Death Invites You

by Paul Halter

  ‘Mrs. Vickers, having attended a great many such situations, I can understand better than most what you must be feeling at this moment. But I must ask you to overcome your grief and examine the body carefully.’

  ‘But we all saw it yesterday night,’ exclaimed Valerie. ‘So why must we go through it again?’

  Hurst closed his eyes and gave a deep sigh.

  ‘His hands and face are severely burnt. Right now, there’s no conclusive evidence that the body is indeed that of your father.’ Turning once more to Mrs. Vickers, he said: ‘Courage, madam. You know your husband better than anyone, so you’re best qualified to identify him. I would ask you, once again, not to make a superficial judgment. Try to find a significant detail which will prove, one way or the other, whether this is your husband or not.’

  Once again Valerie came to the help of her mother:

  ‘Inspector, Papa had perfect teeth and never needed to consult a dentist. Nevertheless, he had a very good dentist friend, who could help to identify him.’

  Mrs. Vickers, her face still covered, nodded between sobs.

  ‘It’s true what Valerie says,’ added Henrietta. ‘And he boasted about his teeth quite often.’

  ‘We know,’ replied Hurst, ‘and Dr. Leedom has already looked at that.’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed the doctor, ‘and these teeth are without a single cavity.’

  ‘But that,’ continued Hurst firmly, ‘whilst unusual in a man of his age, does not constitute formal proof.’

  ‘Then let’s get it over with,’ said Henrietta, her eyes flashing.

  Hurst made a sign for Dr. Leedom to hold back the sheet, then addressed the widow in a grave and compassionate tone:

  ‘I don’t want to raise false hopes, but we have reason to believe this may not be your husband’s body.’

  Twist corrected him gently:

  ‘That’s a possibility, but only a possibility. Courage, madam.’

  Hurst made a sign and Dr. Leedom folded back the sheet covering the body.

  Diane Vickers, her eyes widened by the effort, forced herself to lean over the body, then turned quickly away and burst once again into tears.

  Hurst sighed and looked questioningly at Henrietta, who stood still for a moment, then her face appeared to light up. She moved quickly to look at the body, lifted the lower part of the sheet as far as the knee and indicated a small scar on one of the shins:

  ‘Look at that. Last year, when he was in Australia, he accidentally cut himself on a piece of metal. He showed the spot to us when he came back because he was worried it wasn’t healing properly. He even went to see his doctor, who put in two stitches.’

  Valerie came over to look:

  ‘Yes, I remember. That’s Papa. That’s definitely Papa.’

  12

  Varnish and Methylated Spirits

  It was five o’clock. For the second time that day, Dr. Alan Twist, Sergeant Simon Cunningham and Inspector Archibald Hurst found themselves in the latter’s office at Scotland Yard, where an oppressive silence reigned. The inspector’s bulky frame appeared in silhouette against the open window, through which the busy traffic of Victoria Street could be heard. He waved his hand to dispel the tobacco fumes and crushed his cigar angrily in the ashtray already overflowing with butts.

  His breathing heavy and his unruly lock down over his forehead, Hurst contained his frustration with difficulty.

  ‘I don’t know whether you realise what all this means,’ he began in a calm but menacing voice. ‘The dead man is indeed Harold Vickers, but someone went to great lengths to make us believe it was his brother: his mysterious disappearance, the disfigured face and all the rest of it. This mysterious someone also went to the trouble of making us think Harold Vickers was behind the extraordinary crime: the macabre dinner, the curious bowl of water, et cetera, all being part of his next novel. All that spectacular stuff was meant for us to think there was only one possible culprit. I’ll go farther: the bizarre setting was supposed to provide us with the author’s motive. And, very cleverly, the seeds weren’t planted right away, but were meant to come to light only after the brother’s disappearance became known. We were inexorably being led to that conclusion, even while we were patting ourselves on the back for our clever deductions. And there’s no doubt in my mind that, after a while, a letter signed by Harold Vickers and typed on his machine would have been sent to the Yard: a murderer’s confession expressing remorse for his monstrous act and declaring his intention to commit suicide in such a way that his body wouldn’t be found—so as not to defile the soil of any cemetery. And Scotland Yard would have closed the file, proud to have uncovered the diabolical plot contrived by Harold Vickers.’

  Dr. Twist sighed:

  ‘As I already told you, I was following the same chain of reasoning. But everything now seems so obvious—much too obvious. That’s why I’ve been biting my tongue because I’ve been frustrated at being led by the nose by an invisible hand.’

  ‘But then look what happened,’ continued Hurst with a sarcastic smile. ‘The murderer hadn’t thought of everything. A tiny little scar proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the dead man was indeed Harold Vickers.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he continued sententiously, ‘we’re dealing with the clever creator of a perverse machination with one sole purpose: to divert us from discovering the real motive for killing Harold Vickers and who would benefit from his death.’

  ‘I think,’ observed Twist, ‘that we can already eliminate two suspects. The author’s two daughters didn’t hesitate to identify the body of their father from the little scar. If they’d been guilty, they’d never have done that so spontaneously because it blew the real killer’s plan to bits. Admittedly it’s not a formal proof of their innocence, but it does help them greatly.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr. Twist,’ replied Simon in a tone bordering on insolence. ‘But I didn’t need that to convince me of Valerie’s innocence. Valerie capable of such a machination? It’s impossible. If you knew her as I do....’

  ‘In any case,’ said Hurst, leaning towards the young sergeant, ‘there isn’t going to be a happy end to this case: the murderer can only be someone in the household. I leave you to pursue your own theories. There’s another thing: Roger Sharpe’s statement about the contents of the author’s will have been verified. His fortune will be divided into three equal parts between Valerie, Henrietta and their mother, who will receive the balance of the estate as well as that of her brother-in-law, which is far from negligible—for there is every reason to believe he was murdered as well.’

  Simon opened his mouth, but Hurst raised his hand to stop him:

  ‘Before formulating any hypotheses, I suggest we go back over everything in detail with the alibis and movements of everyone at the crucial moments. With everything we now know, a calm, objective analysis will lead us to the truth.’

  The inspector foraged through his papers, produced a dossier and lit a cigar.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ he began sanctimoniously, ‘someone decides to kill Harold Vickers. There’s an immediate obstacle: the author’s death would point a finger straight at them. I imagine they shelve the plan until one day they hear about the puzzle he’s concocting and find his notebook, which reveals everything. That’s when they conceive the Machiavellian plot we now know. Some time before the murder, they contact Stephen Vickers and invite him to come to England. Note in passing that in all probability they know Harold’s brother and have some influence over him. Stephen leaves Australia just over a month ago to arrive here a few days ago. The murderer is there to welcome him, kill him and dispose of the body. Is everything clear so far?’

  Dr. Twist and Simon nodded. The inspector, his eyes on the open dossier, paused for a moment in thought, then continued:

  ‘On Friday at noon, at the lunch table, Harold Vickers announces that he doesn’t want anyone in the house between four o’clock and seven. Note: this is almost certainly at the request of the killer.

  ‘
At the beginning of the afternoon, the son of a certain Mrs. Robinson phones Mrs. Vickers to ask if she can meet his mother outside Selfridge’s at around half past five. At least, that’s what Mrs. Vickers claims, but I haven’t had time yet to have it checked out.

  ‘Between four and seven, the killer posts the two invitations and kills Harold Vickers with a bullet in his head. The weapon, which belongs to the victim, is fitted with a silencer. We may also assume he begins to prepare the table.

  ‘Roger Sharpe is walking in Regent’s Park. No witnesses.

  ‘Diane Vickers waits in Oxford Street, outside Selfridge’s, for a friend who doesn’t turn up. No witnesses.

  ‘Henrietta is in Russell Square. No witnesses.

  ‘Valerie is strolling in Oxford Street. No witnesses.

  ‘On Saturday evening at half past seven, everyone gets up from the table. Roger Sharpe, Henrietta and Valerie go to their rooms and Mrs. Vickers goes to sit in the living-room.

  ‘At a quarter to eight, Roger Sharpe leaves to go to his stage act.

  ‘At five to eight, Valerie leaves, notifying her mother as she leaves.

  ‘At eight o’clock, the Kesleys leave the kitchen to go to their room.

  ‘At a quarter past eight, Gladys comes down to get an aspirin from the kitchen and borrows a magazine from Mrs. Vickers.

  ‘At a quarter to nine, Philip Kesley comes down to see if his mistress requires anything more. After which he takes some syrup water in the kitchen and goes back to his room.

  ‘Here, I remind you in passing that this is the earliest time the murderer could have left the study, given the state of the dinner after the door had been broken down. Do you agree, Cunningham?’

  ‘That’s the absolute earliest,’ sighed the sergeant. ‘I’d say more likely nine o’clock.’

  ‘Very well. Let me continue: at five to nine you ring, Mrs. Vickers comes to the door and hears a cracking noise as she passes the study. Didn’t you hear anything, Cunningham?’

  ‘No.’

  Hurst nodded his head after a brief smile and continued:

  ‘You stay on the doorstep until Springer arrives. You explain the situation and the three of you walk round the house to confirm that the shutters are closed and there is a glimmer of light through the chinks. You retrace your steps. Mrs. Vickers knocks on the study door and tries to open it, to no effect. You all notice a smell of frying, except Mrs. Vickers, who has a cold. Just then Philip Kesley arrives. You notice there’s no key in the lock. It’s Springer’s turn to try to open the door. Kesley goes to try and find a duplicate key. Sergeant Cunningham tries to open the door and observes it isn’t locked but bolted, as Harold Vickers was in the habit of doing. All that can be done now is to break down the door. It’s a quarter past nine.

  ‘Now let’s look at how the suspects spent their time between a quarter to and a quarter past nine:

  ‘Roger Sharpe was in the music-hall. His act was at about nine o’clock. Tens of witnesses, but one conjurer looks just like another. Henrietta is in her room, so no alibi. Valerie has no alibi before half past nine, which is when she meets her friends in a night-club. Mrs. Vickers has an alibi after five minutes to nine.

  ‘Now let’s look at motive. Valerie: inheritance. Henrietta: inheritance, but note also that she hates her father. Roger Sharpe: no apparent motive, but he will certainly benefit from his sister’s inheritance. In passing, we might enquire whether his relations with his brother-in-law were all he claimed them to be—remember Harold had covered him in ridicule one night. Mrs. Vickers: inheritance. And that’s not all: she was jealous and she knew her husband was openly cheating on her. According to several witnesses, her life with him must have been hell.’

  Alan Twist looked dubious:

  ‘Hell? These things are easily said.’

  Hurst paused, looked at each of the others in turn and continued:

  ‘We still don’t know how the murderer got out of that study bolted from the inside. That aside, if we analyse all that’s been said, it’s obvious that only one person really had the opportunity to “reheat” a dinner probably cooked in advance, heat the oil, burn the face and hands of the corpse, get rid of the evidence and bolt the room from the outside. In other words, make numerous trips between the study and the hallway with little risk of being seen. One noise on the staircase and she could quickly return to her place. Someone who, let’s not forget, has been obliged to create an impossible situation to avoid the inevitable suspicion which would fall on her in the case of a “normal” murder, so to speak. I think you both understand who I’m talking about.’

  There was an agonising silence. Simon, running his hand through his hair several times, murmured:

  ‘It’s even more terrible... Unimaginable... And yet....’

  ‘This person,’ continued Hurst, ‘may have acted with the help of an accomplice. Or, better yet, she’s just the tool of this other person. An accomplice very clever with his hands, specialising in disappearing tricks...’

  There was a knock on the door and Hurst growled:

  ‘Come in.’

  The young policeman who had noticed the smell of varnish stood in the doorway.

  ‘Not home yet, Wilson?’ said Hurst sarcastically. ‘Well, as you can see, I’m working overtime as well. I assume you’re here because you have something to tell me. We’re all ears.’

  ‘It’s about the varnish.’

  Three pairs of eyes stared at him.

  ‘We’ve discovered where the smell came from: someone recently painted a coat of varnish over the plate of the lock and over the retaining screws. Obviously this must have been done to create the impression that the lock had not been removed recently. It was very carefully done: the fresh coat on top of the old one was not immediately visible to the naked eye. If there hadn’t been a smell we mightn’t have noticed.’

  Hurst peered at the young man and asked:

  ‘What do you mean by recently?’

  ‘One or two days. It’s difficult to be more precise.’

  ‘So,’ said Simon, ‘the lock had been removed.’

  ‘Yes. We removed it ourselves to examine it more thoroughly. The first odd thing was a small piece of metal pushed right inside the lock, which couldn’t have been part of the original assembly because of its peculiar shape. Even Albert, who knows as much about locks as Houdini himself, couldn’t tell what its purpose was. And, secondly, we found scratches on the metal, inside, not far from the hole. The scratches were recent, too. On the other hand the area around the lock is intact.’

  ‘Which means,’ interjected Hurst, ‘that if you hadn’t removed the lock you’d never have noticed anything.’

  Wilson nodded in agreement.

  ‘Things are starting to become clearer,’ said Hurst, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. ‘It’s finally looking as though the bolt was shot from the outside, unlikely as that may seem. Maybe using a solid rod of metal with some way of pivoting inside the lock, which obviously wouldn’t have left any marks on the outside.’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to prove,’ said Wilson. ‘But for now, despite all our efforts, it still seems impossible. The small piece of metal wouldn’t have been enough. Still, we can’t rule out that something used in the operation was removed afterwards.’ He pulled a face. ‘If only that bolt was easier to manipulate.’

  ‘True enough,’ replied Hurst with another deep sigh. ‘In any case, we’re now sure that the lock was rigged somehow and there must have been a reason. Wilson, I’m counting on you: you understand the problem.’

  ‘There’s something else, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There were traces on the dishes the chickens were on.’

  ‘Traces? Traces of what?’

  ‘Traces of re-cooked grease and meat juices...as if someone had been burning something. Something like methylated spirits, for example. There was some present on the table: I mean in the spirit stove.’

  ‘Hell’s bells!’ e
xclaimed Hurst, getting up off his chair. ‘So someone splashed a good dose of meths on the dishes to flambé them—.’

  ‘Which explains why they were still smoking when Springer and I broke in,’ finished Simon.

  ‘We tried an experiment,’ said Wilson. ‘We filled the dishes with meths. Even though the dishes weren’t deep, it burned for a quarter of an hour.’

  ‘So the killer tricked us about fifteen minutes,’ said Hurst triumphantly. ‘He left the premises before you arrived, Cunningham, and certainly after Kesley went up to his room at a quarter to nine, so let’s say ten minutes to nine. Do you agree on the time, Cunningham?’

  ‘Yes, that corresponds perfectly.’ The sergeant shot an anxious look at Hurst. ‘But that means the noise Mrs. Vickers would have heard at five to nine—.’

  ‘Would have heard,’ stressed the inspector. ‘You do well to stress the conditional regarding that mysterious noise which seemed to prove the murderer was still in the room at that time. Ha, ha, ha!’

  Suddenly Simon punched the palm of his hand, got up and took a few paces, frowning.

  ‘Wilson,’ he said after a few moments, ‘I’m going to drop by tomorrow to examine that lock.’

  ‘Very well. Wilson,’ said Hurst, ‘you can leave now.’

  As the young officer was preparing to leave he added:

  ‘Good work, Wilson. You haven’t wasted your Sunday, believe me.’

  The young officer blushed with pride and embarrassment and left.

  ‘Have you any thoughts, Cunningham?’ asked the inspector, beaming.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t want to say anything before I’ve examined the lock. If the murderer acted the way I think he did—with regard to the mysterious exit—then I think we’ve been the victims of a monumental bluff.’

  ‘The murderer, in your opinion, is....’

  ‘Yes, alas! She’s the only possibility. And, now I think back, I remember something. Springer and I were mistaken when we said nobody touched anything in the study: Mrs. Vickers, who was unsteady on her feet, grabbed hold of the door and clutched the handle before Kesley came to help her to her room.’