Death of a Commuter

by Bruce, Leo

  Chapter Two

  ON THE LAST DAY OF THE SPRING TERM CAROLUS DEENE, THE senior history master of the Queen’s School, Newminster, returned gratefully to his small house in the town. Not for four weeks would he hear the booming voice of his headmaster whose speech was full of platitudes and pomposity, nor have his class disturbed by awkward questions from a difficult boy named Simmons. In spite of what he considered a vulgarly large private income he took his work as a schoolmaster seriously. He had been grateful for the chance of filling his time and his mind when he had first been released in 1946 from his war service with the Commandos, for his young wife had died during the war. He was grateful to it still. But he was not above having what is common to boys and masters—an end-of-term feeling.

  His hobby—he insisted that it was no more—was the investigation of crime and he had been astonishingly successful in disentangling the evidence in a number of sensational cases. He worked anonymously, both because he preferred to do so and because the headmaster of his school insisted that he should, lest, as he put it, ‘the fair name of The Queen’s School should become sullied’. But from the point of view of investigation it had been an uneventful term. Nothing had happened to rouse his curiosity for several months.

  Two people, he knew, were delighted at this, the headmaster, Hugh Gorringer, and his housekeeper, Mrs. Stick. The headmaster had gone so far as to say so when they had parted today. A large man with immense red hairy ears and a far too evident belief in his own importance, he had unbent to address Carolus privately.

  “I cannot but admit, my dear Deene, that I have felt considerable relief of late to note that your unfortunate hobby has not been in evidence. As you know, it is a matter of concern to me when you become involved in some sordid investigation far better left to the proper authorities. It is some months, if I mistake me not, since we have heard the tocsin.”

  As for Mrs. Stick, she expressed her pleasure quite openly.

  “I was only saying to Stick,” she had told Carolus a week ago, “it’s a long time now since we were mixed up in one of those nasty murder cases. It’s been quite a relief. I don’t have to wonder what my sister in Battersea’s thinking half the time or have my heart jump in my mouth every time the door bell rings.”

  But when Carolus had sunk into his favourite arm-chair that afternoon and Mrs. Stick had set the tea-tray beside him, he felt far from relieved. The holiday that stretched out in front of him seemed dull in prospect. He wanted something to do. A nice neat little murder, perhaps, with a bevy of promising suspects or even one of those clumsy loutish ones which were often, in his experience, the most puzzling. He ate a couple of crumpets spread with anchovy paste and finished his cup of China tea thoughtfully. There was nothing to interest him in the evening paper.

  When Mrs. Stick came to get the tray, however, he saw that the little woman had something on her mind. Her thin lips were tightly set and her steel-rimmed glasses seemed to flash ominously.

  “Stick wants a word with you,” she said.

  “Stick does?” It was a fatuous question but the situation was unprecedented. Stick never wanted a word with anyone. If he had any desires or interests at all they were interpreted by Mrs. Stick.

  “That’s what he says. It’s nothing to do with me,” Mrs. Stick continued. “I’ve told him to let sleeping dogs lie, but there you are.” She turned to the door. “You better come in and tell Mr. Deene what you want,” she called to her waiting husband.

  Stick entered.

  “Yes, Stick?”

  “It’s like this,” said Stick, and stopped.

  “It’s about the gentleman he used to work for,” said Mrs. Stick.

  “That’s it,” corroborated Stick.

  “There’s been something about him in the papers,” Mrs. Stick explained unwillingly.

  “Ah,” said Stick.

  “I don’t know why he wants to bother you with it, sir, but he would have it you must know. Tell Mr. Deene what’s happened.”

  Stick made an effort.

  “He’s dead,” he managed.

  “Well, we’ve all got to die,” said Carolus profoundly.

  “That’s what I told him. Only he’s very obstinate about it. This gentleman’s done for himself. There’s been an inquest and everything.”

  “That’s where it is. I don’t believe it,” said Stick. “Not Mr. Parador.”

  “Parador?” said Carolus. “Yes. I read that case. You used to work for him, did you?”

  “Yes, and knew him well. He wasn’t the man for anything of that sort. What’s more his brother doesn’t think so either.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen him. He lives over Latchfield way. I’ve been over to see him.”

  “You see?” said Mrs. Stick. “Once he gets something into his head there’s no stopping him. It’s not as though it’s any business of his.”

  “But it is, in a way. There’s something for me in his will Mr. Magnus told me so.”

  “All the more reason to keep out of it You’ll find yourself a suspect next.”

  “Why are you so certain about this?” asked Carolus gently.

  “Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Found in his car with an empty bottle of these sleeping tablets. Who put them there, that’s what I’d like to know.”

  “Coroners are no fools,” said Carolus, feeling himself grow more and more sententious. “If there had been the slightest reason for suspicion …”

  “I’m suspicious, anyway,” said Stick obstinately. “I knew the gentleman. I’m not saying he couldn’t have been driven to it by his wife. That could happen to anyone.”

  “You better be careful what you’re saying,” put in Mrs. Stick.

  Stick continued as though he had not heard.

  “But in this case his brother, that’s Mr. Magnus Parador, says she was a very nice woman. He knew them both. Didn’t nag him or anything.”

  “Stick!”

  “So that wasn’t what done it. There’s something funny about it.”

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Carolus.

  “He doesn’t want you to do anything, sir. With you just starting your holiday. Ten to one if you was to get mixed up in it there’d be half a dozen murders before you could say knife.”

  “All the same, I should like to know,” said Stick tenaciously.

  “You say his brother thinks there may be something wrong?”

  “He’s pretty well sure of it. Why don’t you pop over and see him?”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  “There. I told you what would come of it,” said Mrs. Stick desperately. “Now see what you’ve done.”

  “You can’t have someone done for without saying a word, can you, sir?” Stick appealed to Carolus. “When would you be thinking of going?”

  “Tomorrow morning, perhaps. If you’ve got his number I’ll ring him this evening. After dinner,” added Carolus, seeing Mrs. Stick’s face.

  “I was going to say.” Mrs. Stick looked more severe than ever. ‘Just when I’ve got some nice Cocky Saint Jacks for you.”

  Magnus Parador asked Carolus to lunch next day and Carolus drove over to find a long low secluded house with a beautifully kept garden. Magnus was short and voluble.

  “My wife’s in London for the day,” he told Carolus. “So we shall be able to talk. I don’t like discussing this in front of her. She was very fond of Felix and gets upset. Yes, your man Stick came over to see me. He was with my brother for some years before either of them got married. I don’t think Felix committed suicide.”

  “So Stick says.”

  “It doesn’t make sense, Deene. Happily married. No money worries. Easy conscience. A good brain in excellent condition. What would make him take his own life?”

  “I’ve known a good many cases of suicide,” said Carolus. ‘In very few of them could those who knew the man understand it.”

  “You accept the coroner’s verdict, then?”

  “I accept no
thing. But I want something more to go on. I understand how you feel, of course. But there’s only one possible alternative to suicide here.”

  “You mean, murder?”

  “It couldn’t have been an accident.”

  “I agree.”

  “And if it was murder you seem to be up against the why of it as much as with suicide. Had your brother any enemies?”

  “My brother was in Far Eastern Intelligence before the war. Thank God the Japs never knew that. He was in one of their prisoner-of-war camps for two years. I gather the enmities made in those places are everlasting.”

  “I see. But you have never heard of anything of that kind in connection with your brother?”

  “No. I’m bound to admit I haven’t. Then there was his money. He was by any standards a very rich man. Where there is a lot of money there is some motive, I suppose.”

  “Only for those who will inherit it?”

  Magnus smiled grimly.

  “Meaning his wife and me? And Stick, of course.”

  “No one else?”

  “Oh yes. Lots. Legacies which were not large for him but would mean a lot to the recipients. The vicar over there, man named Hopelady, would get a thousand or two—for his children, I think. My brother was godfather to one of them. His gardener, Boggett. His solicitor—and mine by the way—Graham Thriver. Old friend of ours. I don’t know all his business affairs but he had invested some money in a big West End gun shop belonging to two brothers named Limpole. They all lived at Brenstead, by the way. Of course I’m not suggesting that any of them did him in for what he might inherit, but you asked about legacies.”

  Neither spoke for a few moments.

  “I’ve only read a newspaper account of the inquest,” said Carolus. “But there seems no doubt that he died of an overdose of Opilactic sleeping pills. Are you suggesting that he was forced to swallow these?”

  “No. That’s absurd. I don’t know what happened. But there’s something I don’t like about it. I understand you’re a bit of an expert on these things. Why don’t you investigate? I’d be delighted to foot any bill you might want to submit.”

  “I never take on a case unless it interests me,” said Carolus. “When it does, I don’t want money. I enjoy it. You find that morbid, perhaps?”

  “A little. But I hope this is going to interest you. Stick tells me you’ve cleared up a lot of very curious circumstances. There’s one other thing here. My brother travelled with the same five men every day. They all tell a story about a man sitting in my brother’s seat next morning and announcing rather impressively that he wouldn’t be coming. That rouse your curiosity?”

  “Did any of them know the man?”

  “No. They all describe him but each paints a different picture, of course. Apparently he wore dark glasses during the whole journey. If you can’t see a man’s eyes you never know what he looks like. They differ about his height, his age and everything else. But they all think he knew something.”

  “Why didn’t they ask him?”

  “You know what commuters are like first thing in the morning. And of course they had no reason to think anything was amiss then. They just supposed Felix had missed his train. But in retrospect it does seem rather odd.”

  “Yes. But that, too, can be explained in many ways. Was there any evidence at the inquest to explain how he obtained the Opilactic?”

  “No. But if my brother had wanted to obtain it he could, I daresay. It’s sold abroad more freely than here. He spent a holiday in Tangier with Elspeth quite recently, for instance.”

  “Tell me about his wife, if you don’t mind,” said Carolus.

  “I like her. Always have. Bit emotional. She’d been on the stage, I believe. I’d describe them as a devoted couple.”

  “Did you see much of them?”

  “Not recently. I can’t bear that place Brenstead. My father bought the manor house there many years ago, before anyone thought of making it a dormitory town. They left the house and most of the grounds alone and out of a sort of obstinacy Felix continued to live there when they built up all round him. But I found it oppressive. They didn’t often come over here, either. But Felix and I met in town for lunch once a week.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Three days before this happened.”

  “And you noticed nothing unusual?”

  “Absolutely nothing. He seemed particularly cheerful, in fact. He was an easy-going fellow.”

  “You think, in other words, that in spite of the coroner’s verdict, by some means that you cannot even guess, your brother was murdered?”

  “Put like that it does sound a bit unlikely. I think there’s some mystery about his death. That would be nearer to the mark. Or something may have happened suddenly to make him commit suicide. I don’t know.”

  “He couldn’t possibly have been the victim of a blackmailer?”

  Magnus was silent.

  “Unless there’s a whole chapter of his life of which I know nothing I don’t see how it’s possible. He wasn’t the sort of man a blackmailer would go for. And if he was he wouldn’t have got out of it that way. He’d have told me for one thing.”

  “It’s one possible explanation, though.”

  “I suppose so. The whole thing beats me. Let’s go in to lunch.”

  The lunch was good but Carolus was not talkative. Just after they returned to the room in which they had sat before eating he said suddenly to Magnus, “Did your brother carry any sort of brief-case when he went to town?”

  Magnus smiled.

  “It’s funny I never thought of that Of course he did; I gave it him myself. There was no mention of it at the inquest so I suppose it wasn’t found in the car.”

  “What kind of brief-case was it?”

  “I’ll show you in a minute because I’ve got its double. I bought them in Spain just over a year ago. Took my fancy, rather. Saw them in a shop-window in Madrid. They were dull red in colour, very soft Moroccan leather. I got one for myself and one to give Felix.”

  “He used it?”

  “All the time. I used to see it every week when he came to lunch.”

  “He knew you had one like it?”

  “No. I never told him. He was not keen, ever since childhood, on us having the same things. So I never took it with me when we met for lunch. Hang on a minute. You shall see it.”

  Magnus came back in a few minutes with a brief-case of dull crimson Moroccan leather, a thing of quality and distinction yet not outré or ostentatious.

  “Felix’s looked just like this when I saw it last They’d worn about equally.”

  “Would you lend it me for a few days?”

  “Certainly. If it will be of any help.”

  “I think it may. I’d like to see what reactions I get to it in Brenstead.”

  “Fair enough. I wonder what happened to Felix’s, though. It could have been stolen after he was dead. By a chance passer-by, perhaps?”

  “Was his wallet still on the body when they found him?”

  “Yes. With seventy quid in it. And his watch. Nothing, the police said, had been disturbed.”

  Carolus thought for a moment. “I’ll take this on, Parador,” he said. “I’ll go over to Brenstead tomorrow. I agree, there’s something here that doesn’t add up.”

  “I’m glad you’ll take it”

  “I think you had better let your solicitor know.”

  “Thriver? Yes, of course. You won’t get much out of him. Cagey old character. He lives in Brenstead, I told you. I’ll ring him up this evening. I’ll also get in touch with the local doctor. Very good chap named Sporlott.”

  “And Mrs. Felix Parador.”

  “Yes. But don’t upset her, will you? She’s had a rough time through all this.”

  “I’ll try not to. I shall have to see her, though. Is there anywhere to stay in Brenstead?”

  “Yes. Quite a good pub. The landlord’s a pain in the neck. One of these romancing types who has been
everywhere and done everything. But the food’s quite good, I believe. It’s called the Royal Oak. You’ll keep in touch, won’t you?”

  “Of course. Even if I find nothing questionable.”

  “Sure there’s nothing else you want to ask me?”

  “I don’t think so. Unless there are any little personal details about your brother that might help.”

  “People found him reserved. He didn’t chatter much. Some said he was mean. That was nonsense. He had his little economies like most rich men. He hated unnecessary phone calls and switched off lights whenever he saw them left on. But he could be absurdly generous.”

  “Did he drink much?”

  “No. He liked a couple of stiff whiskies in the evening after a hard day, but I don’t call that drinking. He was moderate in most things.”

  “Thanks,” said Carolus.” I’ll do what I can.”

  They parted with a handshake and Carolus drove his Bentley Continental with his usual caution towards Newminster. He put the car in the garage and reached his house as he had done on the day before, at tea-time.

  Mrs. Stick made no reference to his journey but said severely, “The headmaster has been to see you, sir. He’s coming back at five o’clock. I haven’t told him … about Stick.”

  “No, of course not, Mrs. Stick.”

  When Mr. Gorringer returned to Carolus’s study he seemed to be in the best of humour.

  “Ah, Deene,” he said. “I trust you will forgive this intrusion. I am aware that the holidays have begun and I am no longer in a position to demand your time. But I wanted a word with you.”