“Since you put it that way, Henry, I have no option, have I?” said Harrison. “It may be halo-earning or sheer curiosity, I won’t go into your motives, Henry, but, at any rate, get another cup and we’ll go through the points. Still don’t forget when we go through them, as I’ve often told you, although two and two make four when you add or multiply them, three and three don’t do the same thing and I’m not certain whether we’ve got to add or multiply in the case of Mrs. Humbleby’s lodger.”
One of Henry’s special virtues was rapid and excellent shorthand and when he had settled himself down he produced a pencil and notebook. These notes of Henry’s had been found invaluable in most of the curious episodes with which Clay Harrison had to deal and, when it was necessary to report progress, Henry had an uncanny but equally unfailing system by which he found his way through them.
“I must say, Henry,” said Harrison, puffing a cloud of smoke from his cigar, “Mrs. Humbleby is a most intelligent woman. Her story was admirable in every detail. No exaggeration and very little omitted. I will come to that in a moment but first of all let us see what we have got. John Smith, about thirty-seven years of age, is found dead on September 17th, at No. 53, Holt Road, having obviously taken a heavy dose of drugs.”
“But it isn’t quite as simple as it looks, Henry. John Smith wore a wig.”
“And he wasn’t bald?”
“Far from it, Henry. No, he appeared to have a perfectly good head of hair although, of course, it was close cropped. John Smith must therefore have had a very definite reason for wearing a wig. And I must say John Smith without a wig looked an entirely different person from John Smith with a wig. It was really a remarkably simple and effective disguise. Without his wig he looked just about his age but with it he looked anything, a sort of nondescript age, between forty and sixty. I think he must have touched up his eyebrows a bit but that was all. Really, Henry, it was a remarkable wig. I don’t think even you would have noticed it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Henry, quite unexcited by the last remark.
“That is fact number one,” continued Harrison.
“I suppose he was English, sir?”
“Oh, definitely.”
“Well, the police should be able to trace him,” said Henry.
“Undoubtedly,” answered Harrison. “They took photographs, as he was found, and with the wig and without it and they are circulating them. You know, Henry, the police are wonderful people to work with, I’ve said it before and I know I shall say it again. They seemed quite pleased to see me—at any rate, they made me very welcome. No nonsense about barging in or anything like that and they’re letting me have copies of the photographs as soon as they can.”
“Yes, sir, but what about the other facts?”
“Sorry, Henry. Fact number two was the piece of paper with names of foreign places on it which Mrs. Humbleby mentioned. Here they are,” he produced a notebook, and read, “Culoz, Paris, Lille, Brussels, Ostend.”
“That doesn’t mean much, sir.”
“Wait a minute, Henry, take it with fact number three that everybody who saw him said that he spoke with a foreign accent—slightly, maybe, but they all noticed it. It seems that it was not as a foreigner would speak English but as an Englishman would speak it who had been living out of the country for some time. What do you make of that?”
“I should say, sir, that the poor devil crawled home to commit suicide but it’s quite wrong, I know, or you wouldn’t have asked my opinion at all.”
“Come, come, Henry, don’t be cynical,” said Harrison. “That may be the case. Still let us tabulate some more facts. Fact number four, there were no other papers of any kind. No passport even for a man who had obviously been out of England for a long time. That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Yes and no, sir. People who have decided to commit suicide are often very sensitive about their identity. He may have destroyed them, dropped them in the river or something like that.”
“A very sound argument, Henry, so let’s look at fact number five. He died through some kind of drug. There was a bottle half full of tablets containing drugs on the small table by the bed. The doctor thought there was enough left to kill another man and yet, Henry, he died of drugs injected by a hypodermic syringe. There were distinct marks on his left wrist of quite recent injection but there was no sign of a syringe.”
“That makes a difference, sir. No sign whatever?”
“No sign whatever, Henry. So to fact number six. The window was open at the bottom, wide open. I had a good look into the garden, partly to see if I could spot the syringe. It would have been very easy for an athletic person to climb up through the window into the room.”
“Did you find any trace of one, sir?”
“No, Henry, I could find no trace outside at all. No obvious finger marks or footprints. But let us look at fact number seven. There were traces, very small, but definite traces of white powder on the dressing-table and I have no doubt whatever that it was a woman’s face powder. Really, Henry, Mrs. Humbleby’s instinct is remarkable; she felt there had been a woman in the room and, if that face powder means anything, she was right.”
“But isn’t there any other explanation of the face powder, sir,” asked Henry. “Another lodger or a servant or Mrs. Humbleby herself?”
“I tried that,” answered Harrison, “but it doesn’t seem feasible. Face powder is not popular in 53, Holt Road.”
“So you are suggesting, sir,” said Henry, very solemnly, “that John Smith was murdered by a woman who climbed in at the window and powdered her nose before she went out again?”
“Henry, Henry,” said Harrison, equally solemnly. “Jumping at conclusions is a terribly bad failing of yours. All I am suggesting is that it does not look quite so much like a case of suicide as it did.”
“Still—” persisted Henry.
“No, Henry, it won’t do,” Harrison interrupted him. “We don’t know much but it isn’t a bad day’s work, after all. Now tell me, who is Jeanne?”
Henry looked bewildered.
“Yes,” continued Harrison. “Jeanne de Marplay.”
Henry’s nerves showed signs of undue strain. “But, sir,” he said. “You don’t connect her with this, do you?”
“Use your head, Henry, if you please,” said Harrison, severely. “How can I connect her with it. I have no idea who the woman is. She must be a countess, at least, I should think. I have only just seen her name, as a matter of fact.”
Henry’s eyes followed the look Harrison gave towards the mantelpiece and there in front of the clock was a large ivory visiting card with “Jeanne de Marplay” beautifully engraved upon it.
“Oh that, yes,” said Henry, with a large smile.
“I am afraid, Henry, your explanation needs to be slightly more detailed.”
“A first-rater, if I may say so, sir.”
“You may not, Henry. You know I have always disapproved your rather susceptible nature as far as women are concerned. It will bring trouble on both our heads one day. Now then, for heaven’s sake, give me a straightforward answer. What does that card mean?”
“She called while you were out, sir.”
“To see me?”
“Well, not quite as definite as that, sir, but—”
“Now, Henry, tell me exactly what happened and as logically as you can. The countess seems to have made a great impression on you.”
“Well, I must confess she has, sir,” replied Henry, rather sheepishly. “A most attractive woman—you’d say so yourself. Soon after you’d gone out the door-bell rang and I went to it as usual. I opened the door and there on the step stood this lady—”
“A vision of beauty, of course.”
“No doubt of it, sir. Pretty wasn’t the word for her—you might even have called her beautiful. She was wearing a grey fur coat—very expensive I should say. Fairly tall but quite slim. Fair hair—what I could see of it—and looked like a film star. I should say she was English
but she might have been French—that’s what her card says, at any rate.”
“Well?” asked Harrison, rather suspiciously.
“‘Poor things,’ she said, with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Poor what?’ I answered, thinking she must be a bit mad but I tried to sound sympathetic.”
“I can imagine that,” said Harrison.
“‘Poor small game,’ she said and then twinkled again. Then she said, ‘Is Mr. Harrison in’?”
“She asked for me by name?”
Henry hesitated.
“She didn’t, you know, Henry,” Harrison went on. “You let it out yourself, you know. She asked you if anybody was in and, before you realised it—overcome, I should say, by the remarkable fascinations of this very seductive woman—you told her Mr. Harrison was out.”
“That’s exactly what happened, sir, I’m sorry to say. I really am sorry, sir. It was foolish of me.”
“You can’t help it, Henry, but you really must be careful.”
“Still I don’t think any harm was done, sir, because she immediately said she was sorry because she particularly wanted to see Mr. Clay Harrison and it was stupid of her not to have made an appointment.”
“Then I should say she was a clever woman, too, to be able to pick up the threads as quickly as that.”
“She left her card, sir, and said she would come again. Will you see her if she does come?”
“I think I will, Henry, and see if I can be proof against her charms. I suppose you didn’t ask her what she wanted to see me about?”
“Well, she said something about divorce, sir.”
“And you didn’t tell her that I never had anything to do with divorce—couldn’t advise her even if I wanted to. She must have chloroformed you, Henry.”
“Well, sir, I didn’t disabuse her because I thought you might like to see her yourself. I had it in my bones that you would like to see her yourself.”
“Making all allowances that you wanted to see her again, Henry, I think perhaps you were right. She seems clever and attractive, a very dangerous combination. She has a very good visiting card and no address, another dangerous combination. She certainly had some reason for coming to our door and she hadn’t made a mistake. She was looking for information. She knows my name and I assume she will call again. Very interesting, Henry.”
Henry looked extraordinarily relieved but still somewhat sheepish, and his whole attitude showed extreme penitence. So much so that Harrison felt that the time had come to close the conversation and send Henry to his home with a consoling word. A little emphasis on his own desire to see the remarkable lady named “de Marplay” with a touch of flattery regarding Henry’s admitted virtues and Harrison had sent him forth a much happier man.
Chapter III
Two Women Call
The next morning brought no further light on the problem of John Smith but it brought a fresh caller to Clay Harrison’s chambers. Much to Henry’s astonishment, when he answered a rather wild knocking at the door while Harrison was just settling down for the day, he found a young and reasonably attractive woman waiting impatiently to be admitted. She was obviously in a state of great nervous strain and she trembled as she asked whether Mr. Harrison was in.
The events of the last evening had somewhat disturbed Henry’s equanimity and he immediately decided, without a great deal of thought, it must be admitted, that this time at any rate he would not allow any susceptibility to overcome him. He hardened his heart and looked very solemnly at the caller.
“Mr. Harrison,” he said vacantly, as if the name was quite unfamiliar—indeed, as if it was a name which might conceivably be a real one but about which one was at least entitled to an honest doubt.
“Yes,” said the young woman quickly. “Mr Clay Harrison. It’s very urgent. It may be a matter of life or death.”
Henry grew even more solemn. He had succumbed once to the lady who called herself “de Marplay”. Possibly this was an accomplice. She might only be trying to take him in by good acting. The other had certainly looked like an actress.
“I’m sorry,” he said, starting to close the door.
“But I must see him,” cried the young woman, pushing fiercely at the door against him. “I really must. Give him this card. I know he’ll see me then.”
But Henry had also fallen a victim of a visiting card before. He was just going to try to shut the door finally when the young woman exclaimed: “I know Mr. Harrison is here and if you don’t do what I tell you I’ll knock at the door until he comes himself.”
As it seemed very likely that the threat would be carried out and that, if nothing worse happened, Harrison himself would be annoyed at a disturbance of this character, Henry very ungraciously took the card. He then left the door slightly ajar and looked fiercely at the young woman as if to say “Come any farther at your peril” and went off to Harrison’s room. Meanwhile the young woman paced anxiously up and down the landing outside.
“What is it, Henry?” said Harrison. “News from the police?”
“No, sir,” answered Henry. “It’s another woman. A wild one this time.”
“Attractive?” asked Harrison.
“Well, sir—” replied Henry, rather hesitatingly and wishing he had never allowed this second caller to have her way with him.
“Look here,” said Harrison. “It won’t do, Henry, you know. You’d better go in for musical comedy, stage door keeper, or something like that, you’d feel more at home. Directly a woman with any looks at all knocks on the door you want to rush her in to me at once. I shall have to get another clerk. You’re all right for the Mrs. Humblebys but the other clerk can do the rest.”
“She gave me a card to give you, sir,” said Henry, holding it out gingerly.
“Good heavens, Henry,” exclaimed Harrison, looking at the card. “Show her in at once.”
Henry looked at Harrison as if he felt the whole world was going mad. He dashed to the front-door, mumbling the while, and showed the agitated young woman into Harrison’s room.
“Miss Graham,” said Harrison, as she came in. “Do sit down. I am so sorry you were kept waiting but we have to be cautious, you know, and my clerk’s preternaturally so. That is what makes him so valuable to me.”
Henry smiled triumphantly as he closed the door.
“It is good of you to see me,” said the young woman, obviously on the verge of tears.
“Anyone who comes with an introduction from Richard Forster is welcome here,” answered Harrison, as he looked at the visiting card again. “Forster is one of the best friends a man could have.”
“Or a woman,” said Miss Graham. “He said he thought you could help me—if anyone can.” She seemed on the point of breaking down and Harrison waited for a moment.
“I promise to help you if I possibly can,” he said. “I am sorry you should be so distressed and it is obviously something very serious that has brought you to me. Now don’t try and hurry things. Keep as calm as you possibly can and tell me everything you can with as much detail as you are able to remember. If I am to help at all I must know everything. It sounds rather a large order but I don’t mind how long you take—provided we allow the usual break for meals.”
The young woman gave a faint smile and was obviously regaining her control. Looking at her as she sat there, Harrison realised that Henry had been right in his judgment. She had a pleasant, open face. She seemed to be in the middle twenties, and her clothes proclaimed that she was undoubtedly in very comfortable circumstances.
“There really isn’t so much to tell,” she said, looking at him with clear, trusting grey eyes. “I wish there were more. That’s my difficulty and it’s that which frightens me so much. You see, it’s to do with my fiancé.”
“I am afraid that was not difficult to guess,” said Harrison with a kindly smile.
“His name is Gilbert Twining. You may have heard of the Twinings?”
“A very rich family, if it’s the one I’m thinking of,” answered H
arrison.
“That’s Gilbert’s family. He had money of his own from various relatives and lived rather a lonely life. We met at a house party—about three years ago and, although he was nearly ten years older than I was, we seemed to understand one another straight away. Although he did not like going into society—I never quite knew why he went to that particular house party—he used to tell me fate sent him there so that we could meet—and he settled down to seeing me whenever he could. The result was that we were practically engaged. Then his young sister died. They were the only children, their parents were dead and he was extraordinarily devoted to her. I did not know her at all. I believe she was about my age but she was an invalid when I met Gilbert and I never saw her. It was a terrible blow to him, her death. It seemed to change him entirely. He grew harder altogether and seemed to become bitter against the world. I often tried to make him talk about her to me but he refused to although I was certain it would have been a relief if I could have got him to do so.
“I tried my hardest to interest him in other things. I even said it was not fair to me but it seemed to have no effect, and then he came to me and said I was quite right, it was not fair to me. He had no right to keep me to an unspoken promise. Of course I told him not to talk nonsense but he said again he had no right. Then he said he would have to go away and I argued with him—I am afraid I cried a bit—but I could not shake him. He said there was something that had to be done, he would not tell me what it was but he must do it. He expected to take two or even three years doing it, and I should hear from him, if I wanted to, but I should not see him again until it was done.”
“Very strange,” said Harrison.
“I knew it was no good questioning him,” Miss Graham continued. “I could tell that he meant every word he said and that nothing would alter his decision. But we did love each other, he couldn’t argue about that, and so we decided to be officially engaged and he went off, promising to marry me as soon as he had finished his job.”
“And you had no idea what it was?”
“Not the smallest idea. I gathered he would be going abroad but I did not know whether he would be out of Europe or not. Still, that was the best arrangement I could get from him. I knew him too well to think that he was going away for amusement. He had some fixed idea in his mind and he felt it was his duty—in a way one might almost say his sacred duty—to carry it out. So I accepted what I could get.”
Dusty Death Page 2