These Names Make Clues

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” said Vernon in reply. “The description of the gate-crashing bloke just about fits Elliott, doesn’t it?”

  “Does it? I’ve never seen him,” replied Strafford and Vernon promptly put him down as a liar, but didn’t challenge the statement.

  “Well, according to Elliott’s typist—who ought to know—he was flat-footed and had a close-cropped grey head. What d’you make of that? Gardien pipped off by heart failure following electric shock, Elliott shot in his own office the same evening. Some story!”

  Strafford frowned at the floor. “The whole thing’s crazy,” he said, and it seemed to Vernon that he was communing with his own thoughts.

  “The thing to do is to discover the link between the two—Gardien and Elliott,” went on the journalist. “Some one who knew Gardien was going to Coombe’s party got Elliott to gate-crash there. Kept him in the house for long enough for him to be seen by two other members of the party and then told him to quit—presto. Organising mind then eliminated Gardien and later paid a call on Elliott to tell him the news, and plugged him in the head. Ergo, Elliott killed Gardien at Coombe’s—I bet he didn’t—and Gardien shot Elliott in his lair. I.d.t.! Query. Who was there at Coombe’s who knew Elliott? I’d eliminate the women from this act. A woman would never have risked going to Thavies House late at night in evening dress, ringing the bell and all that, when the copper on the beat would have noticed her for a cert.”

  “Aren’t you going a bit fast? Why do you assume that one of Coombe’s guests killed them both?” asked Strafford.

  “A. Gardien died in Coombe’s house, and the coroner wouldn’t have nipped the doings in the bud if there hadn’t been something fishy, so obviously Gardien was killed by some one at Coombe’s party. I don’t believe Elliott did it, because he let himself be seen. Coombe knew him by sight, so did other people, perhaps. Too risky, altogether.

  “B. Elliott was killed after making some appointment with Gardien, whereby I argue Gardien didn’t kill him. When two men who’ve been associated are both killed, with indications that they killed one another, you can bet some one’s being funny.”

  “Crime your speciality?” queried Strafford.

  Vernon’s ears, alert to catch every shade of meaning in the other’s voice, sensed a change of tone; something ironical, and at the same time inimical, sounding in the question.

  “Oh, so so. I flap the ears and roll the eyes over these entertainments. I wonder if the two ladies who saw a flat-footed merchant with grey hair were seeing visions, if you take me.”

  “I take you. I can’t answer that one, but I can tell you neither of them went to Thavies House and shot Elliott after Coombe’s party,” said Strafford.

  “Oh ho! How d’you know that?”

  “I gave one of them a lift home—she lives in Barnes, and I had my car and offered to drive her home—Miss Delareign, if it interests you. She told me she dined at the Cumberland that evening, a place where she’s well known, so she couldn’t have shot Elliott before the party and described his ghost. Miss Delareign saw the gate-crasher first, and drew the other lady’s attention to him. Miss Rees was driven back to Hampstead, right out on the Heath, by another member of Coombe’s party. If she wanted to shoot Elliott, she wouldn’t have gone back to Hampstead first.”

  “That night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier,” murmured Vernon. “Did Miss Rees dine at the Cumberland, complete with favourite waiter, too?”

  “No. She dined at Belinda, in the restaurant, Belinda’s…”

  “The Pusseries. I know. Do themselves well, I’m told,” said Vernon. “You were rather on the spot, young fella me lad.”

  “So so. Like you. Thought there was something odd somewhere,” said Strafford. “Saw what I could, asked what I could, and imagined what I could.”

  His eyes were on the waste-paper basket as he spoke, and Vernon saw the involuntary move forward of a neatly shod foot, and the slight recoil as Strafford changed his mind and sat tight in his place.

  “What about that inquest?” went on the latter. “Might as well hear what we can while we’ve got the chance.”

  “Why not?” replied Vernon, trying to assess the meaning in the other’s voice, and caught up his hat. “Better foot it. Buses in the Strand drive the cabby to drink. What about the coupla’ yards of intellectual at Gardien’s inquest? Another of Coombe’s party, wasn’t he?”

  “Why do you assume that?”

  “One of your push—tailoring, hair cut, and all that. Not one of us. Not a lounger. Not a novelist looking for copy. Obviously interested. Didn’t roll in casually, so to speak.”

  Having run down the eighty-seven stairs, the two men turned up towards the Strand again, and Strafford replied:

  “You’re right as it happens. That was Ashton Vale. He’s a clever devil. Notices things. He’s a sort of mental conjurer, keeps half a dozen lines of thought in his head simultaneously and never muddles them up.”

  “Then the only man among the guests who didn’t show up at the inquest was Bourne.”

  “What about it?”

  “If I’d bumped Gardien off, I think I should have gone to the inquest, just to see which way the cat jumped.”

  “Let sleeping dogs lie is a better motto. I should have kept away.”

  The tone of the last sentence was casual, but Vernon was aware that Strafford had given him a quick sideways glance before he went on.

  “I bet if Vale did it, no one will ever prove it. His wits are as good as that chief inspector’s, if not better.”

  “Remains to be seen. If ’twas murder, the murderer’s lost the first round already.”

  “How so?”

  “Because the whole show’s being investigated. Gardien’s death was meant to pass as heart failure pure and simple, and Macdonald didn’t pass it. His reputation is that he doesn’t pass much. Damn all, this must be an easy one for him. Some one at Coombe’s party did the doings. That some one knew Elliott.”

  “You’re simply jumping to conclusions over that. The evidence that Elliott was the chap going into the telephone-room’s too thin for words.”

  “Just seen that?” said Vernon coolly. “You seemed to take it for gospel when I first suggested it.”

  “What the devil d’you mean?”

  “Nix, or just what I said. Nothing subtle about me. Simple sort of chap. Don’t lose your wool. Here we are. What do you bet they’ll dispose of little Elliott in ten minutes, in order to get his doctor’s opinion about the impenetrability of his skull to projectiles proceeding from pistols? I get a front seat in this act. Freedom of the press and all that. If you’ll wait for me afterwards, I’ve got some beer at home. Cheer-ho!”

  “Dirty look the blockhead gave me,” said Vernon to himself as he sat down at the Press table and looked around. “Can’t make the blighter out. He’s as quick-witted as they make ’em and yet behaving like a flat. Hullo, here’s old coupla’ yards again. Taking an intelligent interest is Ashton Vale. Wonder if his legs ever get into knots. Slimming, by one who knows. Gawd, why are juries so plain? They ought to provide bags to put their heads in.”

  The proceedings concerning Elliott, if not quite so brief as those at the Gardien inquest, were marked by the same reticence on the part of the police. Identification by Mr. Gerald Lethem, secretary to deceased, who also attested to finding the body at 9.35 that morning, was followed by evidence from Sergeant Brading of the C.I.D. concerning the position of the body. The police surgeon stated that death was due to a shot, which might have been self-inflicted or might not, and that the time of death was difficult to ascertain owing to the temperature of the room. Twelve hours, with a margin of error of four hours, was his non-committal opinion. Inspector Jenkins followed, saying that the police had not yet been able to get into touch with deceased’s relatives, and an inquiry was proceeding into his affairs, which seemed involved. The most interesting item of evidence was also produced by Jenkins in reply to the coroner’s q
uestion.

  “When examining the room was any firearm found there?”

  “A pistol had been found in the room,” replied Jenkins, “but the experts had not completed their investigations into it. It was one of the same calibre as that which shot deceased. The police were anxious to have time for the investigation to be carried further so that their evidence could be more decisive.”

  The adjournment followed immediately, and Vernon snapped the band round his notebook and grinned at Frazer of the Morning Mail who was sitting beside him at the Press table.

  “Short and sweet, what!” said Campbell, “keep off the grass, and all that. I’d give a lot to get hold of some one who knew this Elliott bird. Kept himself to himself, they say.”

  “Gardien knew him,” said Vernon.

  “Did he an’ all? How did you get on to that?”

  “Rang up Coombe’s office saying I was speaking for Paramount Studios, and asked for Gardien’s agent.”

  “Bright child. You deserve jam on your bread and butter for that.”

  “Got any inside dope, Vernon? Your pal at the Yard might tell you a thing or two.”

  “So he might, when it’s all over bar the shouting. Thomas by name and oyster by nature, that’s our Scottie. See that long-legged nut-cracker wallah over there? Try him. Graham Coombe told me he was going to his little party last night.”

  “Vale? Glory! Thanks quite a lot. Do the same for you another day.”

  Frazer dashed off in pursuit of Vale, and Vernon looked round for Strafford, but failed to see him. Hurrying out on to the pavement he saw Strafford’s long figure bending to enter a taxi, and an impish demon in Vernon’s head caused him to become unreasonably inquisitive. He said afterwards that if Strafford had stayed to speak to him and then shaken him off, he wouldn’t have bothered about him any further, but the other man’s hasty retirement made Vernon wonder. He got into another taxi and bade the driver follow the old blue Unic into which Strafford had bundled so hastily.

  “A mug and a mutt, that’s myself,” said Vernon, “but I’ve a yearning to know if he’s going to see his lady friend in Barnes. Taking her out to tea at the Cumberland and all that. Do I sit at the next table behind a paper and hear how they worked the doings-oh? He’s a rum bird. Simon Grand, what ho! and doesn’t know what Elliott looks like. Not good enough.”

  The taxis worked their weary way down to Charing Cross. The Unic got a little ahead and was separated from Vernon’s cab by a builder’s lorry. By luck the journalist saw Strafford dive into the crowd by the Corner House, and it took some quick work on Vernon’s part to alight, pay his man and dash off in pursuit.

  “Just returning to his own digs, curse him. No, by gosh, he’s not. Over the road and off we go, tally ho. Bakerloo tube. Change at Oxford Circus for Barnes. What a lark.”

  Keeping well behind Strafford, Vernon managed to see which machine he took a ticket from, followed suit and reached the platform for north-bound trains, a strategic distance behind his quarry. With an evening paper to shield him, Vernon watched the other. Strafford didn’t look round and gave no sign that he was conscious of being followed. The train that came in was just right for Vernon’s game—full, but not overcrowded. He got into the coach adjoining Strafford’s and watched. The tall young fellow with the wide-brimmed hat was easy to observe. Oxford Circus arrived and he made no move.

  “Baker Street for the Outer Circle, Hammersmith and all that, or Paddington? I wonder,” murmured Vernon to his paper. It was at Paddington that Strafford made a move. He got to the door of his coach before the train drew up with the air of a man in a hurry, and Vernon had to leap out and follow at the double. As he went up the escalator he thought that the eighty-seven stairs at Strafford’s lodgings certainly kept him in good training. Vernon had never run up an escalator at such a pace before, and things were complicated because he knew he had excess to pay on his tube ticket.

  “Keep the change and love to the wife,” he said, as he thrust his ticket and a shilling into the collector’s hand. “All aboard for the Cornish Riviera. Hell! That chap can run.”

  Less than two minutes later Vernon was in the Great Western booking-office on the far side of the station, and heard Strafford snap out, “Reading, return.”

  “First-class, curse him, wasting my money and he’s only going home to see mother. Well, I’m going too. I’ll just look him up after dinner and ask for a few words about Elliott by one who knew him. Reading, 1st return, buck up! How long have I got?”

  “Minute and a half. Number 3.”

  “Glory! How I won the Reading Relay. What a hope!”

  Off again, tearing down number one platform and across the crowded space by the barrier, Vernon caught the train with no margin to spare, having seen Strafford jump into it twenty seconds before himself. Vernon, forced into buying a first-class ticket because he had not risked wasting time to join the queue at the third-class booking office, had got into a third-class compartment for the simple reason that he was sure Strafford would not waste his own first in such a manner.

  “Non-stop to Reading. Plenty of time to realise I’m the world’s fool, going whoring after mine own inventions. Still, the chap wouldn’t have run like that for nix. Running away from little Peter, or fleeing from justice? What a hope!”

  XII

  While Peter Vernon was journeying in a non-stop train to Reading, Macdonald and Jenkins were consulting together at Scotland Yard over the evidence which had been collected by them during the day, and hearing the report of Detective Inspector Waring, who had been detailed to investigate Mardon-Elliott’s rooms in the residential club known as Boxleith Hall. Both Jenkins and Macdonald were struck by the similarities between Gardien’s manner of living and Elliott’s. Each had lived in a “furnished suite” for the past few months, each had a minimum of personal possessions, and in neither case was there any evidence to show anything about their past life. Elliott, described as an amiable, unassuming sort of person, had been a good bridge player and billiard player, but had displayed a steady reticence concerning his own affairs. Like Gardien, he had kept no personal letters in his rooms. In fact the paucity of papers found there suggested that a clean sweep had recently been made of anything that could convey information. Detective Waring, who had examined everything in Elliott’s rooms with a care which Macdonald himself could not have bettered, had only one exhibit to lay before his superior officers in the matter of tracing Elliott’s origin, and that was a small, well-worn copy of Lamb’s Essays, which contained a bookseller’s label inside the back cover, giving the name, “Wellaby, Church Street, Reading.”

  “I don’t suppose that it’s any good, sir,” said Waring regretfully, “but that book was the only thing you could describe as old in the place. It’s been read a lot, too. I found it behind a set of Conrad’s, and it was quite hidden. All the other books in Elliott’s rooms were fairly new, bought at Bumpus’s, most of them.”

  Macdonald and Jenkins exchanged a glance, and the former said, “This may be exceedingly useful. Reading seems to be indicated as a strategic point in this case. I wonder if Wellaby of Church Street is still in business.”

  “No, sir, he’s not,” said Waring regretfully. “I phoned through to find out. Wellaby’s been dead for three years.”

  Just as Waring had finished his report, a form was brought to Macdonald giving the name of a visitor who had called to see him—Ashton Vale—and after a moment’s consideration Macdonald said:

  “Ask him to come up.”

  Turning to Jenkins he added, “I wonder if Vale’s got anything up his sleeve. He was at the Gardien inquest and went off with Coombe. Vale struck me as the shrewdest male of the party last night. I had the feeling that I could cross him off the list of suspects, for the paradoxical reason that if he undertook a murder, he’d be much too efficient to bungle it. Whoever it was that contrived Gardien’s death lost his or her head at the crucial moment—gave way to nerves and left those damning fragments of wire behi
nd the handles of the bureau.”

  “No man’s nerves are shock proof on an occasion like that,” said Jenkins. “Allow that this chap Vale was human enough to get rattled, and consider the point that it was he who butted into the telephone-room when you and Coombe found Gardien. That may indicate something.”

  When Ashton Vale came into the room, Jenkins’ beneficent gaze gave no indication of his quickened interest. The inspector had noticed Vale’s tall figure at the Elliott inquest, and his shrewd mind murmured “So ho! This looks promising,” even as he smiled amiably at Vale.

  “Hullo,” said the latter, smiling back at Jenkins, “we’ve seen one another before to-day.”

  He turned back to Macdonald, adding, “I went to the inquest on Mardon-Elliott. Coombe told me about his death, and I had a reason for being interested, which I thought you might like to hear about.”

  “Thanks. I should,” said Macdonald, drawing forward a chair. “As you may imagine, Elliott’s death took the wind out of our sails a bit. We depended on him for information about Gardien, who seems a very dark horse indeed.”

  “So was Elliott, if I’m not much mistaken,” said Vale. “This is my story. Ten days ago I was dining at Frascati’s with Brand, the essayist, and Mardon-Elliott was dining at a table near by. Something about the shape of his head struck me as familiar, although I couldn’t place him, and I asked Brand who he was. Brand knows every one in the world of ink and publishers, and he told me. Ever since I’ve been puzzling as to where I’d seen Elliott before, and I think I’ve got him placed. I’m a native of Langbourne in the Thames Valley, six miles from Reading. It’s a small market town with about 3000 inhabitants. About ten years ago there was a bit of excitement there which rattled the town tremendously. The chief solicitor in the place—a fellow named Robell, who did business for all the small farmers and landowners round about—shot himself in his office. His affairs were found to be in the deuce of a mess with a lot of trust money and securities missing. You can go into the details of it yourself, but the upshot was this. Robell himself was reckoned to be straight enough, and the police concluded that his chief clerk, a fellow named Mavory, was the delinquent. Robell shot himself rather than face the music which his own easygoing ways had brought about. A warrant was issued for Mavory’s arrest, but he was never caught—or if he were caught I’ve never heard of it. To the best of my belief, Mardon-Elliott was Mavory.”