by Paul Halter
‘Harold Vickers has been dead for twenty-four hours, so he wasn’t the one who prepared this little scene.’ He turned to Springer and Simon. ‘What time was it when you broke the door down?’
‘A quarter past nine, give or take a few minutes,’ replied Springer. ‘I’d looked at the clock in the hall a few minutes earlier.’
Simon nodded in agreement.
‘And how long beforehand had the meal been prepared, in your opinion?’
Simon looked at the journalist before he replied:
‘The chicken appeared just to have been cooked...The oil in the frying-pan looked to be still at boiling point, even though I didn’t actually dip my finger in, yet it wasn’t on top of the spirit stove... without being an expert, I’d say a quarter of an hour—twenty minutes at most.’
It was Springer’s turn to nod in agreement.
After a moment’s reflection, Dr. Twist announced slowly and deliberately:
‘Whoever staged this little scene is certainly capable of... Gentlemen, I’m convinced this was murder.’
‘Murder,’ repeated the journalist. ‘And to be more precise, a locked room murder...of the greatest specialist of the genre!’
‘There’s another point I find curious,’ interrupted the medical examiner. ‘The face and the inside surfaces of the hands are completely burnt. Now look at the hands clamped to the head, even the one holding the pistol. It’s practically impossible for the head and hands of a man who’s just shot himself to fall that way into the frying pan, where there’s only just enough space. And the boiling oil wouldn’t only have burnt the parts directly in contact... and wouldn’t have burnt the inside surfaces of the hands so perfectly.
‘He could have plunged his hands in the oil before killing himself, of course—even though that’s hard to imagine. But since he’s been dead for at least a day and the oil’s still hot....’ He changed his tone:
‘In any case, the burns are recent and post-date death. That’s my official position.’
‘Very good,’ said Twist. ‘We’re all agreed on that point.’ He went over to the table and studied the dishes. ‘Sergeant Cunningham, you told me Harold Vickers had shut himself in the room yesterday afternoon and didn’t show himself after that.’
‘Correct. That’s according to Mrs. Vickers, in fact.’
‘So Vickers was killed here, let’s say in the late afternoon, and the silencer explains why nobody heard the shot—even though that still needs to be verified by the rest of the household and the neighbours. Up to that point everything has gone smoothly, so to speak. Let’s skip over the dinner invitations for the moment—which just happen to have been typed on the machine here. I doubt that our diabolical murderer left any fingerprints, although that has to be verified, of course. What followed is much more bizarre: the murderer returns to the scene of the crime—I’d be astonished if he stayed here all the time—and.... Look at all those cooked vegetables, with shallots, bacon cubes and all sorts of herbs, just as in the finest French cuisine, and the perfectly prepared chicken. That all takes time and equipment. You say nobody was in the kitchen, sergeant?’
‘Not according to Mrs. Vickers.’
‘So, how and where was all this prepared?’ continued Dr. Twist. ‘How was it all brought in without anyone noticing? Let’s leave that question for the moment. We can’t do any more without questioning witnesses. What is certain, however, is that the murderer was still on the scene at nine o’clock, or at least a quarter to.’
‘I believe,’ said Simon, ‘that Mrs. Vickers mentioned hearing a noise coming from the study when she opened the door to me at five to nine. We stood talking in the doorway until—.’
‘Until I showed up,’ interjected Springer. ‘Just a couple of minutes after nine. After that, we walked round to the back of the house to see if there was a light on in the study and walked back. That took two minutes, maximum. If the killer left by the door, he can only have done it then, because after that we were all in the hallway until we broke down the door. If he left by the window, he had a bit more time.’
‘But how, for God’s sake,’ bellowed Hurst suddenly.
No one said a word.
‘Are you quite sure,’ growled Hurst, ‘that there was nobody in the room?’
‘Absolutely no one,’ confirmed Springer, running a nervous hand through his red hair. ‘You can see for yourself there’s nowhere to hide. In any case, we were watching the hallway until your men arrived. Nobody went in or out.’
‘And the window?’ asked Hurst with a note of desperation in his voice.
‘It was in the same state as it is now,’ replied Springer. ‘Locked from the inside with the metal catch and the shutters closed. I’m prepared to swear to it.’
‘So am I,’ sighed Simon. ‘I can also confirm that nobody touched anything. I was watching.’
‘That’s right,’ said Springer. ‘He called me to order a couple of times.’
Hurst was biting his lip. The rebellious forelock had flopped onto his brow once again, which was usually a bad omen. He muttered something to himself and went over to the door.
‘Not locked,’ he said, ‘but the bolt had been shot.’
‘As you say,’ replied Springer. ‘If he got out that way, he must have shot the bolt from the outside, which seems to me to be quite impossible. Added to which, since he had very little time, why would he attempt such a risky and useless operation? It’s ridiculous.’
The door bolt was impressively large. Because it was the fastening screwed onto the door frame that had given way, Hurst was able to perform a small experiment. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapped it around the knob of the bolt and tried to make it slide inside the fastening screwed onto the door. He succeeded but not without effort.
‘If anyone can succeed in moving this bolt from the other side of the door using a magnetised rod of metal, I’ll eat my hat. I had the devil of a job to budge it. The damn thing is half rusted.’
‘A metal rod?’ asked Springer. ‘You mean one you use after passing it through the keyhole?’
‘Yes, it’s possible,’ observed Twist after testing the bolt himself, ‘but not with a bolt like this.’ He examined the keyhole from both sides. ‘In any case, it would inevitably leave traces on the edges, which doesn’t appear to be the case here.’
‘It’s impossible to manipulate the bolt from outside the room,’ declared Hurst. ‘Absolutely impossible. We’ll make doubly sure, of course, but I’m convinced it’s a dead end. The only solution left is....’
Keenly aware of the sudden interest he had aroused, he moved his fifteen stone majestically over to the mantelpiece and pointed to the chimney:
‘That way.’
The fire being almost out, they were able to examine the chimney briefly.
‘There doesn’t appear to be a grid in the flue,’ observed Twist, ‘but no normal human could have got out this way. Only a small monkey.’
‘Please,’ said Hurst angrily, ‘don’t talk to me about monkeys in a locked room case. Leave that to authors with no imagination.’
‘What?’ said Simon indignantly. ‘Do you consider Edgar Allan Poe, the pioneer of the locked room story, to be an author with no imagination? Allow me to....’
An active debate about the origins of the locked room ensued, with each advancing his own theory. Hurst cut it short by ordering his men to take fingerprints of every surface in the room.
Pacing up and down in front of the chimney and apparently in an even worse mood then before, he mumbled to himself:
‘Why all this scene setting? Why the dinner and the invitations? Why try to make the death appear to be a suicide when it obviously wasn’t? Why plunge the dead man into boiling oil? What’s the point of the bowl half full of water? How did the murderer prepare the dinner? How did he get it into the room without anyone noticing it? How did he get away? And why give it a supernatural appearance? It’s all absurd and none of it makes any sense. Wherever I go and what
ever I do, why do I always end up with these complicated messes? Am I cursed? Ever since I joined the Yard, this is the kind of case I always get....’
‘Don’t get on your high horse, my friend,’ said Dr. Twist calmly. ‘You’re starting to get irritated and lose sight of the questions which always have to be asked in such cases: why was Harold Vickers murdered and who benefits from the crime?’
Hurst shook his head and uttered a self-reproachful sigh:
‘You’re right as always, Twist. As soon as Mrs. Vickers is in a condition to talk....’
Simon Cunningham started to perspire. He removed his glasses and wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve.
‘Chief, I’d rather not be involved in this case in any capacity.’
‘I understand,’ said Hurst paternally. ‘You won’t have to be. In any case, we’re going to have to wear kid gloves. The family is no doubt well-connected and... What is it, Cunningham? Are you worried about your fiancée?’
‘No. Well, yes...but...I wanted to tell you before, but there was always some interruption. Do you remember, when we were at the Britannia earlier this evening, you asked me about the forthcoming Harold Vickers novel?’
‘Cunningham, my boy, do you think this is really the time to talk about detective fiction, when the reality is already baffling enough?’
‘That’s just the point,’ replied Simon desperately. ‘It’s the most extraordinary aspect of the whole business: the circumstances of his own death were exactly those of the murder in the next Harold Vickers novel!’
6
The Dead Walk at Night
‘This “meaty” case is beginning to have a flavour all its own,’ said Dr. Twist, clearly delighted by the turn of events.
Suddenly realising the incongruity of his remark, the celebrated detective started to cough in front of his startled audience.
There was a long silence. Hurst, his face scarlet and a vein standing out in his temple, could scarcely control himself.
Meanwhile, Twist tried to adjust his pince-nez with one hand while coughing discreetly into the other. He rarely embarrassed himself in public and was extremely self-conscious when it did happen.
‘Give us the details, Cunningham,’ said Hurst through gritted teeth.
‘To be honest,’ stammered the sergeant, ‘I don’t know very much. Mr. Vickers didn’t reveal the key to the puzzle: he just told me the beginning of the story and asked me what I thought. A couple of characters turn up with dinner invitations at X’s residence, where no one knows anything about it. When they try to ask X about it, they find he’s locked himself inside one of the rooms. They break down the door and find X slumped over a fully laden table, dead. Not only was it established that the killer couldn’t have left by the door or the window—both of which were locked from the inside—but nobody could have brought or prepared the food, which was still hot. That’s all I know. There were no other details.’
For several seconds the only sound to be heard was the heavy breathing of Inspector Hurst, who eventually observed:
‘This is some kind of a joke, Cunningham, isn’t it? Please tell me it is.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ sighed Simon. ‘Anyway, I’m quite sure I’m not the only one he confided in. Mrs. Vickers’ brother must be in on it, and might even know the murderer’s trick.’
‘If he knows something, you can be sure I’ll get it out of him,’ said the inspector in a menacing voice. ‘Anything else, Cunningham? Any other detail, no matter how small?’
‘Yes, just a minute,’ added Simon, pointing to the window so suddenly that Springer jumped. ‘He told me that there would be gloves at the victim’s feet and a bowl half full of water on a napkin under the window. Just as they are now!’
‘Decidedly,’ observed Dr. Twist, ‘the plot thickens. I feel as though I’m living in a novel signed “Harold Vickers”. Just one more question, young man. Do you know if your fiancée’s father based his puzzle on anything specific: a news item, a situation, another novel...?’
‘I already wondered about that,’ replied Simon thoughtfully. ‘Valerie talked to me one day about an argument between her father and her grandfather at dinner one day, which ended badly. But that’s too far in the past and old Mr. Vickers has been dead for several years now, before I met Valerie. I come here quite a lot, so I know that Mr. Vickers only had the idea quite recently—a month or less. I remember it came to him quite suddenly, but I couldn’t tell you what it was based on. If there’s one person who would know something, it would be Roger Sharpe. You should ask him.’
Hurst shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate this last suggestion was pointless.
‘I’m not saying we’re straying from the subject,’ he said, ‘but there are other things more urgent, to my mind. How did the murderer get out? He wasn’t a ghost, after all. And how did he arrange the dinner? It must be someone in the household...or at least with their assistance, even if it was just to open the front door. We need to get statements from all the servants as soon as possible.’
The medical examiner stood up:
‘I’ve finished. Nothing to add to what I’ve already said, for now. You can remove the body.’
After he’d left, Dr. Twist turned to Simon and asked:
‘When you got here, did you see anyone?’
‘In the grounds? No, I would have told you.’
‘On the driveway, near the gate?’
Simon frowned as he considered the question:
‘I do seem to recall—.’
He was interrupted by the arrival of Kesley who hesitated in the doorway and turned:
‘Miss Vickers, it would be best if you---.’
‘Let me through, Kesley,’ said the young woman, as she entered the study.
‘Henrietta,’ interjected Cunningham, ‘be reasonable. Don’t make it any harder on yourself....’
She pushed him away and looked at her father’s body. The policemen and Springer were about to say something, but something in her manner stopped them. She looked very much like her sister: the same black hair, the same shape of the face, the full red lips, the eyes with long lashes, the perfect proportions of her silhouette. But her eyes, shining with a strange intensity, had something disquieting about them. She was wearing blue silk pants and a red shirt.
She held up a hand to fend off questions, without her eyes leaving her father’s body. Philip Kesley took Simon aside:
‘The doctor’s just left and says we needn’t worry about her. But you should wait until tomorrow to question her.’
Simon nodded solemnly and introduced the butler to his superior officer and Dr. Twist.
‘Your wife is aware of what’s happened, I presume,’ asked Hurst.
‘Yes, it was barely quarter past nine when....’
‘May we talk to her?’
‘We’re entirely at your disposal, inspector,’ replied Kesley.
‘Very well. Cunningham, er... Rogers!’
‘Yes, chief,’ replied one of the officers.
‘Follow him and proceed with questioning. Detailed accounts of everyone’s movements since Mr. Vickers was last seen: any suspicious noises they may have heard, comings and goings of everyone, use of the kitchen...I want everything.’
Rogers sighed and followed the butler. Hurst, giving a cough which he hoped was discreet, turned to the young girl and stopped dead when she started to talk:
‘This would make a beautiful painting...the dinner by candlelight, the body slumped on the table...spectacular. The colours are perfect as well: the black suit, the white napkins, the gleam of the silver, the dark oak of the table...I’ll start tomorrow.’
Hurst’s eyes nearly popped out of his head in astonishment. Everything about Henrietta was disquieting. Her words, of course, but also her deep, husky voice which contrasted so starkly with her appearance; and the surprisingly serene expression in her big blue eyes with their dilated pupils.
‘But, Henrietta,’ stammered Simon. ‘That’s your f
ather.’
She looked him up and down:
‘Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I’m blind? Of course it’s my father, the imbecile who knew nothing about painting.’ She turned to Hurst.
‘If you’d heard what he said about my own canvases... He would never have dared if Grandpapa were still alive. Grandpapa Theodore. Did you know him? No, of course not. He was a charming man. I was his favourite. He always took me on his knee and his voice was so gentle. He was the first to recognise my exceptional talent and encourage me to paint. Without him I would never have become what I am. Grandpapa...it’s five years since he’s been gone.’ She turned to look at the corpse again. ‘My father and he never got along, they quarrelled all the time.’
Hurst, who had realised it was better to let her talk, nevertheless asked her in astonishment:
‘Quarrelled? About what?’
‘Grandpapa didn’t like kind of novels my father wrote. I can hear him now: “Such stories are not worthy of a Vickers, Harold. They’re an insult to our family name. I’ve nothing against literature, on the contrary, but all those bodies, those murders, the dead who rise out of their tombs, the black masses, the vampires and all the rest... It has to stop, do you hear, Harold? I won’t stand for this macabre foolishness which dishonours our family!” After that, relations deteriorated and my father treated Grandpapa as a senile dotard. I remember vividly, on the evening of my eighteenth birthday, when we were dining by candlelight....’ Tears sprang into the young woman’s eyes. ‘Things got so bad that Grandpapa had a heart attack and fell forward on the table.’
After glancing again at the body of Harold Vickers, Hurst and Springer stared at each other in bewilderment.
‘Dead?’ asked Dr. Twist, his interest growing.
‘No,’ said Henrietta, closing her eyes. ‘Not immediately. But another attack three weeks later proved fatal. You could sense, after the first attack, that he knew his hour had come. On the eve of his death he said to his son, my father: “God’s hand will make an end to your foolishness, Harold. And if He doesn’t, I’ll come out of my grave myself if I have to.”’