“Sorry,” he said. “Is that really it? All right. Honestly, if it will make you any happier, I will even admit that Blank Blank or Dash Dash is a great writer; but privately——”
“There. You see?”
“And if, in the latter part of the indictment, you were referring to certain gifts which you practically threw back in my face——”
“Trust a man,” said Francine icily, “to take the conversation straight to the personal. You always do, and then accuse us of doing it.” She paused. “Oh, I don’t mind, really!” she cried in a different tone. “But you will not notice things, Chris; you sail through the world in your own sweet way, and you never do! For instance—Jenny.”
The evil subject was back again; they could not keep it out. Francine spoke in an off-hand tone:
“I don’t suppose you even noticed she was making a play for you, did you?”
“Nonsense.”
“She jolly well was!” cried Francine, firing up.
He sat back and stared at her. Into his mind, doubtfully, had come a gleam of light; and with it a feeling of uproarious happiness sang through him. They looked at each other, each knowing the other knew.
“I wish I could persuade you,” he said, “that I am the fair-haired prize-package you seem to believe other women think. Jenny? That’s impossible! I never——”
“Thought of it? Neither did poor old Harvey Wrayburn, as decent a sort as there is, until she got after him during a long sea-voyage. She really was a terror, Chris. She did it as much to amuse herself as anything else. What annoys me is that I can’t see how she did it, or how she had the knack. But she was most definitely going out to make a play for you.”
“But I hope you don’t think I—? To begin with, she was Rod’s wife——”
“Your cousin’s wife. Yes. And you wouldn’t think of making love to the wife of a friend of yours, would you? In fact, the idea rather shocks you, doesn’t it?”
“Frankly, yes,” he admitted with what he hoped was dignity. “Your friends’ wives are—well, damn it, I mean——”
“Not-to-be-thought-of-like-that,” said Francine. “Oh, Chris, you are an old mossback!”
“Very interesting,” he said coldly. “I suppose that in Russia——”
“Don’t you say anything about Russia!”
“I was merely about to point out——”
“Don’t you see, Chris,” she urged with great sincerity, “that the moral issue involved is precisely the same whether the woman is your friend’s wife or the wife of someone you don’t know? You wouldn’t make love to Rod’s wife; but you’d have no compunction—not you!—about making love to the wife of some poor devil who’s making maybe two pounds a week, and has to stay at a factory all day, and hasn’t your leisure to——”
“One moment,” he said, rather dazed. “So far as I remember, I never said one word about roaring round the country after other men’s wives. As a menace to the home I am practically nil. But will you explain to me how it is that we can never touch on any subject without your somehow coming round to the political and economic aspect of it? I’ll swear you and the world and Davy Jones seem to have gone politics-mad——”
“Indeed,” observed Francine with sweet savagery. “It must be so nice, it must be so stimulating, for you to sit on your Olympian height and watch all the little imbeciles crawl about in the valley. I was attempting to explain, in as elementary a way as I could, that it is your kind of outworn, stupid codes and shibboleths which have made such a mess of the country——”
“Well, would it please you any better if I made love both to my friend’s wife and the factory-worker’s wife? Do you think we should be happier then?”
“My God, Chris Kent, there are times when I could kill you. You go and make love to whom you like! You——”
“That’s what I am trying to do, my dear. Only——”
“Ahem,” said Dr. Fell.
They stopped. The vast presence of Dr. Fell towered over the table, beaming down with doubtful but benevolent interest, and following the thrusts with his head as you follow strokes in a tennis match. Now he cleared his throat. Francine, radiant with cold anger, put a handkerchief to her lips; but she burst out laughing instead.
“Ah, that is better,” beamed Dr. Fell. “Heh-heh-heh. I dislike to interrupt; but the waiter has been hanging about the table for the past five minutes with the hors-d’oeuvre wagon, and hesitating to say, ‘Sardine?’ for fear it should seem to have a personal application.”
“He’s a pig-headed—” said Francine.
“I have no doubt of it, my dear,” said Dr. Fell, cheerfully. “In fact, it is a very good sign. The woman who does not think her husband is pig-headed is already beginning to dominate him, and that would be bad. I beg your pardon: I do not wish to begin an argument about equality or inequality in marriage. As the Frenchman said about love-making, ‘Never before the fish!’ But, if I might make a suggestion here, I should suggest that you get married; then you could stop being on the defensive and begin to enjoy yourselves.”
“Jenny got married,” said Francine.
“Not now,” interposed Dr. Fell, with sudden strong authority. “Not that—just now.”
That meal was like a loosening or unbuckling of armour, while the doctor’s face grew redder and redder, and his chuckles more explosive behind the wine-bottles. However unbelievable his anecdotes became, however his rapid paradoxes gave his listeners the impression that they had just been whirled round a particularly fast switchback after having drunk two Seidletz powders, it was all directed towards one thing: putting these two at their ease. What a master of ceremonies he made Kent never fully realised until afterwards. But it was not until they were padded round against night and the things of night, over the brandy, that the subject was introduced again.
“Harvey should have heard that story—” began Francine.
Dr. Fell trimmed the ash off his cigar, and blinked sideways at her.
“Yes. Now is the time,” he said. “What do you think of the whole affair, Miss Forbes?”
“I can answer that. It’s the idea of—someone close to you—doing all that,” she told him quietly. “Someone you’ve known a long time, but who’s got a hinge loose. I don’t think I’m afraid, though. I think it’s all over.”
“Why?”
“Because the poker was left behind this time.” She took a deep inhalation of her cigarette, and spoke in the same even tone. “It wouldn’t have been left stuck in those towels if somebody had had a further use for it. Unless, of course—well, unless someone has grown too fond of blood. But I can’t credit that. I was trying to tell Chris what I thought, a while ago.”
She considered.
“Some people might have been able to take Jenny, and Jenny’s ways, lightly. I could, for instance. Probably most people could. But the tenth person mightn’t be able to see her in so light-hearted a way. I’ve often wondered what Rod thought of her. Oh, she managed him, and her noted devotion to him, beautifully. Do you know, it was all so skilful that it was rumoured— and many people believed, at the time—Rod was marrying Jenny for her money?”
The glasses almost dropped off Dr. Fell’s nose; he gave one wheeze through that nose. Then he said:
“Repeat that, please.”
“It’s true! It went all round our crowd in South Africa; and it’s the first thing Sir Gyles Gay joked Rod about (subtly, of course) when we came over here; so the version was pretty broad and pretty garbled. It hurt Rod a good deal, though he simply said nothing about it and never even bothered to deny it. But I think some people even in our crowd believed it.”
“Was she wealthy?”
“Well-off, anyway. I think.”
“From what source?”
“From her parents, we thought, though a stony veldt farm isn’t usually—and then her dressmaking business must have been very profitable. She had wonderful taste in clothes, there’s no getting away from that.”
> “But why are you so interested in that piece of gossip?” demanded Kent.
“Because it’s merely the motive for your cousin Rodney’s murder,” groaned Dr. Fell. “Oh, Lord, what a duffer I’ve been! What a thundering idiot! And yet there was no hint—!” He knocked his fists against his temples. “You see, the first murder was the one which wouldn’t fit into any rational scheme of things. It wasn’t rational sense; it wasn’t even rational insanity. But Rodney marrying the woman for her money: that provides a very deadly and sane explanation.”
“How? If you know anything,” urged Francine, her too-fair skin flushed with wine, and looking less poised and more beautiful than Kent had ever seen her: “if you know anything, or guess anything, won’t you tell us? It isn’t just curiosity. It’s to keep the devils out.”
“That’s fair enough,” said Kent.
It was a little time before Dr. Fell answered.
“No!” he roared. “No, by the temple of Eleusis! And there’s one main reason why I don’t. I think (mind you, I say I think) I know just half this affair; with luck I may be able to get the other half. But there’s a strong possibility, on which I am balanced at the moment, that the explanation may be exactly opposite to what I think it is: for that reason I haven’t even dared to explain fully to Hadley. And he has some new information. I don’t want to raise your hopes, and put you off-guard in case——”
“Eleusis,” repeated Kent, as Dr. Fell stopped in mid-sentence. “If Wrayburn were here, with his mine of good-for-nothing lore, we might get that explained. Didn’t the Eleusinian mysteries celebrate the descent of Persephone into the underworld, and her return to the light of day? System of rewards and punishments?” He added, “‘To wake the dead.’”
Dr. Fell chuckled. “‘Pale beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves she stands—’ It’s a curious thing about Swinburne, but the more intolerably doleful the poem, the more the rich gusto with which you can recite it. ‘Who gathers all things mortal, With cold immortal hands——’”
“Who does?” inquired Francine, who had a practical mind. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Yes, we had better stop it. But the character of Mrs. Kent fascinates me as it unfolds. If we had only seen her, if we had only known after Rodney Kent’s death what we know now, we might have been able to prevent Mrs. Kent’s death.” Dr. Fell brooded. “Or could we? I don’t know. I doubt it.”
“You think there’s still—danger?”
“There’s no danger,” said Dr. Fell, “if you keep your door locked at night. I’m sorry if I seem to act as a Job’s comforter; but we have got to take care of all possibilities. Can either of you help me? You must have some ideas. Where would you look?”
Kent thought of his sheaf of notes.
“My trouble is,” he replied despondently, “that even now I can’t look at the thing with an eye of human reason. All I can think of is how I should make it work out if I were writing the story. That’s the phobia of all fiction-writers. I tell you, according to the laws of fiction there’s only one possible solution and only one possible murderer! But it’s not only guessing at an artistic solution; it’s a very strong case. And yet——”
Dr. Fell looked at him with interest. “I know,” he said guiltily. “I thought of that, too.”
“You thought of what?”
From the breast pocket of his coat Dr. Fell began to take out an enormous collection of old papers and envelopes (there were enough of them to stuff a waste-paper basket) until he found the stub of a pencil. On one comparatively clean surface of paper he wrote a few words. Then he turned the paper over and pushed it across to Kent.
“Write down,” he suggested, “the name of the person who springs to your mind as the murderer. That’s it: thank you. Now, Miss Forbes, take this piece of paper and look at both sides.”
Francine stared at it.
“But you’ve both written down the same name!”
“Of course,” agreed Dr. Fell gloomily. “Kenneth Hardwick, the manager of the Royal Scarlet Hotel.”
12
Above Suspicion?
FRANCINE, IT APPEARED, COULD not understand whether they were joking or whether Dr. Fell’s glum face was as serious as it looked.
“But you don’t honestly mean that? Or is this another of Chris’s ridiculous—That nice quiet man?”
“You really will throw suspicion on him if you talk like that,” Dr. Fell grunted. “Let’s hear the case against him.”
“To begin with, it’s a question of keys,” said Kent. “Somebody got into that linen-closet and took out fifteen bath-towels and one face-towel. Therefore somebody had to open the door of the linen-closet: unless the maid failed to lock it last night. There’s no sign of burglarious entry, so apparently the door must have been opened with a key. But, according to this new system of locks—here I’m quoting Hardwick himself—it’s impossible for any unauthorized person to open even so much as a linen-closet. Now I remember it, he used the word ‘linen-closet.’ On the other hand, again quoting him, he alone can open any door in the whole building. That’s a short and simple point to start with.”
“Good,” said Dr. Fell. “Go on.”
“Next, the question of disguise. There couldn’t be any more admirable disguise for him than the uniform of one of his own attendants. It’s like the story he told about the porter who dressed up in pyjamas and pretended to be a guest. If Hardwick were seen by one of the real guests, he wouldn’t be recognised even if someone got a glimpse of his face: the uniform would do the trick. He would know, furthermore, that he ran very little danger of being spotted by one of his own employees: the only employee who could come upstairs after eleven-thirty would be one of the under-porters, and on such large floors he wouldn’t have much difficulty in hiding himself if he saw the under-porter coming. As two additional points, I might mention that his private rooms are on the seventh floor; and that he would have easy access to any kind of uniform he chose to wear. You notice that the mysterious costume hasn’t been found. But, if it were a real uniform belonging to the hotel, why should it be found?”
“Chris, that’s awfully good,” said Francine. “Do you think it’s true?”
He reflected.
“I don’t know; I’m only saying it’s the way a story should work. For the crux of it is this: the production of an alibi.”
“The clocks!” said Dr. Fell with a wheeze of great pleasure.
“Yes. You think of the dozens of wall-clocks in that hotel, all worked from a central switch, and you’ve got it first shot. I remember we had the same sort of system at school. One day, in the Schoolroom, roars of delight were caused when the clock on the wall went crazy: its hands began to whirl round the dial and point to all hours like something in a pantomime. What had happened—a master informed us acidly— was that all the clocks in the building had stopped, and were being re-set from a controlling-station in the headmaster’s study.
“Now, you can see the beauty of that device. Suppose a murderer wants fifteen minutes out for an alibi, and this person has access to the master-clock. Well, he gets hold of the dupe who is later to swear to his presence; he talks to the dupe between (let’s say) 11:55 and 12:10; then he dismisses the witness. Whereupon he goes to the master-clock and sets it back to 11:55: thereby altering every clock in the building. Out he goes to commit his murder. He may even let himself be seen. Afterwards he returns to his office, and puts every clock right again. He has created a hiatus in time of ten to fifteen minutes; and his dupe will later swear to his alibi during the time the murder was committed. The excellence of it is that he runs no risk of being caught out, or having anybody notice a discrepancy in time; no matter who looks at no matter what clock, they will all have precisely the same time. And, at the Royal Scarlet, in whose charge would the master-clock be? I’ll lay you a fiver it’s the manager. Hardwick, you observe, has an alibi for just those minutes.”
He stopped in some doubt, and finished his
brandy with a feeling of defiance.
“It really is good,” admitted Francine. “It’s so horribly ingenious that I can’t believe a word of it.”
“I am afraid that will be the general impression,” beamed Dr. Fell. “Though I like the idea very much myself. It might, you see, cause some curiosity if a chance guest glanced at one of the clocks and saw its hands suddenly jump fifteen minutes in one way or another.”
“At midnight? How many people were abroad in the halls then? I’ll acknowledge,” said Kent, hunching his shoulders, “that it still leaves much to be explained.” The grizzled, amiable figure of Hardwick rose in his mind. “Where’s the motive? Unless he’s somebody out of Jenny’s dark past; you appear to think she has one. What’s the reason for all that hocus-pocus with shoes and ‘Dead Woman’ signs? Why, after getting into the room, does the murderer take Jenny’s own key and shove it into the lock outside the door——”
“H’mf, yes. I told you that was an intriguing point.”
“—and, lastly, which in sequence was firstly, why was the same uniform worn at Gay’s place in Sussex? Every explanation of the case, as you said this morning, takes a violent header over the first appearance of the uniform in a country house at two o’clock in the morning. Unless——”
To Wake the Dead (Dr. Gideon Fell series Book 9) Page 13