So rich was the field of surmise offered by the contents of the files that it took a positive mental effort on Macdonald’s part to leave that section of his researches and to turn to the other contents of the rooms in the hope of finding papers which would answer the still unanswered question: Who was Andrew Gardien, where had he previously lived, who had been his associates, and what was his past?
Nobody so far had been able to give any indications which would supply a background. Graham Coombe’s acquaintance with the writer was (if he spoke the truth) of the slightest. Elliott, who could probably have answered these questions, was dead. (Was this why he was dead?) None of the guests at Coombe’s party save Miss Delareign had ever seen Gardien before—according to their own accounts. Here was a man living luxuriously, concealing his address even from his own bank manager, well known by name to thousands, yet apparently living in a void of his own creation.
By the time Macdonald had worked through the contents of Gardien’s admirably tidy rooms he was no nearer to a direct answer to his questions. There was nothing, in either bureau, deed-box, bookcase or cupboards to supply a background to the man who had lived there. The metal deed-box which Macdonald found in a cupboard in the bedroom contained Gardien’s recent contracts with his publishers, the agreement with Barton-Hobbs for his tenancy of the Chambers, his pass-book and papers relating to income-tax. It also contained an envelope stuffed with Spanish and South African currency notes, to the value of about £200 so far as Macdonald could make out, at a rough-and-ready computation.
The pass-book showed credit entries of cheques from Elliott, and a balance standing at £300 odd. The credits shown in the pass-book for the past year amounted to about £800—certainly not the total income of a man who paid twelve guineas a week for rooms in Mayfair and who was given to dining expensively at the Café Royal.
The bureau contained a pile of typescript and a quantity of stationery, but no correspondence other than a few bills and letters from travel agencies concerning tours in South America and the States.
There was a portable typewriter in a case on a shelf and in a portfolio beside it the last pages, apparently, of the novel Gardien had been engaged on. The word “blackmail” caught Macdonald’s eye, and he read the last page.
“The successful blackmailer must needs be a good psychologist. He must read between the lines, probe beneath the surface. It is axiomatic to him that no man or woman is without a secret which it is worth their while to conceal. No life, however seemingly virtuous, no character however seemingly estimable, but has some point which is vulnerable. The more able, the more vital, the more well known be the individual, the bigger chance there is that in their past history lies some secret worth concealing—and worth an infinitude of trouble on the blackmailer’s part to acquire.”
“A pity you didn’t live to be blackmailed yourself,” thought Macdonald, and took up the small key-ring which had been in Gardien’s pocket. There were six keys in all. The two which gave access to Regency Chambers, those of the safe and deed-box and the cupboard which contained the latter, and one other, a small door key similar in shape to a Yale. This fitted nothing in Gardien’s room, and Macdonald believed that it would open the way to the facts which at present eluded him. Gardien must surely have some other establishment where he kept his main possessions. Here, in Regency Chambers, were a few clothes, a few pairs of boots and a few books (nearly all new). With the files from the safe packed into a dispatch-case, and the packet of foreign currency in his pocket, Gardien could have walked out of his rooms at any time, leaving nothing behind him of any real value, and leaving no clue at all to his own whereabouts. There, under Macdonald’s hand, lay the extra latch-key, giving admission perhaps to another life.
Gardien had been a tenant of Regency Chambers for the past two months, since he had returned from India, in short, and Macdonald envisaged a long hunt on routine lines before he could get any information which could lead to a reconstruction of the man’s life. And when he got it would he be any nearer to solving his problem of who killed Gardien—and Elliott? There was plenty of motive to hand for the murder of the one, and it looked as though the second were intertwined with it. Elliott had been killed to stop him giving any information about Gardien, but the problem remained of who died first.
Macdonald sat for a while and pondered over the problem. Since Gardien had reached Caroline House at half-past eight, it was obviously possible for him to have been at Thavies House at eight o’clock, shot Elliott or arranged some contraption which engineered the shooting, and then gone on to the party. If there had been some mechanical arrangement for the shooting, Macdonald had to admit that he failed to see how it was worked, and his mind refused to allow the possibility of such a thing. The weakness of such arrangements (often ingeniously described in detective stories) was in the assumption that the victim would oblige by taking up the exact pose—to within a fraction of an inch—required for accurate shooting. A man sitting in a chair may assume any one of a thousand poses so far as the position of his head is concerned, and this variation militated against the fixed pistol theory of the crime.
If the pistol could have been fixed in the receiver of the telephone, and arranged to fire a few seconds after the receiver had been lifted, a lethal result might be counted upon; but the combined mouthpiece receiver fitment of the telephone on Elliott’s desk could not have been used in such a manner. Yet what could be the sense of shooting a man and arranging for the pistol to be wound up into the workings of a grandfather clock? If the point at issue were to dispose of the weapon so as to avoid carrying it out of the building, it would have been infinitely more sensible to have left it beside the body so that suicide could be assumed.
Leaving that side of the problem, Macdonald went back in mind to Caroline House. The grey-haired flat-footed man had been seen there shortly after nine o’clock. Assuming that this man was Elliott, he could have been presumed to leave Coombe’s house just after the fuse occurred at half-past nine, and gone straight back to Thavies House, let himself into the building with the key (one of which all the tenants possessed), gone into his own office and been shot—thereafter scrawling down the name of the man whose death he had just engineered. “That makes wilder rubbish than the other way,” said Macdonald to himself. “Yet here we have the murder of Elliott—signed Gardien—so to speak, and the murder of Gardien with an indication of Elliott. The probability is that the same person killed both and arranged indications that they killed one another, doing it in such a way as to suggest a thriller writer as the perpetrator—on account of the funny business involved—from which suggestion it seems reasonable to argue by contraries that a thriller writer had nothing to do with it.”
At this stage in his conjectures, Macdonald was interrupted to hear the evidence of Dean, the man who was responsible for the cleaning of Gardien’s rooms. From Dean came the following statements: Gardien had been an ill-tempered but generous tenant. Apart from a habit of grumbling at alleged defects in the service rendered him, he had given very little trouble and had tipped handsomely. He had had coffee and rolls served to him in bed each morning he had been at home, had always lunched and dined out, never ordering in a meal as did some of the other tenants, and never entertaining, so far as Dean and the porter knew.
He had frequently been away for week-ends, often from Friday to Tuesday, but had always given explicit notice of his absence, telling Dean that after such-and-such an hour his services would not be required until a given time. He was not in the habit of taking a suitcase away with him, as Dean could tell because of his duties as a valet. The only peculiarities that Dean had noticed about Gardien were as follows: He had very few letters by post, and those which did come were fairly bulky packets with a typewritten address. (Forwarded by Elliott, Macdonald surmised.) Gardien’s other peculiarity was that he left no papers in his waste-paper basket. There was no open fireplace in his rooms, but he had habitually burned a small amount of papers in a pail in the kit
chenette, a custom which had annoyed Dean, as it indicated “a nasty suspicious nature” on the part of the tenant.
At the conclusion of his inquiry at Regency Chambers, Macdonald tabulated the following suppositions for future reference:
Gardien was probably a blackmailer whose mode of life at Regency Chambers made it possible for him to flit from his pied à terre at any moment, leaving no evidence by which he could be traced. There was a strong probability that he had an alternative establishment under a different name, of which no evidence existed save the latch key on his key-ring. There was evidence in his files which indicated more than one line of research concerning those present at Caroline House the previous evening.
IX
Shortly after her brother had left Caroline House for his office, Miss Coombe was called to the telephone. The C.I.D. man on duty in the room apologised politely for the necessity of his presence, to which Miss Coombe replied in her cheerful, practical manner.
“Very nice of you to say so, but I don’t mind in the least. Very boring for you, I’m afraid. Conversation over the phone always sounds so foolish. Hallo. Miss Coombe speaking.”
It was Miss Delareign who had rung up, “full of chirp and chat,” as Susan put it. “I am so sorry to bother you, but I’m afraid I left my gloves behind me last night, rather a favourite pair. Might I call for them some time to-day?”
“By all means, though I could send them if you like,” replied Miss Coombe. “I think there is an evening bag of yours, too, black brocade with a diamanté clasp.”
“No. I didn’t leave a bag. I have my own, gold mesh to match my frock. The cleaners did the frock so beautifully. It doesn’t show a mark. I am so anxious to know if you have any news about poor Mr. Gardien’s accident.”
“No. Nothing whatever,” said Miss Coombe firmly. “In any case, I couldn’t talk about it over the phone.”
“No. Of course not. If I looked in—say after lunch—could I see you for a few minutes? I have a little idea I should like to discuss with you.”
Miss Coombe meditated before she replied, so that the lady at the other end put in “Hallo, are you still there?” in a surprised tone, and Miss Coombe replied abruptly, “Yes, I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. I shall be in at two o’clock if that will suit you.”
“Thank you so much. Good-bye.”
Miss Coombe replaced the receiver and turned to the polite young man who stood looking out of the window.
“Would you like The Times, or do you prefer the Daily Mail? I’m afraid that bookcase hasn’t anything readable. I’ll send you in some papers.”
“Please don’t trouble—” His sentence was cut short by the telephone bell ringing again and Miss Coombe murmured:
“Do you prefer to answer it?”
“No, madam. I have no instructions except to be on duty here until I am relieved.”
Once again she lifted the receiver.
“Could I speak to Miss Coombe, please?”
“Speaking.”
“Good-morning. This is Valerie Woodstock. May I come in and talk to you for a little while? I very much want your advice about something. I should be so grateful if you could spare me a few minutes.”
“Certainly. Come as soon as you like,” replied Miss Coombe. “I shall be in all the morning. Say in half an hour? Excellent. Good-bye.”
With a word and a smile to the detective, Miss Coombe went out into the hall, but when she had closed the door behind her, her expression altered to a frown. Really, with the best will in the world it wasn’t easy to talk to people with the powers of the C.I.D., vested in a nicely-mannered young man, at your elbow. And what did these writers want to talk to her about? Last night, of course. Miss Coombe made a sudden decision which had been playing about in and out of her mind ever since she woke up. What about a feminist conference on the events of last night? A committee meeting, so to speak, with herself in the chair? If Miss Delareign wanted to talk, let her do so in the presence of the other women who had been at the party last night.
Making a quick decision, Miss Coombe put on her hat and coat and hurried to the telephone box at the corner of Caroline Street.
“That young man in there gets my goat,” she said to herself. “I’m not going to ring up these people under his nose.”
She put through three calls at top speed. One each to Mrs. Etherton, Miss Rees and Miss Campbell, asking them to call on her at two o’clock—an invitation which was accepted by all three ladies. She then returned home and awaited Miss Woodstock in her own study.
Valerie, in a tailored suit and a neat hat, looked much older than she had done in her gold and green evening-frock on the previous evening, and the laughing flippancy of her expression was altered to a look which was most serious and troubled.
“It’s awfully good of you to see me,” she said as they shook hands. “I know a lot about you because of all the work you’ve done on different lines, and I feel that I can talk to you freely. You don’t know anything about me, but I can assure you I’m quite a serious-minded person.”
Miss Coombe laughed. “My dear, I do a spot of reading sometimes, you know, and I’m not quite an ass when it comes to summing people up. What’s it all about? Last night?”
“Yes. I’m worried. Can you tell me this: Did Mr. Gardien die a natural death from heart failure, or was he killed—murdered, in short?”
Susan Coombe studied the girl opposite to her with very shrewd eyes. She liked Valerie Woodstock very much on the strength of their short acquaintance, liked her spirit and level-headedness, her able mind, and her detached manner of looking at things. Susan Coombe belonged to the generation of woman who had fought—literally fought—for women’s rights. She had come up against all the unfairness and unreason and obstinacy of men who saw their privileges threatened, and though she had left far behind the bitterness and prejudices of those hectic years of her girlhood, they had left their mark on her character. Susan would rather listen to a woman’s point of view than a man’s, rather back a woman than a man. She had liked Macdonald and thought him competent, but she had been very much aware of his official attitude: “It will be much better if you don’t interfere.” Common sense bade her acquiesce, but the old suffragist spirit revolted. Looking at Valerie thoughtfully, she replied:
“I don’t know why you ask that, but I am sure that it isn’t mere curiosity or a desire to get sensational news. You saw the chief inspector last night. He didn’t actually tell me that it would be better if I were to hold my tongue, but it was implicit in his attitude. However, I intend to use my own discretion in the matter—as you have decided to use yours. Now don’t you think you had better tell me the reason underlying your question? I can only be frank with you if you are frank with me.”
“That’s perfectly reasonable,” agreed the girl. “Incidentally, I liked the chief inspector. He struck me as fair, courteous and very able. I’m certain he’s a first-rate man, with something more than keen eyes and an observant brain. He’s one of those Scots who seem to have a telepathic sense; he guesses—or feels—what you are thinking as he listens to what you tell him. I could have gone to him with my question, but I was afraid. It’s just this: If that man were killed deliberately last night, I’ve got an uncomfortable feeling that I might guess something about it. That’s why I should be very glad to learn that his death was due to natural causes, as the phrase goes.”
Miss Coombe sat very still, but her face showed deep concern. “My dear girl,” she said at length, “have you realised just what you are saying and what it implies? It’s the law in this country that any one who shields a murderer becomes accessory after the fact. If you have any evidence—”
“I haven’t. Not a shred,” returned the other coolly. “I may be absolutely wrong in the conclusions I’ve drawn. No. Conclusion is too strong a word for my vague mental processes. But won’t you answer my first question? Or have you answered it already?”
“I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell
you my own opinion in the matter,” replied Miss Coombe. “The chief inspector was much too cautious to make any definite statement, but he obviously believed that Mr. Gardien was killed by some one interfering with the electric current; in other words, he was murdered. It’s a grim thought, you know.”
“It is, and the consequence entailed is even grimmer, but it’s a wise thing to try to look at the matter objectively, and not to be swayed by emotional excitement over it. It’s so easy to say, ‘How ghastly!’ so easy to be conventionally censorious, and to forget that there are two points of view over every controversy, and it’s not always the popular point of view that’s right.”
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