‘How’s business?’ he asked.
The butler tossed down the drink he had been holding.
‘Not bad, old man, not at all bad. Of course,’ he added hastily, ‘this is only a fill-in, as far as I’m concerned.’
He drew closer to Herbert and Sandford, and continued in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Just between ourselves, this is the first time I’ve ever been out with a stock crowd. No money in it. But it fills in, old man. It fills in.’ He took another pull at his whisky and winked.
‘Smart girl you’ve got in your crowd,’ said Sandford casually, ‘the red-haired one—’
‘Oh, her!’ rejoined the butler in the disparaging tone of the small-time professional. ‘She only joined last week.’
‘Indeed?’ said Sandford interestedly. ‘Where did she come from?’
‘No idea. The old man picked her up somewhere in Glasgow, I believe. They say she took the job for stocking money.’ Suddenly the butler caught sight of the clock in the passage outside.
‘Hell!’ he ejaculated. ‘I’m on in two minutes.’ He drained his glass at a single gulp and wished them a hasty good night. Sandford suspected that this was merely an excuse to avoid returning his hospitality, but he was not altogether sorry that the man had departed.
‘What’s all this about that redhead?’ asked Herbert curiously as they made their way back to the theatre. ‘I thought you had your eye on her. Don’t tell me you’re starting a new hobby at your time of life!’
‘Nothing like that!’ snapped Sandford, very much on the alert now. ‘You go back in there – I’ve got a call to make at the police station.’
Herbert looked taken aback for a moment, but did as he was instructed.
Sandford found the station without much difficulty; it was actually very near to the Town Hall. Inside, a burly sergeant was dozing over a huge fire. Sandford knew him by sight, but produced his credentials to save time in any possible argument.
‘I want to see all the circulars, photos and any other dope you’ve got about Iris Archer,’ he began briskly.
The sergeant rubbed his eyes, yawned, and went over to some dusty files. Eventually he discovered a photo reproduction and a description. They were not over-methodical at Craiglea.
‘Give me a minute or two, and I’ll find some more,’ the sergeant wheezed. ‘There was some stuff came in on Thursday if I remember rightly …’
‘All right,’ snapped Sandford, studying the picture, which had been taken two years previously. It was a studio portrait, and the photographer had played tricks with the lighting, with the result that the platinum blonde he had produced might have been any one of the dozen models whom he employed regularly. Sandford was really very little the wiser. The description was the same as that on his newspaper cutting.
‘Just give me another minute, Inspector—’ the sergeant was mumbling, but Sandford cut him short.
‘I want you to help me at the Town Hall. Stand by in case you’re needed. And if you bungle things, you’ll be losing those stripes of yours!’
By the time they reached the Town Hall the performance was nearly over, and Sandford at once made his way behind the scenes. Mounting some stone steps, he reached the stage level and stood in a corner watching the play. Lydia Merridew was not on the stage. After awhile Sandford approached a scene-shifter and asked: ‘Which is Miss Merridew’s dressing room?’
‘Number Five down the passage,’ said the man, with a jerk of the thumb to indicate the direction.
Sandford walked along the corridor and tapped at Number Five.
‘Who is it?’ said a voice.
‘I want to speak to Miss Merridew,’ replied the inspector.
The door was opened by the red-haired girl, who had a rather exaggerated make-up. She gave him a searching glance.
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
After a pause, during which she scrutinised him shrewdly, she backed a step. ‘Better come in.’
He closed the door carefully behind him and looked round the barely-furnished room. Two theatrical baskets stood in one corner, a couple of dresses were suspended on hangers, and the dressing shelf was littered with the usual greasepaints and towels.
‘If it’s anything private,’ said Lydia Merridew, ‘you’d better get on with it quickly. I share this room with another girl, and I expect she’ll be back in a few minutes.’
She seated herself in front of the mirror and began touching up her make-up. The strong, garish light from four electric bulbs was concentrated on her face. Sandford looked hard into the mirror, and came to a sudden decision.
‘I arrest you, Iris Archer, on a charge of attempted murder,’ he declared, placing a hand on her shoulder. Under the thin dressing gown she was wearing he felt her wince with a slight exclamation of pain; felt that the shoulder was padded with some sort of bandaging. Then he knew that he had made no mistake.
The eyes in the mirror seemed to be burning into his. After some seconds she turned.
‘How in God’s name did you find out?’ she gasped.
‘I haven’t the time to go into that now,’ he replied sternly.
Sandford had a shrewd idea that she was playing for time, and he had no intention of giving her any loophole.
‘You’d better put your coat on and come along,’ he ordered brusquely.
‘But I can’t come like this. I must take my make-up off and change my frock.’
‘All right,’ agreed Sandford reasonably. ‘I’ll give you five minutes – and I’ll be waiting outside.’
He went back into the corridor and paced steadily up and down. Once or twice a member of the company, leaving or entering a dressing room, eyed him curiously, but he remained quite indifferent.
He gave her seven minutes before tapping on the door.
There was no reply.
‘Miss Merridew!’ he called sharply.
Still no answer. He turned the knob and found that the door was locked. Without further ado, he flung his full weight against the door. The noise brought several of the actors running out of their dressing rooms.
‘What’s all this?’
The imperious tones of Maxwell Sherwood resounded along the corridor. ‘Look here, my man, you can’t—’
‘I’m a police officer,’ cut in Sandford, gasping from his exertions. ‘I’ve got to get in here.’ He continued his assaults on the door, and there was a sudden crash as it gave way. Sandford rushed into the room and over to the far wall. He dragged aside a curtain he had previously noted, imagining that it had concealed some sort of recess. He had been wrong. Behind the curtain was an emergency exit door, leading out to a flight of wooden steps. He was about to descend, when a hand pulled him back.
‘Wait a minute!’
It was the elderly butler.
‘I noticed this morning the wood in those steps is rotten. Wouldn’t stand your weight. Besides, two of ’em are missing.’
Sandford peered out.
In the darkness below, he thought he could discern something white.
‘Take me round there – quick as you can!’ he ordered.
‘Come on,’ said the butler, thoroughly enjoying himself. He led the way back through the dressing room, along corridors, down two flights of stairs and into the open.
Iris was lying at the foot of the steps, writhing in pain. One leg was crumpled beneath her.
‘Oh, there you are, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It’s my ankle…I’d have cheated you if it hadn’t been for that damned rotten escape. Might have expected it in a dump like this.’
Sandford turned to the butler. ‘Go round to the front and bring the sergeant,’ he instructed.
Coming out of the theatre five minutes later, Herbert blinked at the spectacle of his brother-in-law and a burly sergeant assisting a very attractive red-haired actress into a taxi.
Herbert sighed.
‘These policemen have all the luck,’ he muttered enviously.
9
‘We were lucky to get this compartment all to ourselves,’ smiled Steve.
Paul Temple laughed.
‘Yes, it’s wonderful what the police can do, eh, Sir Graham?’
‘Well…’ replied Sir Graham with a twinkle in his eyes, ‘this seems to be the first opportunity we’ve had for talking over the case, so I thought I’d make sure we weren’t interrupted.’ He took out a case of cigars and offered it to Temple.
‘Would you care for a cigarette, Steve?’ he asked.
‘Not at the moment.’
Two minutes later the train slid smoothly away from the platform and clattered through the dingy suburbs. Sir Graham sighed and stretched his legs.
‘What happened about your car, Temple?’
‘They told me at Aberdeen it’d be through by tomorrow.’
‘Not much fun motoring in this weather,’ commented Sir Graham.
‘No,’ said Steve, ‘this is much cosier.’
‘H’m…’ Sir Graham puffed at his cigar. ‘Well, Temple?’
Temple smiled. ‘Well, Sir Graham?’
‘What puzzles me is that business with Ben. I don’t see how the devil you account for—’
‘How the devil I account for the flask, Sir Graham?’
‘Well, after all, the flask was yours, and there certainly—’
‘There was certainly cyanide in the flask,’ nodded Temple. ‘Yes, I agree. Still, when Mrs Weston sold me that flask I don’t suppose she intended that Ben should—’
‘Oh, darling!’ broke in Steve, horrified.
‘Yes,’ said Temple seriously, ‘that was certainly a lucky escape, Steve, as far as I was concerned.’
Steve pressed his hand, but made no further comment.
‘At the time it made me more certain than ever that Steiner was Z.4,’ continued Forbes. ‘You see, it was Steiner who suggested the drink in the first place.’
‘Yes, but Steiner couldn’t possibly have known what was in the flask,’ Temple pointed out.
‘He might have known, Temple,’ said Forbes thoughtfully. ‘It’s very difficult to say. Incidentally, was the flask your first indication that Mrs Weston was implicated?’
Temple shook his head. ‘No, the flask merely confirmed what was already in my mind. I had a pretty shrewd suspicion that Mrs Weston had some connection with the affair, even at the very beginning.’
‘But, darling, why?’ asked Steve.
‘Well,’ said Temple, ‘in the first place, Ernie Weston returned the letter which he had stolen, and which was obviously of supreme importance to Z.4. Shortly after he returned the letter, Weston was murdered. Why? Obviously because he had unwittingly let the cat out of the bag about the letter.’
Light began to dawn upon Sir Graham. ‘You mean that he had told his wife about it, without realising that she was Z.4?’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Temple. ‘Although, of course, it wasn’t quite so simple as that at the time. I knew that he’d told someone about the letter, and I was pretty sure that that someone was Z.4. But it might have been Steiner, or possibly Bryant, or possibly some other person we had never even heard of.’
‘But, if it was Bryant or Steiner, then Weston must have been on friendly terms with them,’ said Forbes.
‘That point struck me at once. They must, in fact, have been well aware that Ernie Weston was what is euphemistically termed a kleptomaniac. They must have known, in fact, that he was in the habit of helping himself to other people’s possessions. Yet both Bryant and Steiner had been obviously puzzled by the loss of a watch chain and a pair of cufflinks.
‘Now, assuming that Steiner and Bryant were all that they seemed to be, or at any rate were not definitely connected with Z.4, then obviously Weston must have spoken to someone else – someone, in fact, who knew exactly the sort of game he was playing. It seemed to me that that someone might very easily be an obvious sort of person after all. A person who Weston really would talk to, without attaching any particular importance to it. Someone, in fact, like his wife…’
He paused, looked at his cigar, and found that it was out.
‘Don’t light it again,’ said Forbes quickly. ‘Here, take another.’
Temple laughed.
‘The cigars were a present from Rex Bryant,’ smiled Sir Graham. ‘Sort of a quid pro quo in return for an exclusive story. Well, go on, Temple, let’s hear how you narrowed down the field.’
Temple eased the band off the cigar.
‘Later, when Steve and I made arrangements to go to Aberdeen, and that dreadful accident happened, it became quite obvious that Z.4 was actually at the inn. Only someone staying at the inn could possibly have discovered our arrangements. If any doubt existed in my mind, it was very soon eliminated after our experience at Skerry Lodge.’
Steve shuddered at the recollection.
‘Yes,’ said Forbes, ‘but that didn’t eliminate Doctor Steiner or Rex Bryant as possible suspects. Or Iris Archer, too, for that matter. Remember, the whole three of them were staying at the “Royal Gate”.’
Temple carefully applied a match to the new cigar.
‘If Doctor Steiner had been Z.4 it’s hardly likely that he’d have interrupted Iris in her search for the letter,’ he argued. ‘Don’t forget that she was following instructions received from Z.4.’
‘You mean through Mrs Moffat? Yes, that’s true,’ Forbes conceded. ‘Now we come to Rex Bryant.’
‘Candidly, Sir Graham, I never suspected Rex from the very first,’ continued Temple. ‘Finding the watch chain on Weston had quite the opposite effect on me from that intended. It more than convinced me of his innocence.’
‘Yes,’ mused Forbes, ‘I rather suspected it was a pretty obvious sort of “plant”.’
‘And now we come to Mrs Weston,’ said Temple. ‘Well, in the first place, she was always at the inn, and therefore in a position to overhear most of our conversation; indeed, on one occasion, when we were talking about Lindsay’s letter, she actually marched into the room on the pretence of clearing away the coffee things.’
‘Seemed natural enough at the time,’ commented Forbes.
‘Yes, she was a clever little woman, and she had an instinct for time and place,’ said Temple. ‘Also, as I have already pointed out, she was the most likely person for her husband to confide in about the letter. And thirdly, she made a very bad slip.’
Forbes looked up.
‘What do you mean, Temple?’
Paul Temple smiled.
‘You probably remember that I discovered certain interesting details about Iris’ past. Details which Z.4 knew about, but which Iris was anxious to conceal?’
Forbes nodded. Temple said: ‘I received a telegram which confirmed my suspicions about Iris, but when I received the telegram it had already been opened.’
‘You mean Mrs Weston actually opened it herself?’
‘Precisely. But by mentioning the fact herself, delivering the telegram at a crucial moment, and appearing apparently indifferent to the whole business, the point might very easily have been overlooked.’ Temple laughed. ‘I told you she had a nice sense of time and place, Sir Graham.’
‘I’m beginning to see daylight,’ said Forbes. ‘As soon as Mrs Weston read that wire, she knew that you knew all there was to know about Iris, and that sooner or later Iris would talk.’
Paul Temple nodded. ‘Of course you’ve guessed the secret, Sir Graham.’
The Chief Commissioner nodded and took a letter from the inside pocket of his overcoat.
‘This confirms your theory about Mrs Weston,’ he said with a smile. ‘Mrs Weston was definitely the chambermaid at the Martinez Hotel. Even in those days the French authorities suspected her of espionage.’
Temple grinned. ‘You didn’t lose much time checking up, did you, Sir Graham?’
Steve said: ‘Paul, you remember when you asked Ernie We
ston about your cigarette lighter – what was the idea?’
‘Oh, that was only to get his reactions, my dear. I knew then for a certainty that he was in the habit of helping himself to other people’s things, and that in all probability he had been responsible for the letter disappearing.’
After he had finished his cigar, Forbes suggested that they should go along to lunch.
When they were seated in the dining car, Temple asked: ‘Have you heard anything from the War Office people?’
‘Yes, but it was quite hopeless. The chalet was absolutely gutted. Even Hardwick’s sketches were just a mass of charred paper.’
During the rest of lunch they discussed general subjects.
Forbes stayed behind for a few minutes in the dining car to finish his liquor, while Temple and Steve returned to their compartment.
‘It’ll be nice to get home again,’ sighed Steve, as she picked up a magazine.
‘Presumably that means we’ll be off again next week,’ grinned her husband.
Steve laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking of Lake Como. After all, darling, we haven’t been there since our honeymoon.’
‘Yes,’ said Temple, looking thoughtfully out of the window at the wild Northern countryside.
‘Do you remember that lake, Paul? The one which was blue – a deep, unforgettable blue?’
‘All the lakes were blue, dear,’ he smiled.
‘I mean the one at the foot of the forest, where we had an argument about fish being able to talk.’
‘What an argument!’
‘Our first.’
‘It was a hell of a row for beginners,’ laughed Temple.
Presently Forbes rejoined them, and began speculating once more upon the chances of his paying a visit to America. It was one of his pet topics. Temple and Steve related some of their experiences in the States, and in practically no time they were rushing through the suburbs of London.
As they left the train they saw a massive and familiar figure ahead of them.
‘He seems to know his way about, even if he is a foreigner,’ commented Steve.
‘Why, it’s Steiner!’ ejaculated Forbes, standing with one foot on the step of a taxi. ‘I’ve a damned good mind to follow him and—’
‘Not much point in that, Sir Graham,’ Temple assured him, as their own taxi started off.
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