Mad About the Boy?

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  He looked up as heavy official footsteps sounded outside the french windows.

  Smith-Fennimore stood alertly as Stanton, walking between Sergeant Ingleton and Constable Bevan, came into the room. Superintendent Ashley brought up the rear and behind him, walking with her father, was Isabelle. Stanton wasn’t handcuffed but the policemen stood very close to him.

  ‘Hello, Malcolm,’ said Isabelle in as natural a voice as she could manage. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve recovered.’

  ‘We all are,’ said Sir Philip.

  ‘Isabelle . . .’ began Smith-Fennimore, then stopped. He shook himself like a man coming up from underwater, strode forward to the door and took her hands, looking intently into her eyes. ‘Isabelle, I have to know. Are we engaged?’

  There was a movement from Stanton and Smith-Fennimore turned on him. ‘So you remember that much, do you? I wonder just how much else you remember?’

  Stanton, standing between the policemen, looked honestly puzzled. ‘I don’t remember you at all,’ he said. He glanced over to Haldean. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. This isn’t working.’ He looked round the room and shivered. ‘I wish I hadn’t agreed to this. I don’t know why, but this place gives me the creeps.’

  ‘The creeps, Arthur?’ Haldean twirled the Colt in his hand. ‘I’m not surprised. After all, this is where this happened.’ He pointed the gun toward the open window and fired.

  The noise in the quiet room was deafening. Isabelle yelped and Stanton made an instinctive jump towards her. The two policemen recovered their prisoner with a very unfriendly glare at Haldean.

  ‘Good God, boy!’ exclaimed Sir Philip. ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’

  Haldean half smiled. ‘Sorry, everyone. It’s scary, isn’t it? Especially when you’re on the other end of the bullet as Arthur was that day. I’m reconstructing the crime.’

  Smith-Fennimore held out his hand for the gun. ‘I think you’d better give me that before you decide to take this reconstruction business any further.’ He slipped the gun back in his pocket.

  ‘Well, Arthur?’ said Haldean. ‘Did that stir any memories?’

  Stanton shook his head and swallowed. ‘No. I tell you, I can’t remember a thing.’

  Smith-Fennimore made a dismissive noise. ‘I bet you remember more than you want to admit.’

  ‘And so do I,’ said Haldean quietly. He met Stanton’s startled gaze squarely. ‘I think it’s about time we all knew the truth.’

  Smith-Fennimore looked from Isabelle to Stanton, shrugged, then settled himself on the edge of the table across the room from Haldean. ‘We know the truth.’

  ‘We know what appears to be the truth,’ corrected Haldean. ‘For instance, we know Lyvenden ruined Arthur’s parents and as good as killed them. That’s a dickens of a motive. I found the murder weapon hidden in his room. That’s his means. We all know Arthur was alone with Lyvenden. That’s his opportunity. And he was caught, literally, red-handed. He protested very loudly that he hadn’t done a thing but how can we possibly believe him? Because an innocent man – any innocent man – who discovered the body would have come for help.’

  Stanton turned desperate eyes to Haldean. ‘Jack, please! I can’t deny it, because I can’t remember a blessed thing about it.’

  ‘So even if you were utterly innocent, you wouldn’t know.’

  ‘That’s right. I simply don’t know. I can’t remember a damn thing.’

  Ashley made a discontented noise. ‘It might be to your advantage if you could remember what happened, Captain Stanton. There’s a very strong case against you. I can’t see it failing.’

  From somewhere on the edge of hearing, Haldean heard a faint sigh of relief. It was a sound he had been hoping for. ‘There is a strong case against you, Arthur,’ said Haldean, taking a cigarette and tapping it on the back of his hand. ‘There’s only one thing wrong with it. It’s complete and utter rubbish. You didn’t murder Lyvenden and you certainly didn’t murder Tim.’

  ‘Damn it, boy,’ said Sir Philip testily. ‘Nobody did murder Preston.’

  ‘Oh yes, they did, Uncle.’

  ‘Well, who was it, then? And if the police know who it is, why haven’t they arrested him?’

  ‘They can’t arrest him,’ said Haldean softly. ‘You see Tim’s murderer is dead. Tim’s murderer was Lord Lyvenden.’

  ‘What?’ Sir Philip looked stunned.

  Smith-Fennimore moved restlessly but said nothing.

  ‘You see,’ continued Haldean, ‘Lord Lyvenden knew Tim had found a letter. Tim thought it was written in code. In fact it was written in Russian and what was on the letter could destroy Lyvenden. There were other papers, too, and they very well could have been in English. I don’t think Tim saw them, but Lyvenden, the careless, stupid, frightened Lyvenden, probably believed he had.’ His voice was grim. ‘It was Lyvenden, the arms manufacturer, who was knowledgeable enough about explosives to plant a squib that would go off at ten to ten. It was Lyvenden who sent the maid on a quite unnecessary errand to fetch Lady Harriet’s shawl so she could witness the false gunshot when Lyvenden was surrounded by people. It was Lyvenden who sent Tim running backwards and forwards throughout the ball so his absence wouldn’t be noticed. It was Lyvenden who had arranged for fireworks to explode all evening so that one little pop from a tiny pistol wouldn’t be noticed. It was Lyvenden – who else? – who was in a position to dictate the business letter which could be used as a suicide note and, finally, it was Lyvenden who followed Tim upstairs when he’d sent him for his cigarette case and used his own gun to commit murder.’

  ‘Hold on, Haldean,’ said Smith-Fennimore. ‘Aren’t you overlooking something? Lyvenden was murdered too. You’re not saying he stabbed himself in the chest to convince us of his innocence, I presume?’

  Haldean shook his head. ‘Of course not.’ He blew out a long mouthful of smoke. ‘You see, you knew Lyvenden, didn’t you, Smith-Fennimore? You knew what he was capable of. After all, you shared his secret. It didn’t take you long to work out what had really happened. You knew he’d murdered Tim and you hated him for it. Hated him enough to kill him.’

  Smith-Feimimore slid off the table and stood upright. He looked at Haldean for a few moments with blazing eyes and then he laughed. ‘Oh, come on! You told me you wanted to do your best for Stanton but this is going a bit too far. Have you any intention of proving this or are you just going to sling accusations around? I’d like to know exactly what you’re basing this fantastic theory on. There’s such a thing as slander, you know.’

  ‘So there is.’ Haldean met his eyes challengingly. ‘Slander means making a false accusation. I haven’t done that. Perhaps if I just run through your actions, you can tell me where I’ve got it wrong?’

  ‘Be my guest, old man.’ Smith-Fennimore took a cigarette from his case. ‘If it gives you any pleasure, do go on.’

  Haldean bowed his head briefly. ‘Thank you. On Monday, when you were in London, you bought a knife identical to the knife the Russian had left. After you scratched the initials A.C. and Sunday’s date on it, your knife was indistinguishable from the original. You bought it from Hawley’s fishing tackle and gun shop on Lacey Street. You’re a well-known man, Smith-Fennimore, and it was easy to get a picture of you. Mr Hawley picked out your photograph very easily.’

  ‘He might be a motor-racing fan,’ said Smith-Fennimore icily. ‘Have you thought of that?’

  Haldean shrugged once more. ‘He was very certain about it. However, you needed another knife. You’d already stolen the one Mr Chamock had. They’re common enough, those knives. I thought it was odd when you insisted otherwise.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about knives!’ Smith-Fennimore insisted. ‘This is complete nonsense and you know it.’

  ‘Nonsense?’ repeated Haldean. ‘I don’t think so. After golf on Tuesday morning you went to Lord Lyvenden’s room with a large briefcase containing the Argentine business papers, a motoring coat, some motoring gloves and Gerasimov’s knife. Y
ou must have been irritated to find Adamson still around. However, by producing the confidential papers and asking Lyvenden to study them there and then, you more or less ensured that Adamson would be dismissed.’

  ‘It’s odd I don’t remember all this.’

  Haldean ignored him. ‘You waited concealed in the corridor until Adamson left. It’s dark along there and you managed it easily. Then you went back into Lyvenden’s room. I imagine that you explained to Lyvenden whilst you put on your motoring things that you were going out in the car. You could even have told him that you wanted to post the document right away, and waited until he signed it. Then you stabbed him, rather messily, with the Russian’s knife. You left the papers, which would provide a useful excuse for a search later on, and, stripping off the bloodstained coat and gloves, packed them back in the bag. I think you left through the french windows and took the key. We never did find the key. You put the bag in your car. We’re at the end of the house here, and there was little chance of you being seen. Entering the house through the side door, you ran into me in the hall and proceeded with the rest of the grim charade, the business of framing Arthur Stanton. Arthur worried you, didn’t he?’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Smith-Fennimore. ‘I can’t remember being so very worried myself.’

  Haldean shook his head. ‘You were. Despite Isabelle being engaged to you, you knew he was your one real rival. Besides that, you needed someone to blame for the murder. You attempted to shoot him when he ran for it, but when he escaped you were going to leave him to a shameful death on the gallows.’

  Haldean stopped, looking at Smith-Fennimore. ‘You crossed a barrier there, didn’t you?’ he said softly. ‘I don’t know, but I’m willing to bet that was the first mean, degraded action of your life. The murder you could excuse; it was revenge. But this? I think it worried you. You couldn’t justify yourself.’

  For a fraction of a second there was an expression in Smith-Fennimore’s eyes which Haldean knew would haunt him. Defiance, shame . . . regret? Then, just as quickly, the expression was gone, replaced by wary interest.

  Haldean shrugged. ‘You knew Stanton’s reputation for mislaying things and played on it. You took his cuff-link box from his room that morning and planted the second knife in his chest of drawers. If I hadn’t been so obliging as to find it, you would have done so. You concocted a very natural reason to be left alone with Stanton. I left you both and went downstairs. You took the knife with you, of course.’

  Smith-Fennimore held his cigarette with a hand that was trembling slightly. ‘Don’t stop there, Haldean,’ he said pleasantly. ‘This is fascinating. I can see why you became a writer of cheap fiction.’

  Haldean ignored the gibe. ‘You both went to Lyvenden’s room – you probably said it was better if you both arrived for lunch together – and you ushered Arthur in first, shut the door after him and jammed it tight with a door wedge. Then you went off, the picture of innocence, to join the rest of us at lunch. That door’s rock solid when you wedge it. I know, I’ve tried, with the help of the Superintendent here. Things worked out perfectly at first. Lawson brought the news of the dust-up in Lyvenden’s room, which was, of course, Arthur shouting to be released. When we went to investigate, you made it your business to be first to the keyhole, fell over, and removed the wedge. There’s a wedge in the billiard room which has a handle on it. That would do the job perfectly. Then things started to go badly wrong. Arthur escaped and Isabelle spoiled your aim for the second shot. And – this must have been a bitter blow – so far from Isabelle turning against Arthur, she became passionately convinced of his innocence. But you couldn’t draw back, could you? You’d gone too far for that. When you went out alone you were able to throw the coat, gloves, bag and knife into the sea.’

  ‘At this point,’ said Smith-Fennimore, in stinging mockery, ‘I believe I’m meant to shout “Oh, God, it was me!” and either make a run for it with the flatties on my tail or, less dramatically, fall to my knees and sob out a confession. Well, you can go making up this hogwash until you’re blue in the face, but I’m not about to do either. I’m sorry, Haldean, but you’re holding a busted flush.’

  Haldean moved very slightly and his eyes narrowed. ‘Wait. You wanted the Russian document. This room was securely locked and the windows boarded up but, as soon as you could, you got in here. You couldn’t find the document but knew where it must be after I told you that Arthur had run off with Lord Lyvenden’s cigarette case. Well, now you had a problem. Not only was Stanton loose, he had a very incriminating piece of paper on him. The police couldn’t find him and your Russians couldn’t find him, so you arranged your own kidnapping so you could have a free hand to control the search without having to make dangerously traceable telephone calls. When he turned up, you arranged to be found in circumstances that would allay any suspicion.’

  Malcolm Smith-Fennimore blew a smoke-ring, crushed out his cigarette and lit another one. ‘Very interesting,’ he remarked. ‘Nicely put together, too. I must read some of your stuff sometime. You haven’t got a shred of proof, though.’

  ‘Oh, haven’t we?’ said Haldean. He shifted his weight on to the ball of one foot, like a boxer about to strike. ‘What about the paper we found in Lyvenden’s cigarette case?’

  Smith-Fennimore didn’t reply.

  Haldean held up the original and the translation. ‘I’ll read it, shall I?’

  The cigarette which Smith-Fennimore was holding to his mouth trembled, but still he said nothing.

  Haldean cleared his throat. ‘We, the undersigned, promise to transfer the sum of One Million and Forty Three Thousand Pounds Sterling, currently held by Smith, Wilson and Fennimore, Bankers, London EC3, under the title of “Russian Investment Holdings: 1904–14” less a commission of Twenty Thousand Pounds Sterling, to be divided between the undersigned, to the Account of Yusif Dolokhov, Bank of Vaud and Fribourg, Geneva, Number RN3426750956YD. Signed: Victor, Lord Lyvenden. Malcolm Smith-Fennimore.’

  Smith-Fennimore ran his tongue over his dry lips. ‘So you’ve found out some of the bank’s private business, have you? I can’t see that’s any of your concern.’

  ‘Oh, really? Not even when the money’s not yours to transfer? That’s theft.’

  ‘Tell everyone who Yusif Dolokhov is, Haldean,’ said Ashley, quietly. ‘That’ll explain what’s been going on.’

  ‘Yusif Dolokhov,’ said Haldean, looking round the room, ‘is a prominent member of the Central Committee of the Russian Communist Party. He’s also known to be very hot on the Third International, which is behind the Bolshevik uprisings that are making Europe such an interesting place. Soviet Russia is desperate for money Smith-Fennimore decided to supply some. Smith-Fennimore is funding a revolution. Aren’t you?’

  Smith-Fennimore licked his lips again. ‘I can’t see why these private details of bank transfers should be read out to all and sundry’ His voice was unsteady. ‘But even if you have been poking around in my affairs, you still haven’t proved a damn thing about murder.’

  ‘Oddly enough, I thought much the same,’ said Haldean unexpectedly. ‘You were safe – you were absolutely safe – as long as no one guessed what you’d done. But what if someone had seen you that day in the corridor? What if someone had seen you usher Arthur into the room and wedge the door tightly shut? And what if that same someone had written to you demanding money and you paid up?’

  Smith-Fennimore’s face turned putty white. ‘I . . . I . . .’ he began, then stopped.

  ‘After all,’ went on Haldean implacably, ‘all the letter said was that the writer had seen what you’d done in the corridor outside Lord Lyvenden’s room at quarter to two or so on Tuesday. If the answer was nothing, you would not have left two hundred pounds under the floor of the summerhouse.’

  Ashley drew a large brown envelope from his pocket. ‘I saw you go into the summerhouse, Commander. You left this envelope concealed under the loose floorboard. It contains two hundred pounds in cash which we will be able to
trace to you and a note in your handwriting.’

  Smith-Fennimore, his face a ghastly colour, tried to summon up his old manner. ‘I really can’t see why I should listen to any more of this.’ He edged down the room, away from Haldean. ‘In fact, I’m not going to any longer.’

  Ashley moved forward to block the french windows but Smith-Fennimore made a sudden leap, not for Haldean, but for Isabelle. Holding her tightly by the throat, he wrestled her round in front of him. Pulling out his gun he clapped it to her head. ‘One move from anyone and she’s for it.’ Sir Philip started forward and Smith-Fennimore’s finger tightened on the trigger. ‘I mean it,’ he grated. He started backwards towards the french windows. ‘Come on, Isabelle. You’re coming with me.’

  Isabelle made a valiant attempt to free the clutching hand from her throat. ‘Malcolm, stop it! You’re hurting me!’ Her voice was a gasp. ‘Malcolm, let go!’

  The grip on her throat increased, an ugly caricature of an earlier caress. ‘To be someone else’s wife, my dear? I don’t think so.’

  ‘You damn swine!’ It was Arthur Stanton. He slipped from between the policemen and stood between Smith-Fennimore and the window. ‘Let her go. Let her go or so help me, I’ll kill you.’

  The gun jerked up to cover Stanton. Stanton, regardless, walked towards him.

  Isabelle squirmed desperately in Smith-Fennimore’s grasp, then stamped down hard on his foot. Grunting, he slackened his grip and she wriggled free. Smith-Fennimore pulled the trigger as Stanton sprang.

  The gun clicked uselessly. Smith-Fennimore fell under Stanton’s attack and pulled the trigger twice more. Scrabbling on the floor, he threw off Stanton, evaded Ashley’s clutching hands, avoided Sir Philip, cracked his fist into Sergeant Ingleton’s stomach and raced for the window.

  ‘Come on!’ yelled Haldean. ‘After him!’

  Constable Bevan slapped a hand on Arthur Stanton’s shoulder.