Off the Record

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Jack strained to hear the voices in the hall. Gerard Carrington, indignant, Stephen Lewis a brief, indistinguishable low rumble.

  ‘Actually hold my arm!’ continued Mrs Soames-Pensford. ‘I was so grateful, because I’m sure I would have fallen without his aid. I said, “My good man . . .” She carried on speaking but Jack wasn’t listening. The drawing room was at the back of the flat and looked out on to gardens. He supposed it could have been a backfire, but . . .

  Lewis put his head round the door. ‘Haldean, can you come here? Ferguson, you too.’

  There was a shout from the next room. Lewis spun round and ran, followed by Jack, Hector Ferguson and Molly Lewis.

  In the study, Gerard Carrington knelt by the sprawled body of Hugo Ragnall.

  It was like a bad dream. It was only a second or perhaps part of a second but Jack saw the scene as if there had been a flash of lightning. Gerard Carrington’s ghost-white face, Hugo Ragnall’s outstretched hand, loosely holding a gun, the absolute knowledge that Hugo Ragnall was dead. And in the hall, unable to see into the study, Mrs Soames-Pensford, kept up a steady flow of complaint about cars.

  ‘Gerry,’ said Lewis, his voice hoarse.

  Carrington stood up and backed away. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. I’m not doing this. I’m not. Not prison. Not again.’

  With an explosion of movement, Carrington hurled himself forward and snatched the gun from Ragnall’s hand. He was shaking, Jack noted mechanically. Carrington’s fear was so strong he could almost smell it. Holding the gun in a trembling hand, Carrington pointed it at them. ‘Let me out.’

  ‘Gerry, you can’t do this,’ said Lewis in a bewildered way.

  Sudden fury transformed Carrington’s face. ‘Can’t I?’

  Jack moved forward and the gun pointed waveringly at his stomach.

  ‘I’ll do it!’ Carrington’s voice was sharp with terror. ‘Steve, stay where you are!’ The muzzle of the gun suddenly seemed huge. Stephen Lewis moved again and Jack saw Carrington’s knuckles whiten.

  ‘Stop!’ he yelled.

  Lewis froze and Carrington’s knuckles relaxed.

  ‘Let me out,’ Carrington repeated. With his back to the bookshelves that lined the wall, he inched his way towards the door, the gun fixed on the men opposite.

  ‘Stand away from the door,’ Jack shouted to the women crowding the entrance. ‘He’s got a gun. Stand right away.’ He knew just how dangerous a gun in the hands of a badly frightened man was. ‘Let him through,’ he snarled, his voice savage.

  There was surprisingly little noise from the girls as they fell back. A whimper, a cry abruptly cut off, and a series of choking gasps.

  Carrington, his eyes fixed on them and the gun at the ready, backed his way down the hall.

  ‘Gerry,’ pleaded Molly Lewis. ‘Come back.’

  His face twisted. ‘I can’t,’ he said, his voice nearly a sob.

  Steve Lewis saw his chance and sprang. Carrington jerked the gun up and fired in a thunderous, ear-shattering roar. Lewis was hurled backwards and the bullet ploughed through the ceiling.

  A few things happened simultaneously. Molly screamed and flung herself to the floor beside her husband as, with a series of ominous creaks and with ghastly inevitability, the plaster on the ceiling crazed into fragments and fell in a soft whumph of blinding, choking lumps.

  It was like an explosion in a flour mill. It was impossible to see and nearly impossible to breath. Through streaming eyes, Jack could see a white haze appear as the front door opened, then it slammed shut once more, plunging the hall back into shifting, dusty darkness.

  Everyone seemed to be coughing, then shouting, then coughing again. Beside him, Babs Soames-Pensford kept repeating, ‘He’s dead, he’s dead,’ in a bewildered monotone. He heard Ferguson yelling but his voice was lost in the uproar.

  Jack, stuck at the back of the group, tried groping his way towards Lewis through the panicking group in the hall, guided by Molly’s screams. From behind the green baize door at the end of the hall, the three womenservants pushed their way into the jostling crowd.

  He scrambled past Mrs Soames-Pensford and found Steve Lewis more by touch than sight. He was sitting up, supported by Molly, shaking his head blearily. He clutched his arm and his hand came away red. ‘Blood!’ yelped Mrs Soames-Pensford and crumpled to the floor.

  ‘It’s my arm,’ Lewis managed to say. ‘The devil got my arm.’ He closed his eyes and fell against Molly.

  Covered in plaster-dust and with his ears ringing from the shot, Jack made his way as best he could to where he thought the front door should be. Eventually his hands closed on the handle and he wrenched it open. He staggered down the steps, holding on to the railings and taking great gulps of fresh air.

  A kitchen maid from the opposite flats, who had just stepped out to enjoy a cigarette on the steps down to the area, gazed at him in as much horror as if he were the demon king in a pantomime. She threw back her head and screamed at the top of her voice. A postman and a woman walking a dog stopped in their tracks, open mouthed, as Ferguson and the Soames-Pensford girls, covered in white dust, spilled down the steps behind him. More passers-by, drawn by the shouts and the promise of something utterly remarkable on this quiet, tree-lined street stopped to look and then the housemaid, Connie, her eyes bulging with excitement, elbowed her way to the front, threw back her head and yelled, ‘Murder!’

  It was incredible how quickly the crowd gathered. The shout of ‘Murder!’ was taken up, carried down the street and suddenly a ring of densely packed people gathered round the steps, preserving, with an odd sense of propriety, a clear half-circle round the front door. Errand-boys, a postman, respectably dressed clerks, all the servants from the other flats, newspaper sellers, fashionable women, men in flat caps, men in greasy overalls, women in aprons with their hair in nets, dozens of children and innumerable barking dogs. Two taxis squealed to a halt and what seemed to be scores of top-hatted, exquisitely dressed young men leapt out, and took up, in penetrating, high-pitched voices, the cry of, ‘Murder! I say, murder!’ The taxi drivers got out, took one look and, as one man, yelled, ‘Murder!’ in a stentorian Cockney bellow.

  It was with heartfelt relief that Jack heard the shrill blast of a policeman’s whistle. Two constables converged and made their stately way through the crowd which fell back in a wave to let them through. ‘It’s murder!’ yelled a knot of small boys, whooping as if they were at a football match. ‘Murder! ’E done it,’ added a bristle-headed youth, pointing to Jack. ‘That toff in filfy clothes! ’E done it! Murder!’

  A policeman’s hand descended on Jack’s collar. ‘What’s all this?’ he said. ‘Wot’s ’e mean, murder?’ He looked up at the open door of the flat, still hazy with dust. Stephen Lewis emerged on to the steps. His evening dress was dishevelled and dirty, the ripped fabric of his sleeve was hanging loose and he had blood smeared on his cheek from where he had rubbed his face with his hands.

  The crowd gasped and the bristle-headed boy jumped up and down in a paroxysm of delight. ‘Cor! That’s the bloke ’e murdered!’

  ‘Don’t be daft, you silly young shaver,’ grunted the policeman, catching the boy a clip on the head with the edge of his cape. ‘Get out of it!’ He raised his voice to an official bellow. ‘Everyone, clear away!’

  ‘I think,’ said Jack, wearily, to the policeman still clutching his collar, ‘you’d better come inside.’

  It was nearly two hours later and Rackham and Jack were in the study together. Rackham was intent on a meticulous analysis of the murder, including a word-for-word account of Carrington’s entry into the house, the conversation in the drawing room and the scene in the hall. Rackham even played the records they had listened to. He would never, thought Jack, shrinking from the urbane jollity of the song, be able to listen to Jack Hylton again. The breezy tune and the witty lyrics now seemed jeeringly, unbearably sinister.

  Stephen Lewis was with Sergeant Hawley in the drawing room. The crowd had reluctantly disp
ersed, Molly Lewis had retired to bed, Hector Ferguson had gone home and the Soames-Pensfords had returned to their flat. The doctor and the photographer had been, statements had been taken, and Hugo Ragnall’s body had been removed to the mortuary.

  ‘Carrington was furious when he walked into the flat, you say?’ said Rackham, prowling round the filing-cases in the study.

  ‘Absolutely blistering, Bill. Hugo Ragnall, poor devil, was pretty worked up, too, about this letter Carrington had written to him.’

  ‘I can’t find the letter. Carrington probably took it with him. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea what was in it, have you?’

  ‘Stephen Lewis knows. He was trying to calm Ragnall down before Carrington arrived and, from what he said, he knew what Carrington had written.’

  ‘Does he, by jingo? He didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘I can guess what’s in it though,’ said Jack. ‘I bet you can, too.’

  Rackham let out his breath in a long sigh, then, lighting a cigarette, sat down on the study chair. ‘It’s not very hard to guess, is it? I knew Ragnall was holding something back, the idiot. How about this for an idea? We know Ragnall arrived at the Marchmont Hotel the day Dunbar was murdered. He said he didn’t see Carrington. What if that was a lie?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ said Jack.

  ‘Because if he did see Carrington he’d be in a position either to back up his story or to deny it. And, although Carrington was officially in the clear, Hugo Ragnall might have tried a bit of blackmail. Knowing that Carrington was due to attend this party this evening, I bet Ragnall wrote to him, asking for a private word. Carrington, who’s not a man to push around, certainly took violent exception to something Ragnall had said, done or hinted. I bet Carrington dashed off a note, denying everything, and came round in person to settle the matter. We know he’s got a foul temper and, with both men spoiling for a fight, things got out of hand and Carrington pulled a gun.’ He cocked an eyebrow at his friend. ‘How’s that for a reconstruction?’

  ‘I’ve always liked Carrington, but it sounds fairly likely to me,’ said Jack heavily. ‘I know what I heard and saw, and if Ragnall really did know Carrington was lying about the time he left the Marchmont, that’d carry a lot more weight than my inference about the letter and the post-boy and so on.’

  ‘The evidence of the post-boy bothers me, though,’ said Bill. ‘He wasn’t lying, I’d swear to it. Why the devil should he? Unless Carrington had bribed him, of course,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘But he was taking a dickens of a risk if he did, placing himself at the mercy of a lad like that. I can’t see it, Jack.’

  ‘No,’ said Jack. His face was pale. ‘You know I said I’d been trying to think how the trick might have been worked? I think I know how it could be done.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It depends on Mrs Dunbar’s eyesight.’

  Bill looked puzzled. ‘How, exactly?’

  ‘It’s a question of time. Your expert at the Yard was convinced that Dunbar had opened and read the letter, the letter that was delivered, according to Mrs Dunbar’s evidence, after Carrington had left the hotel. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Now say Carrington was there when the letter was delivered. Dunbar reads the letter and, maybe while he’s reading it, Carrington bumps him off. Carrington knows that the post-boy, a completely independent witness, will be able to fix what time he delivered the letter. All he has to do then is convince someone – anyone – that it’s earlier than in fact it is. He goes down into the lobby of the hotel and looks for someone to talk to about the time. There’s a couple of ways he could have done it. He could have brushed against someone, apologized, saying he’s frightfully sorry but he can’t stop because he’s got an appointment, makes a point of looking at his watch, exclaims, “It’s half four” and he’s going to be late. Or, if he saw someone with a newspaper, he could have stopped and asked for the racing results, mentioning that he had a bet on the four o’clock, say. Then he could pretend to see the time, laugh, and say it wouldn’t be in the newspaper yet because it’s only half past four. You see what I mean? It’s a way of impressing on someone’s mind that it’s half past four.’

  ‘And none of these people are capable of looking at the hotel clock for themselves?’

  ‘We’re talking about minutes, Bill. People don’t usually give the time to the precise minute. Besides that, it all depends on eyesight, doesn’t it? If an elderly gentleman were to have been reading a newspaper with spectacles, he wouldn’t be able to see the hotel clock with his reading glasses. It’d only be a blur and, in those circumstances, he’s unlikely to check the time with his watch. An elderly man wouldn’t have a wristwatch. He’d have a fob watch and to produce it, in those circumstances, would be tantamount to checking up on what this apologetic young man had said. Not only would that be impolite, but as far as the elderly gentleman’s concerned, it’s a very unimportant incident. Now what actually happened is that Carrington sees Mrs Dunbar, whom he knows. He dashes past her, saying he’s got an appointment at five and it’s half four already.’

  ‘Mrs Dunbar wears glasses,’ said Bill slowly. ‘She couldn’t have seen the hotel clock. When we were at her house and she staged that performance of accusing herself I remember she put her spectacles on and stared at Hector Ferguson. She was warning him to shut up, obviously, but she needed spectacles to see him.’ He smacked his fist into his palm. ‘It’s so simple,’ he said. ‘So incredibly simple. Bloody hell, Jack, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.’ He jerked his head towards the next room. ‘Stephen Lewis knows a damn sight more than he’s ever told us. I’m going to get the truth out of him if it’s the last thing I do. Come on. I’ve got some questions for that gentleman.’

  Stephen Lewis, his arm now neatly bandaged, was drinking a weak whisky and water in the drawing room. His face was drawn and pale. ‘Are you nearly finished, Inspector? You’ll understand if I say I want nothing more than to get to bed.’

  ‘I imagine you do, sir,’ said Rackham with a rather forced smile. ‘We won’t be much longer, but there are another couple of questions I’d like to ask.’

  Lewis sipped his whisky in a depressed sort of way. ‘If you must. What do you want to know?’

  ‘It’s this, sir. From the very start, you’ve believed that Gerard Carrington murdered Dunbar. Don’t bother to deny it, sir,’ he added, seeing Lewis’s startled expression. ‘I think it’s time you told the truth.’

  Lewis bit his lip. ‘Perhaps,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘Thank you. Mr Ragnall was in the Marchmont the afternoon Dunbar was murdered. His evidence – which he was very slow to give – put Mr Ferguson in the clear. However, it did occur to me to wonder what else he saw.’

  ‘Please, Inspector! Gerry Carrington’s my cousin. What do you expect me to say?’

  ‘I expect you, sir, to bear in mind that Carrington threatened your wife and your guests with a gun, shot you, and murdered your secretary. He’s a dangerous man and I believe both you and Hugo Ragnall knew just how dangerous he was.’ Lewis said nothing. ‘Shall I tell you what I think happened, sir?’ said Rackham. Lewis put the back of his hand to his mouth but still said nothing. ‘Very well. I will. Hugo Ragnall saw Mrs Dunbar and Hector Ferguson at the Marchmont, right enough, but he also saw Gerard Carrington.’ Lewis met his eyes, then looked away, wriggling unhappily on his chair. ‘You knew that, didn’t you? You knew that Carrington hadn’t left the hotel when he said he had. You knew he’d had the opportunity to kill Dunbar and you knew that because Hugo Ragnall had told you so.’

  ‘For God’s sake, yes!’ Lewis let out a long, shuddering sigh. ‘Gerry always had a filthy temper. I knew that. I was afraid he’d gone off the deep end. He loathed Dunbar and with good reason. I couldn’t see that anybody else but Gerry could possibly have shot Dunbar, but I was damned if I was going to be the one to accuse him. Ragnall told me that he knew Gerry’s account of the time he’d left the Marchmont was fals
e. I told him to keep quiet. After all, Gerry was in enough trouble without Ragnall knocking another nail in the coffin.’ He nodded at Jack. ‘When you got him off the hook, I didn’t think your explanation added up, but I thought it was all for the best. Ragnall would never have come forward if Ferguson hadn’t been in danger. It was one thing not making anything worse for Gerry. It was quite another letting Ferguson carry the can for something he hadn’t done. But I still don’t see why Gerry went berserk with Ragnall.’

  ‘Did you see the letter Carrington wrote to Ragnall?’ asked Jack.

  Lewis nodded. ‘It was like the ravings of a madman. I couldn’t think what the problem was. After all, Ragnall hadn’t accused him of murder. He’d kept that under his hat. Gerry should have been grateful to him, not nearly insane with rage.’

  Rackham cleared his throat. ‘And what if Hugo Ragnall had attempted a little blackmail?’

  ‘He couldn’t!’ began Lewis indignantly, then broke off. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said very softly. ‘Oh, my God.’ He turned his face away. ‘Gerry couldn’t have intended to murder him,’ he said at last. ‘He’s not like that. Not Gerry. His temper must have got the better of him.’

  ‘He had a gun, sir.’

  ‘I know he had a gun,’ said Lewis testily. ‘He shot me with the damned thing. He must have meant to wave it round and perhaps scare Ragnall into silence. I don’t know what was in his mind. I’ve stood by him and maybe I’ve been stupid. But Gerry is a brilliant man. It seemed all wrong that he should suffer for a temporary lapse of temper.’

  ‘Have you considered Colonel Willoughby, Lewis?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Uncle Maurice?’ said Lewis, bewildered. ‘What’s Uncle Maurice got to do with it?’

  ‘He was attacked,’ said Rackham. ‘We think he might have been attacked to draw you off for the day.’

  Lewis looked at them blankly, then flushed angrily. ‘No. No, you’re not telling me that Gerry did that. I just don’t believe it. It was a burglar.’