by Sapper
It seemed almost incredible that such a thing could have happened in so short a time. And yet what other conceivable solution was there? Something must have happened during that quarter of an hour to make the man kill himself, and the only person who would be able to throw any light on what that something had been was the woman.
But was she? Like a blinding flash, the thought struck me. Was she? When I had first peered up the chimney, I had stared into le Bossu’s eyes: the next time the opening was shut. And when I had gone into his room, it was empty. Where had he been during that fateful quarter of an hour? Did that supply the cause of the quarrel? Was it the eternal triangle once again?
I tried to fit a possible solution on those lines round the facts as I knew them. No one knew what le Bossu looked like: quite possibly he was a good looking, attractive man. Suppose, then, that he was an old lover of Madame Vandali, she being ignorant of the manner of man he was. Suppose he had suddenly confronted her, and she had determined at once to leave Vandali. Would that do? And honesty compelled me to admit that if it did, it was only by the barest margin. It meant that in a few minutes she had made up her mind, and left the hotel without packing, having first reduced Vandali to such a condition of hopelessness that he took his own life. Thin; altogether too thin. And yet the whole thing was so inexplicable that one could not disregard even the most wildly improbable solution.
“What on earth is all this excitement?”
I looked up to find that John James had returned and was staring up at the landing with a bewildered look on his face. I told him, and he sat down abruptly.
“Good God!” he said. “What did he do it for?’’
“It is what I have been asking myself ever since it was discovered,” I answered. “The whole thing is so utterly incredible that if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I should hardly believe it. Well, Inspector, mysteries accumulate at Rye.”
“I dunno as there’s much mystery about this, sir,” he remarked, crossing the hall to us. “Just a plain case of suicide. Good evening, Sir John.”
“‘Evening, Inspector. Nothing to account for it?’’
“Nothing, sir. I’ve asked the manager, and he can’t tell me anything. A charming wife, lots of money; and, apparently, not a care in the world.”
And at that moment the manager himself, looking anxious and worried, came up.
“A terrible thing, Sir John,” he cried. “I wouldn’t have had it happen in this hotel for the world. The scandal: and you know what people are. I don’t suppose I’ll be able to let that room again for months.”
“By the way,” I remarked, “I wonder if you can tell me anything about a Mr Thomas who was staying here. The girl in the office tells me he has just gone, and I was wondering if it was a man I met a little while ago. He had Number 19.”
But he shook his head, and looked at me as if surprised that so irrelevant a detail could be introduced at such a moment.
“No, sir, I do not,” he said. “I believe I saw him when he arrived, but I don’t remember having seen him since. And, anyway, this dreadful affair has driven everything else out of my head.”
He bustled away as the doctor came down the stairs, as if he still vainly hoped to hear something that would lessen the tragedy. And then, in a feverish attempt to restore things to their normal timetable, he pealed the dinner gong loudly. Gradually the lounge emptied, though there was only one topic of conversation to be heard on every side. And at length I was left alone with John and the doctor.
There seemed no object in staying, and yet I was loath to go. I could not help thinking that there must be some further development; that Madame Vandali must return or the man who called himself Thomas. But as the time went on and nothing more happened, it seemed useless waiting any longer. And we were on the point of going when the further development occurred. Only this time it was not an hysterical chambermaid, but the Inspector, white-faced, who stood on the landing outside Number 18.
“Doctor,” he called hoarsely. “For God’s sake come quick.”
The doctor ran up the stairs, and almost mechanically we followed him. What fresh horror had taken place in that ill-omened room? On the bed lay the motionless body of Vandali, covered with a sheet, but it was not at that we any of us looked. For the cupboard door was open and on the floor was the huddled-up body of a woman. It was Madame Vandali, and she, too, was dead.
But in this case there was no question of suicide: it was murder. The mark around her throat was plain to see: she had been strangled.
“Good God!” muttered John shakily, “this is a bit grim.”
“I was going through his effects,” said the Inspector, “and happened to open that door.”
“Lift her out carefully,” ordered the doctor. “Though it is obvious nothing can be done.”
He mopped his forehead, and furiously ordered away two waiters from the door, who were looking in with wide-open mouths.
As he said, it was obvious that nothing could be done. The unfortunate woman was quite dead. Her face, too, was puffed and swollen, though not quite so badly as the man’s.
“Throttled!” said the doctor shakily. “Throttled to death, poor soul.”
“Yes, but who by?” wailed the manager.
The poor little man, completely unnerved by this second tragedy, was standing by the door wringing his hands. And it was left to the red-haired journalist, who had mysteriously appeared from nowhere, to supply the answer.
“Him,” he said, pointing with dramatic suddenness to the bed.
We all turned and stared at him, and his ferret nose was literally twitching with excitement.
“But they were a devoted couple,” stammered the manager.
Red-hair snorted contemptuously, and turned to the doctor.
“Was it you,” he asked, “who examined those two men who were found dead this morning?”
“It was,” said the doctor. “But what…”
“Man, don’t you see?” the other almost yelled. “It is the clue: it is the answer. Who murdered those two men? Why – he did, of course.”
For a moment no one spoke. I stared at John, and John stared at me: what on earth was he driving at?
“Look here,” he went on excitedly, “it is clear to me. Tell me if I’m wrong. When you find three people mysteriously strangled within twenty-four hours in the same locality – what do you assume? Why – that they were all strangled by the same person.”
The Inspector nodded portentously.
“That’s so,” he conceded.
“Very well, then,” said the other. “If someone else murdered these three, why should that man go and hang himself? But supposing it was he who did it: supposing he was a murderer by instinct, and had some terrible quarrel with this woman. Possibly without even intending to, he seized her by the throat and strangled her. That accounts for his hanging himself. When he realised what he had done, half mad with remorse, he committed suicide.”
The Inspector scratched his head. “Yes – but why?” he began.
But Red-hair was not to be put off.
“Find out whether this man had anything to do with Temple Tower,” he cried. “I’ll bet you he did.”
“You win your bet,” I said. “I happened to be passing Temple Tower yesterday when he and this unfortunate woman were trying to get in.”
“What did I tell you?” he said triumphantly. “There’s your murderer: there’s the solution to the whole thing. Why he did it the Lord knows – and possibly that man Granger. And neither of them are likely to split. But he did it. Damn it! is there any other solution? But for this quarrel here there was nothing at present to connect him with the two murders at Temple Tower. Now there is. Once a poisoner: always a poisoner. Once a strangler: always a strangler.”
Once again I caught John’s eye, and this
time I signed to him urgently to leave the room.
“Ought I to speak?” I asked him as we went downstairs.
“How can you?” he answered. “What on earth can you say? You have got no proof. And, anyway, are you certain that that youth isn’t right?”
“How can he be right?” I cried. “I heard Vandali’s heels drumming against the wall before I was attacked myself.”
“Le Bossu or no le Bossu,” he answered obstinately, “I refuse to believe that a man can be forced to commit suicide. Come on: let’s get back to Hugh’s house. My head is simply buzzing.”
“Where is Matthews?” I asked. “Weren’t you going to pick him up?”
“He said he’d wait for me in the car,” he said. “And if he wasn’t there, I was to get along back.”
There was no sign of him, and we started off. My brain felt as if it was going round and round in circles also: as John had said, no man can be forced to commit suicide. And yet it was not Vandali who was the murderer: of that I was convinced.
We found them all at dinner – Victor Matthews included, and they listened in silence while we told our story. And the first person to speak when we had finished was Matthews.
“I suppose,” he said quietly, “that neither of you thought of asking the doctor if Vandali’s neck was broken?”
We all stared at him: what was he driving at? And then he began to laugh quietly to himself as if enjoying some secret joke.
“Forgive me laughing,” he said, “but it is indicative of genuine admiration. What a man! What a man!” He grew serious again. “We were wondering – all of us – how le Bossu was going to retrieve his error. Now we know.”
“You think it was le Bossu?” demanded John.
“I don’t think,” answered the other. “I know.”
“Then how did he make Vandali commit suicide?’’
“He didn’t – for the simple reason that Vandali didn’t commit suicide.”
“But,” spluttered John, “confound it all – he did.”
“You are wrong, Sir John. Vandali was murdered: just as the others were murdered. And by that simply and kindly little act on the part of le Bossu he has not only removed from his path two people he wanted removed, but he has supplied the ready-made solution, so ably discovered by your journalistic friend, to account for everything.”
“But how do you know Vandali was murdered?” insisted John.
“Know is perhaps too strong a word,” admitted Matthews. “And yet, I’m not sure that it is. Just think. If a man is hanged in the accepted sense of the word, his neck is broken, and death is instantaneous. But to obtain that result a long drop of several feet is necessary. In the case, however, of a man standing on a chair, and then kicking it away – there were one or two cases during the war of captured spies doing it – the neck is not broken. Death is not instantaneous, and is due to strangulation.”
“Yes, but dash it all,” objected John again, “what’s that got to do with it?”
“Dry up, John,” said Hugh. “I see what he is driving at.”
“Strangulation, Sir John,” continued Matthews. “So that, in reality, all four deaths were due to the same cause. Which puts a very different complexion on the matter, doesn’t it? Our friend, by the simple process of hanging one of the dead bodies up, has made it appear as if only three were due to strangulation, and that the fourth was suicide. That being so, the solution to the whole affair would be exactly what the journalist got, and which le Bossu intended someone to get. I don’t blame anyone for jumping to the conclusion that has been jumped to: without the inside knowledge we possess it is the conclusion we should arrive at.”
“But look here, Mr Matthews,” I said, “there are still some pretty useful difficulties in the way. If we accept your theory we have also got to accept the fact that le Bossu walked quite openly into the Vandalis’ bedroom, and strangled them one after another without a sound being heard. Further, that Madame Vandali, who must have been killed second, came into the room to find her husband hanging to the beam, and never uttered a cry. Why, she’d have screamed the place down.”
Matthews smiled faintly.
“Agreed, Mr Darrell,” he said. “Put as you have done, it sounds a bit difficult. Let me, however, try and reconstruct what may have happened. While the two Vandalis were talking in the little room below, le Bossu was listening. Vandali goes upstairs into his room: le Bossu leaves Number 19, and follows him in. There he strangles him and puts the body in the cupboard. Wait” – as I again started to speak – “I can guess your objection, but let me finish first. Then he goes back to his listening post, and shortly after Madame comes up to the room. With her he repeats the process, and having killed them both, he hangs the man on the beam, and puts the woman in the cupboard. Then once again he goes back to his room, where he finds you. Now, it’s obvious he can’t kill you. To do so would be to shed the light of publicity on Number 19, and the mystical Mr Thomas. So he renders you unconscious, packs his things and departs. Moreover, Mr Thomas will be seen no more. He has served his purpose, and he now disappears from the cast – as Mr Thomas.”
“How do you mean – as Mr Thomas?” demanded Hugh.
Victor Matthews leaned forward impressively.
“Assuming that my account of what happened is correct, and substantially it must be so, there is still one grave difficulty – a difficulty which I think Mr Darrell spotted. If a stranger walks into your room, for whatever purpose, there will be some conversation, and probably loud conversation. In Mr Darrell’s case it was a little different: he was in a room where he had no right to be, and he was taken by surprise. But with the Vandalis – especially with Madame Vandali – one would have expected a scream or some cry, at any rate. And there was nothing – no sound at all. Don’t you see the almost irresistible conclusion we arrive at?”
“I’m damned if I do,” said Freckles.
“Why, that le Bossu was not a stranger to the Vandalis. He is a man, moreover, who could walk into their room without occasioning comment on their part. Jean Picot – the chauffeur: he is le Bossu Masqué.”
He almost shouted in his excitement, and we all stared at him.
“It fits,” he went on. “It must fit. He comes over as their chauffeur. All along he has meant to get rid of them sometime or other. Having arrived he takes the first opportunity of getting the room next to them, and for the purpose he disguises himself and takes the name of Thomas. So that he has two rooms in the hotel: Jean Picot’s room, and Mr Thomas’ room.”
He paused and lit a cigarette, looking round the table triumphantly.
“By George! laddie,” boomed Hugh, “what a brain! Picot it is, for a fiver. What shall we do? Go and push his face in? Or have a mug of port?”
CHAPTER 11
In which we see a face at the window
The more one thought of it the more probable did it seem that Matthews was right. It accounted for so many little odd threads that had hitherto proved puzzling. Particularly the elusiveness of the so-called Mr Thomas. It had struck me when I asked the girl in the office that she seemed very vague about him: the manager, too, in spite of the worry of the tragedy, might have been a little more helpful. But once one assumed that he and Picot were the same person, much of the difficulty disappeared. To a master of disguise, such as le Bossu almost certainly was, there would have been no difficulty over entering Number 19 as Mr Thomas, and leaving it, if he so wished, as Jean Picot. His presence in that part of the hotel was easily accounted for in his rôle of chauffeur.
Then again the chimney-pot episode. It had seemed to me that it had caused the Vandalis so little surprise that they must be privy to it. And they probably had been, thinking it was Jean Picot who had pushed it over at Hugh. But a Jean Picot who really was their chauffeur and accomplice: not a Jean Picot who was using them to his own ends entirely.<
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All the way through it was the same thing, and it was impossible not to feel a certain unwilling admiration for the swine. For just so long as a person was useful to him, le Bossu employed him. Then without the smallest compunction he murdered him. Le Rossignol was allowed to make his ladder, and almost put it in position on the wall. Then – death: that hideous silent death which, had it suited him, would have been my portion.
The Vandalis had been allowed to live only as long as they served his purpose. While it had seemed possible that they might get the jewels from Granger, le Bossu was perfectly prepared to let them try. He was, in fact, a past master in letting the cat pull the chestnuts out of the fire for him.
It all fitted in, as Matthews said. On hearing of the plan he had forthwith driven off to Laidley Towers and obtained it, returning in time to hide in the shadow of the warehouse as we started off in the car. Then, later on, they were the lights of his car that we had seen on the main road – going and then coming back. And having drawn blank there, he had returned and tried the sea road till he found our car and removed the sparking plugs.
“He’s a blinking marvel,” cried Hugh. “Equalled only by our Mr Matthews.”
Matthews waved a deprecating hand.
“My dear sir, you must not forget that I know him. But I assure you that on the score of brain I lay no claim to be in the same street as le Bossu. However, this time, by a combination of circumstances, I think we’ve got him. And our principal asset is Sir John’s plan.”
“You think he will still go on with it?” said John doubtfully.
“A man is not going to kill four people for nothing,” answered Matthews. “And though the risk will be great, le Bossu is accustomed to risk. He must guess, of course, that we shall be there. That he knows about Miss Verney is, I should think, almost certain. And he will doubtless arrive at exactly the same conclusion as Sir John did – namely, that the best way of spotting the tree is for her to return to Temple Tower tomorrow, under the pretext of getting her luggage. Futher, he will assume that once the tree is found we shall lose no time in searching for the entrance to the passage. And then he will rely on his own cunning. That is how I see it, gentlemen. Moreover, I see another thing, too. The inquest will be, I should imagine, the day after tomorrow. He, if it can possibly be done, would like to be clear of Temple Tower before the publicity, which is going to be given to Granger and all his doings, occurs. And so I believe le Bossu will be prepared to run an additional risk, if he can pull it off tomorrow night. If it was feasible he would do it tonight, but it isn’t. He does not know where the tree is.”