by Paul Halter
‘Which explains the purpose of his strange trip last year to see his brother,’ observed Simon, amused. ‘He went there to get ideas for a novel!’
‘It certainly looks that way,’ agreed Twist. ‘I could kick myself. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?’
20
Ducks Get Involved
They took their leave of Dr. Hubbard, not before assuring him that he was in no way a suspect and that the police expected to make an arrest shortly. By common agreement they decided to go to the lake in. St. James’s Park to discuss the case quietly. Armed with sandwiches—Dr. Twist had bought five for himself—they sat down on the same bench they’d used twenty-four hours earlier.
‘What bothers me,’ growled Hurst after having re-read the author’s notes, ‘is that we’ll never know what significance he was planning to give to the gloves and the half-filled bowl in his novel. Nor how he was planning to explain the locked room.’
‘Bah!’ replied Dr. Twist. ‘Let him keep his secrets. What’s important is that we’re almost sure the culprit himself didn’t know either. In other words, he re-constituted the scene for the sole purpose of throwing us off the scent. To think that I was racking my brains about that bowl of water under the window....’
‘Don’t fret, my friend, you’re not the only one, believe me. Ah! I almost forgot: this morning I phoned that friend of Mrs. Vickers, Mrs. Robinson: neither she nor her son phoned on Friday or any other day of the week. In point of fact, Cunningham, you still haven’t explained how Mrs. Vickers managed to slide the bolt from the outside.’
Simon sighed and took off his glasses.
‘I should have worked it out earlier. It was much more simple and ingenious. First of all, her father was a locksmith—.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ growled Hurst. ‘She was an actress—which may be important—and her mother ended her days in an asylum—which may also be important. That said, what have you got to tell us?’
‘Here goes: the bolt is disabled some time on Friday. At a time, obviously, when there was nobody else in the house. She enters the study, slides the interior bolt and inserts a piece of cardboard in the crack of the door to prevent the dead-bolt of the lock from engaging. She then leaves by the window, comes round to the front of the house and back into the hallway, where she forces the door open, ripping the interior bolt’s fastenings off the frame. The lock remains intact.’
‘But....’
‘She then removes the lock from its housing, inserts some kind of mechanism, replaces the lock and applies a coat of varnish to disguise the removal. I imagine she’s already killed her husband—incidentally, it was he who must have prepared the dinner, which is why we found his fingerprints on the silverware. She was wearing gloves. So, to continue: she locks the study door behind her using a key, the interior bolt already having been fractured. Now let me go to Saturday night when, having finalised the scene—roasting chicken, boiling oil, etc.—she leaves the study at ten to nine, just before I arrive. She activates the mechanism, which locks the door in such a way that anyone who wants to check whether the door is locked or not—which is bound to happen in the circumstances—will get the impression that it isn’t. I checked it myself! I turned the key twice clockwise and then twice anti-clockwise and I could have sworn the door wasn’t locked... even though it actually was.
‘We haven’t been able to work out exactly how she managed it, but it seems quite feasible: the small piece of metal found at the bottom of the lock must have served to neutralise the bits and notches in the key so that the key just turns round in the lock without opening it. It was risky, of course, because the trick might have been discovered. But in such a moment of confusion....
‘Incidentally, I remember very well that, when we asked if someone could find a key, she said there was no point because her husband always bolted himself in. And I was the one who tried the key, for my sins. I did notice something not quite right about the action of the lock, but how was I to know? And we broke down a door which was simply locked with a key.’
‘But the dead-bolt of the lock was engaged when we examined the door,’ retorted the inspector.
‘That’s right. But you’re forgetting one thing: at one point Mrs. Vickers clutched the door at the level of the lock. All it needed was a quick movement of the thumb and the bolt of the lock was back in place. At that point, nobody had examined the lock. I imagine the small piece of metal fell to the bottom of the lock at the same time.’
‘Hell’s bells, what nerve. What incredible nerve!’
‘Ingenious,’ mumbled Dr. Twist between two bites of his sandwich.
At that moment the duck and her progeny appeared on the surface of the water. Mother Duck, looking furtively around, stopped suddenly and looked in their direction. She made a ninety degree turn and came towards them up the grassy slope, still followed by her little ones. Reaching their level, she marched around the bench to sit at Twist’s feet, whereupon the good doctor sacrificed part of his sandwich, touched and proud of what he obviously considered to be an enormous privilege.
Hurst raised his eyes, then growled:
‘To recap, Mrs. Diane Vickers had a number of reasons to wish her husband dead. Almost too many to number. Her plan was as follows: to avoid the suspicion which would inevitably fall on her, she staged a murder scene wherein her husband would appear to be the author and the corpse would appear to be that of his brother Stephen. We won’t dwell on this point, which we’ve talked about at length. I imagine, as the one-time girlfriend of Stephen, she had no difficulty in persuading him to come to England, where she promptly killed him.’
‘What’s difficult to understand,’ said Dr. Twist, not taking his eyes off the ducks and delighted by their appetite, ‘is her behaviour, her behaviour of this morning. She kills one of her daughters, nearly frightens the other one to death, and moves the body of her brother-in-law to her father-in-law’s tomb, even though it’s against her interests for it to be discovered.’
‘Remember what her brother said about the quarrel between her and her daughters, Twist. She wasn’t behaving normally: she even threatened them before going to bed. I already told you, she’s losing her mind, even though she may appear lucid in some ways, because she’s let slip she’s taking sleeping pills. Not a great alibi, by the way.
‘She was an actress and she has a taste for the theatrical. Henrietta believes the murderer is her grandfather? Very well, the grandfather shall appear and kill again. She’s mad, I tell you, completely mad. Don’t forget we saw her in bed just before we discovered Henrietta had been murdered, so she had plenty of time to get back into bed in the meantime. In any case, the evidence is overwhelming: the two blonde hairs in the wig and the locksmith’s kit under her bed.’
‘And her brother-in-law’s body?’ objected Twist. ‘Where did she hide it all that time? Did you see what state it was in? That kind of smell hardly passes unnoticed, to say the least.’
‘Anywhere, for goodness sake, anywhere.’
While he continued to feed the ducks, Dr. Twist let a piece of tomato fall on the bench, which he was quick to pick up and swallow. Then he irritably wiped away the juice which had spilt on the wood.
‘Well, you may be right after all. But I really question whether she acted alone.’
‘An accomplice?’ said Hurst frowning. ‘Why not? But it doesn’t change things much, you must admit. Come along, Cunningham, we have work to do.’
Dr. Twist sat rooted to the spot, not hearing what Hurst was saying. His face registered stunned shock. The inspector was already standing up, but the detective’s appearance had not escaped Simon’s notice:
‘What is it, doctor?’
‘Justice can thank the ducks this time!’
21
Dr. Twist Organises A Meeting
‘Fred Springer,’ exclaimed Simon seeing the energetic journalist pushing his way through the crowd in the Britannia.
‘Hello, Cunningham,’ replied
Springer, sitting down at Simon’s table. ‘Well, you’ve certainly been putting away the whisky these last few days.’
Simon inspected his glass and sighed:
‘In view of the events... Speaking of which, I read your article.’ There was a note of reproach in his voice. ‘You certainly conveyed the spectacular nature of the murder. Perfect. Your article is a novel in itself. It appears you can’t find a single copy of his novels left on the bookshelves.’
Springer shrugged his shoulders and ordered drinks. He offered Simon his packet of cigarettes:
‘Any leads on the murder last night?’
Simon took a cigarette, lit it and blew a cloud of smoke at the journalist:
‘I imagine you know just about everything: the murderer disguised as an old man, the corpse of Harold’s brother on the grandfather’s tomb, all the details of the murder itself....’
‘I’m talking about the clues and the conclusions of the police,’ replied Springer, mechanically waving away the smoke with his hand.
‘I can’t tell you any more for now,’ replied Simon firmly. ‘All you need to know is we’re close to the end.’
‘The choice of suspects is pretty limited,’ replied Springer mockingly. ‘It boils down to Miss Valerie, her mother and the conjurer. All right, I can see I’m not going to learn anything... How’s Mrs. Vickers doing? I heard she was in pretty bad shape.’
‘That’s true. She’s in hospital and her condition is cause for worry. Nerves....’
‘Hardly surprising. First her husband and then her daughter. She’s to be pitied. How about Miss Valerie?’
Simon swallowed a mouthful of whisky and refrained from looking at the journalist.
‘She’s all right, more or less. I saw her at the hospital. She didn’t want to leave her mother’s side.’
Truth be told, Simon was very worried about his fiancée. The murder of her sister had devastated her. The vision of her wide blue eyes filled with tears came back to him: “Simon. It’s horrible. Who could have done that? And now my mother is losing her mind. Simon you have to find this monster.”
He had taken her in his arms in the corridor of the hospital and whispered “yes,” pushing out of his mind the horror of the moment when the police would announce they were going to arrest her mother. How would she react? He’d formed the impression lately that his fiancée might be as fragile as her mother. So, how would she react? Would she go mad like her sister or her grandmother? Simon sensed a cold shiver running down his spine.
Springer finished his beer and prepared to leave.
‘Excuse me, Fred, but I would be in a lot of trouble if I confided our conclusions. But, believe me, you’ll be the first to know when the time comes.’
‘I’m counting on it,’ said his friend, with a false smile.
At that he left. Almost immediately, the bulky figure of his superior officer appeared.
‘Cunningham! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’ He sat down heavily on the seat Springer had just vacated. ‘The great Fred didn’t look happy. I just passed him.’
‘He wanted to pump me but I stayed as silent as a tomb.’
‘Quite a choice of words. He’ll know soon enough. I’ve invited him to our meeting tonight.’
‘What meeting?’
‘That’s precisely why I was looking for you, Cunningham. Dr. Twist has organised a little meeting tonight. Ten thirty at the Yard. And he’s requested the presence of Roger Sharpe. He thought you would be the best person to invite him, in a not too official manner, if you get my drift. We don’t want him on his guard.’
‘Roger Sharpe!’ exclaimed Simon. ‘Do you think he’s been the one pulling the strings?’
Hurst shrugged his shoulders wearily:
‘If you know Dr. Twist as well as I do, you’ll know he loves to create mysteries. He didn’t want to tell me, the old so-and-so.’
Simon looked at his watch:
‘Half past five. Very well, I’ll notify Sharpe. Sharpe, eh? I find it hard to believe.’
22
The Beast is Cornered
The atmosphere was tense in Inspector Hurst’s office at precisely half past ten that night. A cloud of smoke floated in front of the desk lamp—the only one switched on—aimed at Roger Sharpe. Sitting nonchalantly on a chair opposite the desk, he exhibited an almost insolent attitude in his elegant light-coloured suit. Hurst had given up his seat to Dr. Twist and was sitting close to him behind the desk. Two police officers were standing on either side of the door. Simon and Fred Springer were seated on chairs on opposite corners of the room.
‘Mr. Sharpe,’ said Dr. Twist courteously, starting the proceedings, ‘do you know what this is?’
The conjurer immediately recognised the object the criminologist was brandishing.
‘Why, it’s Harold’s notebook. Where did you find it?’
Twist passed it across to him and he studied it intently before exclaiming:
‘But there’s nothing new in here.’
‘That’s correct. Now allow me to explain to you the origin of this case or, more precisely, what inspired Harold Vickers to write his novel.’
And he proceeded to recount that morning’s meeting with Colin Hubbard. When he’d finished, Sharpe gave out a deep-throated laugh.
‘The half-filled bowl of water? How simple that explanation seems now. But what did Harold plan to use in his book?’
‘He took his secret with him. We’ll never know.’
‘So,’ said Sharpe, placing a thoughtful finger on his chin, ‘the murderer simply set the stage according to Harold’s book, without worrying about anything else?’
‘Precisely. But he did find a way to get out of a study locked from inside, which is not to be sneezed at. But I’m going to hand over to my friend Inspector Hurst who will share our conclusions with you.’
After a modest cough, Hurst gave a clear and precise summary, revealing the plot hatched by Mrs. Vickers. He concluded by listing the damning evidence against her.
Without a word, the magician calmly lit a cigarette. There was a long silence.
‘It would appear,’ observed Hurst, ‘that the news your sister killed her husband, her brother-in-law and one of her daughters leaves you quite indifferent.’
By way of reply, Sharpe blew out a thin cloud of smoke.
‘Yet certain aspects give cause for reflection,’ continued Dr. Twist, his eyes narrowing behind his pince-nez. ‘First of all, why did your sister claim to have received a call from the son of her friend Mrs. Robinson, inviting her to meet in Oxford Street at the very moment her husband was being murdered? Was it an alibi? If so, it was a very weak one, practically useless, for she must have known we’d verify the call with the Robinsons. In fact the lie is an extraordinarily stupid one and a strike against her.
‘Second point: the tools found under her bed had no fingerprints. Why would she have gone to the trouble of wiping them clean when their presence there was another huge strike against her. Why not spend the time looking for a better hiding place?
‘Third point: and here we’re not speculating any more. As Hurst has just told you, we found two ash-blonde hairs inside the wig the murderer used. Belonging to your sister, apparently. I had the idea—opportune, you must admit—to have them examined under the microscope.’ Twist paused and looked questioningly at Sharpe. ‘Those hairs didn’t just come from her head, they had been cut using scissors or some other blade. Which proves without a doubt, Mr. Sharpe, that someone placed them in the wig.
‘The mysterious phone call, the tools under the bed, the hairs placed in the wig... all point to the murderer trying to implicate your sister. Do you agree, Mr. Sharpe?’
‘Absolutely.’
Simon was surprised by the magician’s peculiar behaviour. Certainly there was a strange light in his eyes which might be anger, but he didn’t look like someone who was uneasy or frightened. On the contrary, he appeared to be master of himself.
‘So, with your per
mission I’ll go over the case from the beginning,’ said Twist. ‘There’s no doubt as to the motive: the murderer wanted to get hold of the author’s fortune and, at the same time, that of his brother—also quite considerable, it seems. His plan is extraordinarily subtle in many ways. The staging of the macabre dinner, inspired by the new Vickers novel, was intended to make us believe in a plot by the author to simulate his own murder by using the body of his brother. The latter’s disappearance would only add to the illusion. But as soon as we found out that the body really was that of Harold Vickers—which had to happen sooner or later—our suspicions were immediately directed towards the person by far the most suspect: Mrs. Vickers. So much for the plan, which comported several other advantages besides: as long as the police had a culprit and that culprit was the principal heir or heiress, they could not inherit anything. And the spectacular nature of the crime would rekindle public interest in the works of Harold Vickers resulting in important future benefits. The murderer would be like a pig in clover. That, at least, was the project.
‘Now let’s look at what he did. There’s every reason to believe he was helped in his manoeuvres by Harold Vickers himself. He probably pretended it was a prank or something similar and certainly wouldn’t have needed to convince the author who loved that kind of thing himself. So I think it was probably Vickers who invited his brother. The killer offered to meet Stephen off the boat himself, killed him and returned to the author to say his brother never turned up. That happened last Wednesday. Note that at that point the murderer—let’s call him X—could have stopped there, in case things took a turn for the worse later: the brother’s inheritance was already a considerable sum. Friday arrived. Harold Vickers, still being manipulated by X, sent everyone away for the afternoon. That same X, pretending to be the son of Mrs. Robinson, telephoned Mrs. Vickers to arrange a rendezvous, making it very unlikely she would have an alibi. X goes to post the two invitations, then returns to join Harold Vickers. They prepare the dinner scene together. The only things X brings are the spirit stove and a couple of saucepans. As soon as everything is ready—and I mean everything except, perhaps, for some of the food, X shoots Harold Vickers with his own pistol.