Checkmate to Murder: A Second World War Mystery

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “And Mackellon wants to finish his game of chess,” put in Delaunier. “Black to move and mate in six moves.”

  “Four,” contradicted Mackellon. “With the Chief Inspector’s permission, I’ll move the board out of the way. I should like to finish you off some time, Cavenish.”

  “Don’t move it,” said Macdonald. “I’ll see the pieces aren’t disturbed. From my point of view, it’s easier to get a clear view of what happened if everything is left as it was.”

  “I say—there hasn’t been a murder in here, you know,” said the painter, and Macdonald replied:

  “No. I know there hasn’t. I have already been in Mr. Folliner’s house. Now, sir,” and he addressed Manaton directly. “If you will stay in here with me, and the other members of the party will be kind enough to take my sergeant into the kitchen, I will try to get through my questions without keeping you too long.”

  “What you say goes, sir,” said Delaunier. He led the way to the kitchen and the others followed in silence, the rearguard being the C.I.D. sergeant.

  II

  Bruce Manaton sat down, and said,

  “You’ll find that chair there is fairly reliable. I know it’s not my province to ask questions, but I should dearly like to know the answer to this one. Why do you assume that I, or my sister, or my guests, know anything about this business?”

  “A perfectly reasonable question which I am quite willing to answer,” replied Macdonald. “I don’t assume anything. It happens that the Special Constable who reported the crime in the house adjoining this one gave voice to some vague—but grave—suspicions concerning the people in this studio. You can see for yourself that it is much easier to clear away such ideas at the outset, before your party is dispersed, than it would be to do so later.”

  “Oh, quite.” Manaton sounded mollified. “Fire away, then.”

  “At what time did your guests arrive this evening?”

  “Delaunier has been here since six o’clock. I’ve been wanting to paint him in his role of Cardinal for some time, only he hates posing for any length of time. I asked Cavenish and Mackellon as a bait to bring Delaunier. He’s mad on chess. The idea was that he and Cavenish should have their game later in the evening, and I intended to do some quick drawings of Mackellon. He’s got a good head. He and Cavenish came in about half-past seven and settled to their game. Delaunier was posing for me, with occasional rests, from six o’clock until supper time—about 9.15. My sister was doing the cooking in the kitchen. She looked in and out of here occasionally.”

  “The door between studio and kitchen being open?”

  “No. Only occasionally. It made a cross light. We could hear her moving about though.”

  “That’s very clear. Now during the time you have mentioned, six o’clock to nine-fifteen, were you yourself in the studio all the while?”

  “With the exception of a couple of minutes when Cavenish and Mackellon came in. We broke the sitting for a few minutes then, and chatted a bit. Then Cavenish and Mackellon settled to their game, Rosanne went into the kitchen, and I got a spot of work done. I don’t know if this interests you. Mrs. Tubbs, the char who does for old Folliner, came into the kitchen to see Rosanne about half-past eight o’clock. I could hear her voice—she’s a glorious old Cockney. She—Mrs. Tubbs—said she had just been in to see old Folliner.”

  “Thanks. That’s important. You can state that from the time Mrs. Tubbs came in, until you sat down to supper, you four men were in here all the time?”

  “Yes. All the time. I will show you our exact positions if you like.” Manaton walked across the studio to his easel, and turned it a little, so that it was in the position it had been when he was drawing.

  “I was here,” he said; “I moved a few paces back or to the side—so. Delaunier was sitting on that chair on the platform. He got up once or twice, to stretch, or to warm his hands at the stove and steal a glimpse at the chess-board. Mackellon sat on the far side of the chess table—he is black. As you can see, he was in my direct line of vision. Cavenish, opposite to him, was not exactly in my focus, if you see what I mean, but I was aware of him all the time. When Rosanne opened the kitchen door the light from that room shone in my eyes, and I asked her to shut it. She came in several times and stared around. She is a bit of a painter, too, though etching is her real job. Well—there we were. Is that plain enough?”

  “Admirably clear, thanks,” replied Macdonald. “The four of you were in this studio, all within sight of each other, and Miss Manaton was in the kitchen, coming in and out occasionally. The next question is this. Did you hear a pistol shot?”

  Manaton left the easel and came back to his chair near the stove. “To say that I heard a shot consciously so that I said to myself ‘that’s a gun shot,’ would be inaccurate,” he said. “I was working hard for once, concentrating on what I was doing, and it would have taken a near miss by a bomb to distract me. I did notice a report of some kind though, and it startled me enough to make me step back sharply and knock that stool over—the one behind the easel with my gear on it. Delaunier said ‘What the devil was that?’ or something like that.”

  “And what did you reply—or the chess players?”

  Manaton laughed. “I think I said ‘damn and blast you—keep your pose, can’t you?’—as for the others—they were playing chess. You’re a player, aren’t you? You can understand that it would have taken more than slight ‘noises off’ to make them take their attention from their board. Also, when you come to think of it, Londoners have heard so many bangs during their recent history, that a pistol shot isn’t so impressive a row as it used to be.” He paused and lighted a cigarette, adding, “I daresay, subconsciously, one assesses sounds in the light of one’s experiences. You know the inward reaction to a bang—‘That’s nothing. There was no vibration with it.’ It’s the vibration—the shudder of earth and fabric which means something to the initiated.” He laughed and added apologetically, “You’ll be thinking I’m a victim of air-raid nerves. I’m not. I’m too much of a fatalist to disturb myself, but I do admit that subconscious trick of judgment in connection with a bang—‘that doesn’t mean anything.’ One applies it to practice gunfire without even actually formulating the thought.”

  “That’s perfectly true,” said Macdonald. “It’s also very interestingly put. I suppose all Londoners who survived the winter of 1940 with nerves unimpaired, did develop what the psychologists call ‘a defence mechanism’—they learned to disregard disessential bangs. I take it that you recalled hearing the report afterwards?”

  “That’s it. That youngster in khaki who was brought in here by the bloodthirsty Special blurted out his story and said that the old man upstairs had been shot.”

  “Just a moment,” put in Macdonald. “I only want to get a bare outline at this juncture, but you might tell me briefly what the youngster said while he was here.”

  “Briefly it boils down to these three points: A. that he did not shoot old Folliner—the latter was already dead when Neil Folliner arrived. B. that he had sent the old man a postcard to say that he was coming this evening. C. that the Special Constable came into the bedroom only a few seconds after Neil Folliner went in—the latter having found the front door open and guessed from that that something was wrong. He also blurted out something about having come over here to fight—not to be hanged. He realised how suspicious he looked. In addition to all that he thanked my sister quite prettily for bandaging him up. He was a nice kid—we all liked him.”

  “Thanks. Now to get back to our discussion about the shot.”

  “Yes. We talked it over after the Special had gone. When we were alone we began to wonder why we hadn’t heard the shot, and Delaunier recalled my knocking over the stool, and the noise outside which had preceded it. He was quite right. I remembered it then.”

  “Do you know what time it happened?”

  “I haven’
t a watch, and I’m not good about time. Ask Delaunier—he can be much more explicit. I believe I’m right in saying you only want me to state my own evidence, as it were—what I noticed myself.”

  “Perfectly correct.”

  “Then I can’t tell you the time I knocked over the stool. I can tell you that my sister brought the supper in within a few minutes of that incident, and that the Special came to our door before the supper was served out—and Rosanne isn’t slow in getting a meal pushed round.”

  “That’s all quite helpful,” said Macdonald. “Now obviously I want to ask you a number of questions about Mr. Folliner—he’s your landlord, isn’t he?—but I don’t want to keep your friends in the kitchen indefinitely. The simplest course for everybody will be for me to see Mr. Cavenish and Mr. Mackellon, and let them go home. Then your sister and you will perhaps tell me all you can about the deceased.”

  “Right. I tell you frankly we don’t know much. He was a nasty old skinflint—and that’s about all I can state with any certainty. Now would you like me to send Cavenish in?”

  “Thanks very much. I’ll get through the preliminaries as fast as I can.”

  III

  As Manaton walked across the studio to the kitchen door, Macdonald reflected on his words: “We’re not mad, and we’re not entirely mountebanks. Treat us reasonably and we respond.” The painter had shown himself to be a reasonable man and a careful witness—both more reasonable and more careful than the Special Constable who had given voice to accusations concerning the party in the studio. When Cavenish came in, Macdonald in observing him reaffirmed his original impression—here was a reliable and thoughtful man, a typical first-class Civil Servant.

  “I’m afraid I’ve spoilt your chances of finishing your game this evening, Mr. Cavenish,” said the C.I.D. man, “but I thought you might be glad to get a brief interrogation over and get home. The fog is pretty thick.”

  “Thanks—I shall be glad to get home, and it’s going to be a bit of a job. However, Mackellon lives near me, and he’s a reliable chap, fog or no fog. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can tell you which is of any value.”

  “When did you get here this evening?”

  “Seven thirty-five as near as makes no difference.”

  “And you settled to your game almost at once?”

  “Within a quarter of an hour. Delaunier was already arrayed in his scarlet, and he soon took to his pose. You can see the positions of chess-board, chairs, easel, and platform. As I sat, facing Mackellon, I was able to see Delaunier out of the corner of my eye, as it were. He made a blur of scarlet which reflected the light, and I was conscious of it even when I wasn’t looking at him. Mackellon was facing the other way, so that he saw Manaton when he looked up.”

  “Quite—and you were all in the studio, within view of one another, from the time the game started, until the Special knocked at the door when you were beginning supper?”

  “That is so. Miss Manaton looked in on us occasionally from the kitchen.”

  “Did you hear any report outside?”

  “There was a sound like a motor backfiring shortly before supper—it would have been about five minutes to nine, I think, but I can’t be exact. Manaton knocked something down, and then swore at Delaunier for losing his pose. I was preoccupied with the game and didn’t take much notice—I was aware of Manaton and Delaunier, but what interested me was losing an important pawn. Mackellon diddled me properly.”

  Macdonald laughed. “Yes. It’s queer how an experienced player can still have a blind spot. Have you known Mr. Manaton for some time?”

  “Only for a few months. I have known Delaunier as a chess player for some years. He occasionally comes to my rooms for a game, and he brought Manaton with him one evening. Since then, we have had one or two good evenings in this studio, with two chess games going. Miss Manaton plays a good game. Her brother amused himself drawing the players. He has done one very fine study in oils of two chess players.”

  “I should like to see it some time. Now I don’t want to keep you longer than necessary this evening: if further questions arise I can ask them later—is there anything you would like to volunteer in the way of a statement?”

  “Only this. It has no direct bearing on the crime, but I should like to put on record that the behaviour of the Special Constable who made the arrest was overbearing and irritating. Bruce Manaton is an irritable fellow, and he probably spoke foolishly—but I couldn’t help sympathising with him. Taking it by and large, I think the party in here behaved reasonably well. Miss Manaton and I bandaged young Folliner’s ankle. For some reason or other, all of us felt very strongly that the lad wasn’t a murderer.”

  “Feelings don’t get a detective very far,” said Macdonald. “What did Folliner tell you himself?”

  “Briefly—that he had written to his uncle saying he was coming to see him this evening. When he arrived he found the front door open and went upstairs to his uncle’s room; he saw the light under the door, went in, and saw the old man lying dead. A moment later the Special appeared in the room and Folliner lost his head and tried to escape. He tripped over something in the hall and twisted his ankle—and was caught a moment later. He admitted frankly that he tried to run away, saying he realised how suspicious he looked.” Cavenish paused, and then said, “I couldn’t help wondering how the Special appeared at that very apposite moment.”

  “That will be looked into,” responded Macdonald. “I should be grateful if you would do one thing for me, Mr. Cavenish. When you get home will you tax your memory and try to write down accurately every word that Neil Folliner said while he was in here—in his own words. I know this won’t be easy, but I think that you probably have an accurate memory—given time to recall events.”

  Cavenish nodded. “I’ll try. I take it you don’t want me to compare notes with Mackellon, for instance?”

  “I’d rather that you didn’t, please. I’ll ask him to do the same thing—again without comparing notes with anybody.”

  “Right. I’ll do my best alone. Do I leave the resulting composition at Scotland Yard for you?”

  “Thanks very much: that would be helpful.”

  A few moments later Mackellon came into the studio to be interrogated in his turn. His evidence was mainly a recapitulation of that already given. He spoke tersely and clearly, pondering carefully over each statement before he made it—a shrewd and conscientious witness. Macdonald asked him, quite casually, if Rosanne Manaton had been in the studio when the sound outside startled Bruce Manaton and caused him to knock the stool over.

  “No. I don’t think she was, but I can’t be quite certain so far as my own observation is concerned,” replied Mackellon. “I was immersed in the game. I didn’t really see her at all while we were playing, because the kitchen door was behind me, and I didn’t look round when she came in once or twice. I was aware of her opening the door, because the light from the kitchen shone across on to Manaton when the door opened, and he complained about it. He often behaves like a boor, but there’s nothing in that.” He hesitated, and then went on: “If it interests you, my main recollection of the events of the evening, apart from the chess-board, is the play of colour and light around the easel. I couldn’t actually see Delaunier, but the strong light caused the scarlet of his costume to reflect on to the white back of the canvas. I knew when he moved, because the reflection moved. When Miss Manaton opened the kitchen door, I knew it because the pattern of light and shade altered. When Manaton moved I was aware of it even though I wasn’t watching him—that intense blue of his coat caught the light, too.”

  Macdonald nodded. “Yes. I see. Do you paint, too?”

  Ian Mackellon laughed. “A little—but don’t tell Manaton so. He’s intolerant of the amateur.”

  IV

  Delaunier gave his evidence in the manner of an actor taking the centre of the stage. He had a fine voice, b
ut Macdonald found the deep tones slightly irritating—there was a mannered quality about Delaunier’s admirable diction which made his speech seem unreal. He went and sat in the Spanish chair on the platform and talked from there.

  “As a matter of fact, I can tell you more about the events of the evening in here than any of the others can,” he said, “because I was the only one whose mind was not preoccupied. Cavenish and Mackellon were thinking about their game. Manaton was thinking about his drawing. Rosanne was thinking about her cooking. I had nothing to think about but the others. I could recapitulate most of the moves on the chess-board, for instance—I could see it quite clearly. For instance, when the charlady was chatting in the kitchen, Mackellon castled. A few moves later he first put his opponent’s king into check and took a rook at his next move. Just when the bang occurred outside, Mackellon took his opponent’s knight’s pawn.” He paused, and waved his fine large hand. “This narrative is pure waste of time from a detective’s point of view. Four of us were in the studio—myself, in this chair, and three others who were under my observation throughout. Miss Manaton was in the kitchen the whole evening, save for four occasions when she came in here and stood at the door, and a period of two or three minutes when she went outside to inspect the black-out.”

  “How do you know she was in the kitchen when you could not see her?”

  “My dear chap, I could hear her. My hearing is very acute. Figurez vous, mon cher,” he continued cheerfully and expansively. “I am not an artist’s model. I, André Delaunier, I am an actor. I take no pleasure in sitting like a dummy, with no lines to say, no movements to make. I bore myself here on this chair, doing a tableau vivant. I must notice something to occupy myself. There was the chess-board—but Cavenish is no player. He does the obvious thing every time—generally what his opponent means him to do. Bruce—he draws. I cannot see his drawing. He curses me at intervals. I must stay put, I must fix my eyes on the players. But Rosanne, she can cook, I tell you. Yes. She can cook well. I am hungry. I listen to her movements and hope for my supper. I hear her open the casserole, move a saucepan, put plates to heat. Oh, yes. I listen. A hungry man—that is I. A dummy on a chair, yes, but waiting to be fed. You follow me?”