‘You didn’t bring that away with you, by any chance?’
Carver shook his head.
‘No, I had to do the telephoning there, so that she had a check on what I said. She burnt the paper immediately afterwards.’
‘So you accepted her offer, of course.’
‘I couldn’t afford to refuse, Mr Wyatt. I needed the money pretty badly, and she told me it was only a sort of practical joke.’
‘Practical joke!’ shrieked Luigi, shaking his fist. ‘You ruin my name and think it is a practical joke!’ A casual observer would have received the impression that the little restaurateur was on the verge of an apoplectic seizure.
‘Get out!’ he shouted. ‘You are fired! I will have you black-listed in every club in London!’
The waiter half turned to go, but Wyatt detained him.
‘Wait a minute, Carver,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m afraid you can’t leave yet.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Luigi sharply. ‘I’ve told him to get out; I never want to see him again.’
‘I don’t think you understand, Luigi, that I wasn’t joking about that warrant. Sir James is downstairs now with Superintendent Bradley.’
‘Well, what of it?’
‘Don’t you think Carver is rather an important witness on your behalf?’
‘But you are a witness, Mr Wyatt. You have seen and heard all this. Sir James will take your word.’
‘Yes, that may be so,’ agreed Wyatt. ‘But I don’t think he’d agree with my letting Carver get out of here.’
Luigi rubbed his forehead with his hand, then said thoughtfully: ‘Perhaps you are right, Wyatt. They had better come in here and he shall tell them the truth about that telephone call – it will serve him right—’
Wyatt went over to the door and opened it.
‘All right, I’ll fetch them up now. I shan’t be two minutes.’
The moment the door had closed, Carver seemed to be about to speak, but Luigi quickly put his finger to his lips. They waited for some seconds. Then Carver said quietly:
‘Do you think he believed it?’
Luigi shrugged.
‘I don’t know whether he did or not, but you’ve got to tell the police exactly the same story – word for word. And you’ve got to stick to it.’
Carver nodded.
‘All right, Mr Luigi …’
As Wyatt came up to their table, he noticed Perivale was reflectively sipping a liqueur brandy and listening to Sally who was chatting away with considerable animation. He looked up as Wyatt approached and asked:
‘Did you see Luigi?’
‘I’ve just left him in his office. He’s waiting for you.’
‘Right,’ nodded Perivale, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll just warn Bradley, then I’ll go up.’ As he was moving away, Wyatt laid a hand on his arm.
‘I spoke to him about that telephone call – he said it was faked.’
‘Faked!’ stuttered Perivale. ‘How could it be?’
‘He says he was impersonated by a man called Carver, one of the waiters here.’
Perivale gave a short laugh.
‘Good lord, Wyatt, you don’t mean to tell me you fell for an old story like that!’
‘Then you think he was lying?’ said Wyatt with a faint smile.
Perivale patted him on the shoulder.
‘No question about it. We know that the night before Lauren Beaumont disappeared she came here and spoke to Luigi. We know that Luigi phoned Angus with that message about paying ransom to Reed. We know that the car which tried to force Maurice Knight over the bridge was Luigi’s car. Why man, it’s an open and shut case!’
‘Just a minute,’ said Wyatt, trying to detain him.
‘There’s no time to be lost. This man Luigi is obviously “Mr Rossiter”, and the sooner we pull him in the better. See you later, Wyatt.’
Wyatt stood staring after him as he collected Bradley and briskly climbed the staircase to the balcony. He hesitated for a moment outside the door, then opened it and went in with Bradley. The door closed, and Wyatt went back to their table.
Sally smiled across at him as he sat down.
‘I can guess what Sir James has been saying,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve been trying to argue him out of it.’
‘Then you don’t think Luigi’s such a desperate character?’ queried Wyatt.
‘He’s obviously mixed up in this case – but I’m convinced he isn’t “Mr Rossiter”,’ announced Sally positively.
‘Any particular reason?’ smiled Wyatt.
‘Well, if you must know, I think “Mr Rossiter” is Maurice Knight. I suspected Sir Donald at first, but now I’ve got a strange sort of feeling about Knight,’ said Sally. ‘Of course, you always pull my theories to pieces, and I admit I haven’t any cast-iron evidence.’
‘Nobody has much evidence against anyone, apart from Luigi, and even he has a get-out. He claims that he was impersonated over the telephone by one of his waiters – a young fellow called Carver.’
Sally was interested at once.
‘Have you met this waiter?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Wyatt. ‘He’s got rather a good story … says Doctor Fraser paid him a couple of hundred to impersonate Luigi.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I do not,’ said Wyatt. He waited for the waiter to place an omelette in front of him, and when they were alone again, he said: ‘In the first place, I happened to find out that Carver has never set eyes on Doctor Fraser.’
‘That was very clever of you, darling,’ said Sally. ‘How did you work it out?’
‘I simply asked him if she was wearing a dress to match her blonde hair, and he agreed that she was.’
‘And she’s a brunette … that was pretty smart of you, darling.’
‘Ah, but that isn’t the end of the story by any means,’ said Wyatt, busy with his omelette. He leaned a little to his left to see the door of Luigi’s office at the top of the balcony.
‘All the same, I think Carver did impersonate Luigi.’
‘Really, Lionel, you are exasperating,’ said Sally, accepting a light for her cigarette. ‘You always start at the wrong end of a story.’
Wyatt laughed.
‘Very well, darling, I’ll begin at the beginning. Once upon a time there was a night club proprietor who had several little sidelines that enabled him to keep his club open even when it ran at a loss. Then one day he met …’
At that moment the door of Luigi’s office opened and Perivale came running down the balcony steps. He came over to their table at once.
‘We’ve got Luigi,’ he announced somewhat breathlessly, ‘but that waiter fellow lost his nerve and made a dash for it …’
‘Where is he?’ demanded Wyatt quickly.
‘He rushed out through the far door – it leads on to some sort of fire-escape that runs along the building. There are other doors that open on to it, so he may have doubled back. Bradley’s gone after him … the young fool’s got a revolver. He threatened us; that’s how he got out.’
‘Well, he can’t get very far if you’ve got the outside of the building covered,’ said Wyatt.
Perivale nodded. ‘All the same, I’m worried about that gun. The young fool’s pretty desperate.’
There were sudden sounds of a scuffle, and a police whistle sounded from one of the outer rooms. The dancers eyed each other uncertainly. Perivale took command of the situation, and ordered everyone back to their seats.
Everyone was talking in rather frightened voices, and for a moment they did not see Carver suddenly reappear through a door in the far corner of the balcony, followed a second later by the stalwart figure of Superintendent Bradley. The white-faced waiter made for a corner of the balcony, and swung himself on to an iron girder which supported the roof. When Bradley made as if to follow him, he fired wildly. Bradley clutched his arm. Perivale shouted to him to abandon the pursuit, for he imagined that it was only a question of waiting until Carver had ti
red of perching up in the girders.
Then Wyatt drew his attention to a small skylight in the centre of the roof, which was obviously the man’s objective. He clambered along the framework of girders with frantic haste.
‘If he gets on that roof, we’ll lose him,’ said Perivale, hurrying away to warn his outside men.
Carver continued his hazardous climb, and rapidly neared his objective. He paused for a moment and looked down below. Then he stretched out an arm and pushed open the skylight.
Six plain-clothes detectives looked on helplessly from the dance floor.
Carver poised a little uncertainly, for his foothold on the narrow cross-span was none too sure, and he had no support to hold on to while he levered himself up to the skylight.
Finally he clutched at the frame with one hand, held on for a moment, then got a hold with his other hand and slowly began to lift himself into the aperture. The plain-clothes men were already moving towards the doors to try and intercept him outside or join in the chase across the roof-tops, when there was a sound of splintering wood.
The frame of the skylight had proved to be rotten through long exposure to the weather, and although Carver tried to get a grip on the roof itself, he was unsuccessful.
A little group of men and women in evening dress rushed wildly to the side of the dance floor as the black figure came hurtling down.
Carver clutched frantically at a cross-girder, held on to it for several breathless moments, then let go. He struck another of the girders and fell on the side of the dance floor farthest from Wyatt and Sally.
The plain-clothes men at once surrounded the waiter, and Wyatt went over to the little group. One of the detectives, who recognized Wyatt, shook his head.
‘The poor devil’s done for, I’m afraid, Wyatt,’ he said quietly. Wyatt nodded and returned to Sally, whom he immediately conducted back to their waiting car. She was very silent on the journey back to the flat, still overcome with the horror of the incident, and Wyatt’s mind was busy with the strange problems presented by Mr Luigi.
They were both a little surprised to find that two visitors were waiting for them in the entrance hall to the mansions. As they came in they saw Doctor Fraser and Hugo Linder sitting near the lift.
Wyatt invited them inside, and they all managed to squeeze into the tiny lift.
In the flat Sally went off to her bedroom to take off her hat, and Wyatt took his visitors in the lounge.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ he began politely. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’
Linder accepted a chair, leaned back and said quietly:
‘It’s rather presumptuous of us calling at this time of night, Mr Wyatt. But I felt we both owed you an apology and an explanation.’
‘That’s very generous of you, Mr Linder,’ said Wyatt pleasantly. ‘Would you like a drink?’
They both refused.
‘In that case, do try these cigarettes,’ begged Wyatt. ‘I’m very glad you came, because I feel there are quite a few things we might clear up together.’
Doctor Fraser played with the clasp of her bag a trifle nervously.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth when you asked me if I knew Hugo, Mr Wyatt, but believe me there was a very good reason,’ she began earnestly.
‘It was entirely my fault,’ Linder interrupted her. ‘You see, Doctor Fraser and I are sort of unofficially engaged …’
‘Please accept my congratulations,’ said Wyatt politely.
‘It’s quite unofficial as yet,’ put in Doctor Fraser hastily. ‘In fact, we’re not telling anyone—’
‘I quite understand,’ nodded Wyatt.
‘You see, Mr Wyatt,’ went on Linder, ‘we didn’t want Scotland Yard to associate our names … when I found the body of Barbara Willis … and she was suspected of being mixed up with the “Mr Rossiter” affair, well it all looked …’
He made a helpless gesture.
‘You mean it looked as if you two might be running a little organization, eh, Mr Linder?’
Linder rubbed the back of his head with a worried air.
‘Yes. I advised Doctor Fraser not to say anything to anyone, and then I gave the show away myself. It was darned stupid of me.’
Wyatt frowned thoughtfully. These two seemed genuine enough, and there was something quite likeable about them. It was quite obvious that Linder was very much in love with Doctor Fraser, and that part of their story might well be true. But there was still that business with Sir Donald Angus to be considered.
Wyatt perched on the arm of the settee and addressed himself to Doctor Fraser.
‘I believe that you had tea with Mr Linder at the Royal Astoria Hotel this afternoon. And while you were there you met Sir Donald Angus.’
‘Why, yes, that’s true,’ replied Doctor Fraser, looking slightly puzzled. ‘How did you know that?’
He evaded her question by asking:
‘Haven’t you read about Sir Donald in the papers this evening?’
‘I rarely see the evening papers,’ she replied.
‘And I missed ’em this evening,’ said Linder. ‘What has Sir Donald been doing?’
‘He has paid over rather a large sum of money for the return of a lady friend of his who was abducted.’ He watched the doctor closely as he added: ‘Her name was Lauren Beaumont.’
‘Lauren Beaumont!’ she echoed in an astonished voice.
‘Not a name one would forget easily, eh, Doctor?’ said Wyatt casually. ‘And I don’t suppose Sir Donald will forget that £15,000 or this unpleasant publicity for quite a long time.’
‘Then she was returned?’ asked Doctor Fraser.
‘But of course; you saw her for yourself; in fact, Sir Donald told us you looked after her very capably.’
Doctor Fraser’s expression changed again.
‘You mean that girl!’ she exclaimed. ‘But that wasn’t the girl I saw previously who gave me the same name.’
‘Did you expect it to be?’
‘Well, no … no, I guess not,’ she replied in a bewildered tone. ‘I thought there was something odd about that set-up … she didn’t look like his secretary or anybody else’s. Of course, she was pretty badly doped.’
‘That’s another thing,’ said Wyatt. ‘You diagnosed the drug that had been injected as “Amashyer”. Now, I know quite a lot about “Amashyer”, and one of the things about it is that it’s none too easy to diagnose compared with most of the other narcotics.’
‘Well, I happen to specialize in that sort of thing,’ replied Doctor Fraser somewhat stiffly. ‘We psychiatrists use drugs quite a bit you know, Mr Wyatt – and I read an article on “Amashyer” in the Medical Times only a month ago. It gave the after-effects in considerable detail.’
‘I’m quite prepared to believe all that,’ nodded Wyatt, ‘but you have to admit, Doctor, that it was rather a remarkable coincidence that you should be having tea at Sir Donald’s hotel when he brought this girl back. Do you usually go there for tea?’
‘Why, no,’ she replied candidly, ‘and we wouldn’t have been there today if Hugo hadn’t telephoned and asked me to meet him there instead of the Ritz.’
It was Linder’s turn to look surprised.
‘I telephoned?’ he queried sharply.
‘Why, yes, darling … this morning, just after I was through with my last patient …’
‘But, Gail, I did nothing of the sort!’ he protested.
‘Then why do you think I turned up at the Royal Astoria? And how did you come to be there?’ she demanded.
‘Because of the note you sent, saying would I make it the Royal Astoria, instead of the Ritz.’
‘I sent you a note?’ she repeated, plainly staggered.
‘But of course you did. It came by messenger at midday.’
‘Have you got the note?’ asked Wyatt.
‘No, I’m afraid I burnt it. But what does all this mean, Mr Wyatt?’
Wyatt went over to the fireplace to get an as
htray from the shelf. He returned and leaned against the mantelpiece.
‘It could mean,’ he began slowly, ‘that “Mr Rossiter” somehow discovered that you two were meeting at the Ritz, and decided that it would suit his purpose better if you met at the Royal Astoria. So he forged a note to Linder – that wouldn’t be too difficult, as he probably has at least one of the doctor’s prescriptions in his possession – and he got a young man named Carver to telephone Doctor Fraser.’
‘Who is Carver?’ asked Doctor Fraser.
‘You’ve never met him?’
‘That’s why I’m asking, Mr Wyatt.’
‘Then I’m afraid you won’t now. He met with an accident this evening that’s almost certain to be fatal. Pity, because the young fellow was quite a remarkable mimic … yes, quite remarkable.’
‘Then you think that “Mr Rossiter” got him to imitate my voice over the telephone?’ asked Linder.
‘I said that’s what might have happened,’ replied Wyatt deliberately.
Over breakfast the next morning, Wyatt read the accounts of the affair at the Madrid Club in three different papers. They tallied in the essential details, but he was relieved to see that none of them connected the death of Carver with the Rossiter affair; possibly because Inspector Lathom had not been present on this occasion.
‘Have you had any news about Bradley?’ asked Sally, whose appetite seemed in no way impaired by the unpleasant experience of the previous evening.
‘No,’ replied Wyatt. ‘I’ll telephone the hospital presently. It was only a flesh wound, and Bradley’s pretty tough, so I imagine he’ll be out and about by the end of the week.’
He picked up Sally’s picture paper and saw a large photo of Sir Donald Angus and Lauren Beaumont staring up from the back page.
‘Phew!’ he whistled softly, ‘this isn’t exactly going to oil the machinery of high finance. He’ll soon be wishing he’d left his lady friend to fight her own battles. H’m … I see she’s described as his secretary, so that’s something …’
‘I wonder how they got that picture …’ said Sally. ‘One of “Mr Rossiter’s” men must have followed them round with a camera.’
‘Poor old Angus certainly ran into Trouble with a capital T on this trip,’ nodded Wyatt, passing his cup over to Sally. ‘However, it’s a waste of time to sympathize with big business men – they always seem to find a way out of their scrapes.’
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