Death for Madame

by Peter Main

The Chief Inspector’s face was twisted as near as possible into a scowling grimace.

  “This looks,” he said, “like being the hell of a case. I’ve got the uncomfortable feeling that we’re pretty well certain to find that most of our time is spent in tracking red herrings to their lairs.”

  He broke off, conscious that the metaphors were on the point of getting beyond his control.

  “You know what I mean,” he tried again, “I mean that we’ll probably find plenty of evidence against the Bakers and against young Grimble of some crimes or other, but nothing that will connect them with the murder of Mrs. Rattigan.”

  “Uhhuh,” the old man looked thoughtful, “ye might almost be inclined to acquit them on these grounds. The crook certainly don’t want anythin’ going on or happenin’ which may interfere wi’ his crookedness goin’ on quietly in the dark, eh? In fact, if the Messrs. Baker, Grimble, Morgan and Co. are up to any funny business, the last thin’ they’d want ’ud be a blinkin’ murder which ’ud turn the blinkin’ eyes o’ the thundering police on ’em, eh?”

  “That’s right,” said the Chief Inspector solemnly. “On the other hand, of course, it might be that one of them had already argued in that way, and had come to the conclusion that, having already been in stir, a short sentence wouldn’t trouble them more and the fact that we found something upon which we could take proceedings might be thought to be a bright way of throwing the dust in our eyes. What do you think of that, John?”

  The Professor scowled at his filthy little pipe. He pushed it into the corner of his mouth and ran his hand through his hair.

  “I dunno,” he said, speaking round the stem of the pipe, “I’d say at a guess that that was bein’ a bit too clever for any o’ the crooks we’re dealin’ wi’. As you yerself ha’ pointed out, the trouble wi’ the Bakers is their blinkin’ lack o’ imagination. They went on playin’ the same game even after it was obvious to everyone that they were playin’ it. They got no gumption—ye might think that the runnin’ o’ a gamblin’-house instead o’ common thievin’ shows they got a little sense, but I doubt it.” He shook his head sadly. “No. With all the Americans over here durin’ the war an’ all the people who’d more money than they had sense, it was stickin’ out a mile that a gamblin’ set-up would be payin’. Pity I didn’t think o’ it meself. I might ha’ made me fortune.”

  He paused thinking of himself under bright lights raking in other people’s money. I could see this from his face. He looked rather cast down at the loss of opportunities.

  “Funny,” he went on, “though it’s against the thunderin law, ye’ll ha’ a job to prove to an Englishman that runnin’ a gamin’-house is a crime. So long as the place is run moderately straight, the average man’ll be on the side o’ the lawbreakers rather than on the side o’ the police. Talking o’ gamblin’, Reggie,” he sounded more cheerful, “how’d ye like a ticket in the Irish Sweep?”

  It was then that I saw a sight which I am not likely to forget. There, within the solemn precincts of Scotland Yard, a Chief Inspector of Police buying a ticket for the Irish Sweepstake from the disreputable figure of Professor Stubbs.

  “Dammit,” I said. “You know, Chief Inspector, that you’ll never win anything on that ticket. The old man is sure to forget to send the stubs and the money back. You’ve just made him a present of ten and six.”

  The Professor glared at me indignantly.

  “What the hell,” he inquired, “d’ye think I employ ye for? Just as a kinda ornament aroun’ the place, or what? I hope that ye’ll remind me that I got to send the pieces an’ the money off, as I got a kinda idea that maybe I’ll win somethin’ this time.”

  “You’ve had that idea,” I said rudely, “ever since I’ve known you, but you’ve never won anything yet, and I think the chances of your winning anything are astronomically small.”

  Professor Stubbs sighed heavily. His face took on the expression which I understand to mean that he is misunderstood and hardly treated by the world.

  The Chief Inspector had tucked the ticket away in his wallet. He did not pay much attention to my bickering with the old man but pulled the papers which cluttered the top of his desk towards him. He bent over them with the expression of a man trying to find a place on a map which happens to be a map of another district.

  “Well, then, Reggie,” the Professor hoisted himself heavily out of the chair, “I suppose you got work to do, eh?” The Chief Inspector nodded without looking up. “In that case I guess that we’d better be gettin’ along?” This was said in a tone that indicated that, given the least encouragement, he would stay and give the police the benefits of his expert advice and opinions. There was no encouragement forthcoming.

  The old man looked pathetically at the Chief Inspector, the top of whose head looked inexpressibly stern. He shrugged his shoulders and turned to me.

  “Well, Max,” he said, “it don’t look as though we can do any good here, so I suppose we’d better get movin’, eh?”

  We said good-bye to the Chief Inspector, who was polite but not forthcoming, and wandered down the stairs. My inside turned over on me at the thought of the forthcoming ride in that damned old car with the damned old man at the wheel.

  Chapter 7

  Under New Management

  MR. BEN CARR sat at the table so recently occupied by his aunt. I noticed that he had brought out a different chair and sat at a different place. He looked across at the large rocking-chair and eyed it with distrust. He seemed to be very pleased to see us.

  “Hullo, hullo, hullo,” he said, but his tone was rather sombre. “I am glad to see you, Professor, and you, cock. You know I’ve never tried my hand at running a hotel before and I don’t know how I’ll make out. I somehow think it’ll be a bit difficult. But there’s one good thing, anyhow. I’ll be able to house Maggie and the kids. There’s not really room for all of us in the flat where we’ve been staying, but there’ll be plenty of room here for as many as you like. I might even think of having some more children, eh? That would be a good idea, what?”

  This remark was not a question which required an answer. I remembered Mr. Carr’s aged mother telling me that breeding had always been Ben’s trouble. It was either mice or dogs or children. The trouble with children, as she had pointed out, was that they were a lot slower in reaching maturity than most other animals and consequently once you had bred them they needed the hell of a lot of looking after.

  “You know, cock,” Mr. Carr addressed the Professor, “it’s pretty odd being as poor as Lazarus, if he was poor, one day and then waking up as rich as Robinson Crusoe the next. I’m not at all sure, not sure at all, that. I like it, and I certainly don’t like it happening this way. After all I liked old Lottie Rattigan. She was a sporting old girl and would never refuse to stake a fellow to a pint of bitter and sausage and mashed. I wonder who did her in?”

  He looked thoughtfully at us. Then he glared across at the empty rocking-chair, and let his eyes wander round the pictures on the wall.

  “The place’ll never be the same without her,” he said solemnly, “of course Annie’ll help me run it till I get the hang of things, but I can’t expect her to want to keep on for ever. You know she was devoted to Aunt Lottie and wouldn’t hear a word against her. Ordinary scandal, of course, didn’t count, and the fact that Aunt Lottie had been a bit of a gay young bitch in her day only made her appear better to Annie, who, I’m afraid, was neither young nor gay. At least I can’t imagine her being either, can you?”

  Professor Stubbs shook his head solemnly. He moved slowly round the table until he stood beside the rocking-chair.

  “Look’ee here, Carr,” he said, “I’m goin’ to sit in her chair.” Mr. Carr seemed to be about to protest but the steam-roller of the old man’s verbosity ran him down. “No. It’s no use yer sayin’ that it’s wrong. Ye see, ye’re already buildin’ up a kinda legend about Lottie Rattigan an’ if ye don’t break it, ye’ll find it’ll get so thunderin’ strong that ye ain’t got
the strength to break it.”

  He sat down heavily in the rocking-chair and swung it gently.

  “Look here, son,” he said suddenly, “I was just wonderin’ if by any chance ye had had any ideas about the situation with regard to yer aunt’s will. Did yer know ye’d any chance o’ inheriting all this.”

  Mr. Carr chewed thoughtfully at the cuticle of his left thumb nail.

  “Well, of course,” he spoke slowly, “I did know that there was a chance of my inheriting something from her. But then if I put a fiver on a horse, picked with a pin out of a newspaper, there always is the odd chance that it’ll bring home the bacon. What I’ve been trying to make clear is that Aunt Lottie’s will was no more predictable than a horse picked with a pin. It just sort of happened that I was there when the wheel came round. It might just as well have been left to found a home for stray budgerigars, or an almshouse for retired keepers of bawdy houses. You know,” his voice was thoughtful, “Roland was right when he suggested the old girl was bats. She was, I’m afraid, as crazy as a nest of coots—talking of coots, have you ever noticed how unfortunate they are—the ruddy birds are drunk, crazy, bald and queer.”

  This irrelevancy sounded more like the Mr. Ben Carr that I knew. He looked round at us.

  “Cock,” he said to the Professor, “would you mind pressing that bell on the table. I think we should have something to drink.”

  The old man pressed the carved knob cautiously. After nearly a minute we hear the slipper-slopper of old feet coming along the corridor. Arthur appeared. He looked as though he had suddenly aged by twenty years in the last few hours. The lines of his face were fallen and pathetic. His stiff shirt front was slightly buckled and one of the studs had failed to hold it in place.

  “Yes, Mr. Ben,” he said and his voice was that of a nineteenth-century family retainer, “what would you like, sir?”

  “Arthur, cock,” said Mr. Carr, “there’s no use in putting on the Mister. I was Ben when you first walloped my backside for sampling the beer, and so far as you’re concerned I’m still Ben and you can drop the sir, too. What I’d like is four pints of bitter—the Prof. there drinks twice as fast as the rest of us. And,” he seemed to have a sudden bright idea, “is there any of that ’68 brandy left?”

  The old man nodded his head. “Well, Arthur, cock, I’d be obliged if you’d pour out a large dose of that and take it yourself.”

  The old man, trained in the ways of the Carr and Rattigan families, showed no surprise.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said then recollected Mr. Carr’s words, “I mean thank you, Ben.”

  “That’s O.K., cock,” said Mr. Carr. He pulled out a box of immense cigars which he had hidden under a pile of papers on the table. “These,” his voice was solemn, but no longer sombre, “were Aunt Lottie’s specials. I know she wouldn’t rest quiet if she knew they were lying here going dry instead of being smoked. Have one.”

  He passed them round. With slow tired steps the old waiter came back up the passage.

  “Mmm,” said the old man at the sight of the beer, “I knew I was gettin’ sorta thirsty.”

  “Thank you, Arthur,” said Mr. Carr. “Did you take your drink as I told you to?” The old man nodded wearily. “That’s the stuff, Arthur. By the way, now you’ve got a spot of money coming to you, I suppose you’ll want to retire?”

  “No, Master Ben,” the old man said, and Mr. Carr let the title pass, “I’d much rather stay on here, just so long as I’m able.” He turned to go down the passage and, as he went, I heard him mumbling over and over to himself, “so long as I’m able—so long as I’m able—so long as I’m able.”

  Mr. Ben Carr looked after him as he went. He sighed heavily as he buried his nose in his tankard.

  “He’s a good old fellow,” he said, coming up for air. “I’ve known him ever since I was a kid. He adored Aunt Lottie, even though she used to make his life hell for him. If there was one drink that the hotel had not got in stock, she’d be sure to want a drop of that—she always had things in drops, you know, even champagne, which she used to drink by the bottle. A bottle was just a drop to her. Silly sort of drink, I always say, just like an expensive lemonade.”

  “Hear, hear,” the Professor said, coming up from the bottom of his second tankard of beer, rather like the diver in a Tommy Handley show. “Can’t stand the stuff meself. Of course, it’s all right if ye mix it wi’ stout, or if ye happen to have some rather undrinkable brandy ye can use it instead o’ soda, but as for takin’ the stuff neat. Bah!” He shuddered violently and theatrically. I have nothing against champagne myself, but I could see that I was in a minority, so I said nothing.

  The old man puffed contentedly at his cigar. He looked at the blue smoke rising steadily.

  “Nice smoke this,” he remarked conversationally, “though I must say that I like somethin’ a bit stronger meself.” It was my turn to shudder. I remembered some of the cigars which the old man had offered me. They would have fumigated a ward of patients suffering from bubonic plague. The Professor scowled at me and turned back to Mr. Carr. “As ye were sayin’, son, yer aunt’s will was as unpredictable as a ball in roulette, but what I’d like to know is whether ye were aware that ye were in her will at the present moment.”

  “As a matter of fact, cock,” Mr. Carr had brightened considerably, “I hadn’t the faintest idea whether I was in it or not. You see, I gave up worrying about that years ago. There didn’t seem to be any future in it. Aunt Lottie wasn’t one of those people who kept you in her will because you were nice to her. Good God, no. She would change her will as you change your shirt—not always because it looks dirty, but sometimes because you’re tired of it or think it must be time you changed it. She just liked fiddling with her will and did not give a damn what was in it. You see, I think she thought that she was immortal, and that if the time did come for her to die, she’d die respectably, with plenty of time to make out a will the way she really wanted it. Until that time came along her will was just a sort of toy which she played with. You might say, cock, that I’ve inherited under an interim will and not under the real thing at all. On the other hand, the old girl was cute in her way, as you can see from the way in which she tied Roland up. I don’t mind a man who does nothing and who does it well, but Roland does it so damn badly, and when he scrounges he makes himself out to be so ruddy pathetic that I want to kick his backside. I mean, if he came to me and said, ‘Ben, old cock, I’ve dropped me last fiver on a dog, can you lend me one?’ Why then I’d try and fish it out if I had it. But when he comes along all pathetic and shoves out a hard-luck story, when then some thing goes wrong with me and I can’t give him the money. Do you understand, Prof.?”

  The Professor nodded his head absently and the mass of grey hair wagged up and down as he did so.

  “Umhum,” he said, “I get that way meself about beggars: so’s I don’t give money to the man who tells me he’s supportin’ a wife an’ twelve kids, but I’ll give half a dollar to the feller who says he’ll go an’ have a dam’ good drink on the proceeds. Kinda antisocial, I suppose, but it’s the way we’re made. We admire the good honest scoundrel an’ we can’t put up wi’ the whiner, no matter how genuine his distress may be.”

  Mr. Carr rose absent-mindedly from his seat, collected the empty tankards and made off down the corridor. Professor Stubbs looked rather curiously at the carving on the table, as well he might, for it certainly was one of the most grotesque pieces that I’ve ever seen, with tortured dolphins supporting the rose entangled top. It would have been quite impossible to do any work at it, for, as likely as not, one would have been stabbed in the right hand by a sharp spur of wood.

  The reappearance of Mr. Carr, carrying four tankards with foam to the edge, drew the old man’s attention from his study of nineteenth-century misapplied ingenuity.

  “Skin off your nose,” said Mr. Carr conversationally, and then he looked rather thoughtful. “You don’t suppose, by any chance, do you, that the cops have g
ot it into their thick heads that I knocked off old Aunt Lottie?”

  “Hmm,” the old man scratched the side of his blunt nose and settled his glasses, which had slid down to the end of it, firmly on the bridge, “ye know, son, I ain’t got the foggiest idea what the police think. They are bein’ dam’ cagey an’ that makes me think they may ha’ somethin’ up their braided sleeves which they don’t want to tell me. I wouldn’t really worry though, if I was in yer position, for I know ye didn’t kill the old bird an’ ye can rely on me. If they try any funny games on ye, just ye come along an’ tell me. Ye can trust the old man, all right. I’ll put the whole o’ London in clink if I can get ye out.”

  The thought did not seem to brighten Mr. Carr’s outlook on life. He took a squashed packet of Woodbines from his pocket and lit one of them.

  “Hell, cock,” he said sadly, “it looks as though I might be losing not only my aunt but also my liberty. I don’t like it at all.”

  “Oh, liberty, what crimes are committed in thy name,” the sepulchral voice sounded from the doorway. We all turned sharply. There in the open door stood a melancholy figure, thin and tall. It was Douglas Newsome, the poet.

  “Hullo, hullo, hullo, Douglas, cock,” said Mr. Carr, cheering up. “How did you get here?”

  “On a bus,” said Douglas, sadly and accurately. “I heard that you’d been in more trouble and I came along to see if I could help.”

  He greeted the Professor and me and helped himself to the old man’s second tankard of beer. If there is ever any drink around, you can be sure that Douglas will find it. I have seen him, at the fag-end of a party, so drunk that he could not stand, but with his fingers clasped round the neck of the last bottle of booze in the place.

  “Who did this one?” he asked the Professor and the old man moved in the rocking-chair.

  “Bah!” he said. “Douglas, ye’re an ass. If ye think I would be sittin’ here drinkin’ beer if I knew the answer ye’re an even bigger ass that I take ye for.”