouldn’t trust her a yard—not a yard.”
Craddock noticed two enormous frightened black eyes peering out of a window by the front door. The face, flattened against the pane, was hardly visible.
“That her there?”
“That’s right, sir.”
The face disappeared.
Craddock rang the front doorbell.
After a long wait the door was opened by a good-looking young woman with chestnut hair and a bored expression.
“Detective-Inspector Craddock,” said Craddock.
The young woman gave him a cool stare out of very attractive hazel eyes and said:
“Come in. Miss Blacklock is expecting you.”
The hall, Craddock noted, was long and narrow and seemed almost incredibly full of doors.
The young woman threw open a door on the left, and said: “Inspector Craddock, Aunt Letty. Mitzi wouldn’t go to the door. She’s shut herself up in the kitchen and she’s making the most marvellous moaning noises. I shouldn’t think we’ll get any lunch.”
She added in an explanatory manner to Craddock: “She doesn’t like the police,” and withdrew, shutting the door behind her.
Craddock advanced to meet the owner of Little Paddocks.
He saw a tall active-looking woman of about sixty. Her grey hair had a slight natural wave and made a distinguished setting for an intelligent, resolute face. She had keen grey eyes and a square determined chin. There was a surgical dressing on her left ear. She wore no makeup and was plainly dressed in a well-cut tweed coat and skirt and pullover. Round the neck of the latter she wore, rather unexpectedly, a set of old-fashioned cameos—a Victorian touch which seemed to hint at a sentimental streak not otherwise apparent.
Murder Is Announced Page 4