by John Rowland
I nodded. “Got any idea how he got into your lift?” I asked.
“I can’t think,” he admitted.
I looked around me. The sea stretched out, blue and clean, before us. On either side stretched the quiet, peaceful promenade of Broadgate. And behind us the neat houses of the little Kentish town straggled up the hill. The whole situation seemed to be wrong. It was not here that one would have expected to find sudden death. Of course, I knew well enough the slogan of some famous journalist—was it Lord Northcliffe?—that the unexpected always happens. But the fact that such a thing has been said doesn’t mean that we are any the less surprised when it comes off. And as I looked at the red-headed man by my side I reflected that this was yet again one of those things.
Trite enough, I suppose; but before I was finished I was to see that it was by no means one of those things—it was something queer and fantastic, something that was almost, if not quite, unbelievable.
Aloysius Bender was sitting quiet all this time. The chap had clearly been hard hit by what had happened. So much had the whole affair hit him that he was still, although more or less recovered from the primary shock, unable to take in much of what was going on.
I spoke again. The thing was, I told myself, to get as much as I could out of him now, before the police got on to him. I knew that, at any rate in theory, I should have reported everything to the Kentish police before I did anything in the way of questioning. But I was first of all a journalist; and the idea that I might well be getting on to a genuine scoop right away was something that no journalist could resist, even at the risk of getting on the wrong side of the law. And anyhow I knew that if the local police showed any signs of cutting up rough, my old friend Inspector Shelley of Scotland Yard would do something to pull me out of any spot of trouble in which I might manage to involve myself. In any case, a journalist, unless he is doing something really flagrantly illegal, will always let his news-sense get the upper hand.
So I asked Bender: “Any idea of how the man came to die? I mean to say, was there any sort of indication of whether he had had a fit or anything of that kind?”
Bender grinned. It was the first time, in fact, that there had been indication of emotion, apart from fear, in his face.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “I know how the man died all right.”
“You do?” This was better still, I told myself. I am not a ghoul, I should warn you, but I am a journalist, as I think I have mentioned more than once already.
“Yes. He was murdered.”
I suppose that I should have been prepared for this, but as the words came out I felt a little shudder, partly of excitement, partly of alarm, run up my spine.
“Murdered?” I said.
“Yes. He was lying on his face, and the hilt of a nasty-looking knife was sticking out of his back.”
Again the headlines flashed before my eyes. I really was in on something big here. As soon as I had had a look at the body I should really have to phone London. And I ran over in my mind the sundry news editors known to me, any one of whom would be prepared to appoint me as their special representative for the time, to send exclusive news of this affair. For the time being, I was well ahead of everyone else—ahead even of the police—on what might well turn out to be the crime of the season. The well-trained journalist gets, without too much difficulty, to recognise the crime which is going to hit the headlines, and to see that it is definitely of more interest than another murder which is worth only a paragraph on an inside page.
And if I knew anything about it, this Broadgate murder was one which was going to pack the headlines on the front pages for a good many days to come. And I had the incredible luck to be in at the start!
The fact that, technically speaking, I was still a sick man did not worry me unduly. I knew that I had made a good recovery, and that this little holiday at Broadgate was merely an extra precaution which my doctor had decided to take. In any event, sick or not, this chance of a scoop was the sort of thing that no worth-while journalist could possibly disregard. I resolved to take Bender in my confidence.
“Look here, Mr. Bender,” I said. “I happen to be a journalist. This may be a great chance for me.”
He looked a little scared. “You mean…you mean that the papers will print all about this?” he said.
“Well.” I grinned. “It’ll be one of the sensations of the century,” I said. “After all, a man murdered in a locked lift. It’s a real mystery, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” he admitted. But there was something a bit reluctant about his tone. I wondered if I had made a mistake by telling him who and what I was. Still, the damage was done now, if, indeed, it was damage. And the next job was obviously to see what I could about the dead man.
“Can I have a look at the body?” I asked.
“What about the police?” he responded. I had been wondering how long it would be before he got around to that. Still, I knew that I could handle him.
“If I come with you to the lift,” I said, “that will be an extra witness. It will give you support if they ever come round to suspecting you.”
“You think they might?” There was a real quaver about his voice now. There was no doubt that I had put some fear into his heart by suggesting that he might perhaps come under suspicion. I was sorry for the chap in a way. But I had to put my own future as a journalist first. This might well put me on the Fleet Street map again, after the long absence from newsprint which had been caused by my illness.
“I’ll be a perfect witness to support you, Mr. Bender,” I said. “Lead on to the lift! I’ll see what there is to be seen, and then we’ll fetch the police in. Don’t worry; there’ll be no trouble for you, no trouble at all.”
I could see that his mind was not really at ease. He was more than a bit worried. Probably he hadn’t realised, until I reminded him, that this was to become a front-page sensation in the press. But all the same he had enough sense to see that I might well be of some use to him, if he ever came under suspicion of this murder.
So, like a lamb, he led the way towards the lift. I was excited enough. The prologue, I told myself, was over. The first act of the play was about to begin.
Chapter II
In Which I Meet a Dead Man
I was not really surprised that Aloysius Bender was to all appearances a trifle reluctant to lead on to his lift. The man was still nervous. He threw away his cigarette with a jumpy gesture, and his limp, as he walked slowly towards the lift gates, was very pronounced.
As for me, I was a bit excited. In my time I had been in on a few scoops. This, however, was the first time that I had ever had the inside story of a murder handed to me on a plate. And I knew that a recent increase in the newsprint ration meant that the papers would give a bit more space to the case, if it was truly sensational, than they had been able to do in years. I grinned savagely as I looked at the limping man ahead of me. What was he going to lead me on to? That it was going to be something pretty sensational I felt only too sure.
He fumbled in his pocket. I was consumed with impatience. Then I saw what it was. The lift-gates were still fastened. No doubt he had relocked them, in a more or less mechanical manner, as soon as he had made his horrifying discovery.
I looked at the lock with some interest. It was a massive padlock of an old-fashioned type, and it joined chains which in effect tied the two gates together. But I have known one or two crooks in my time, and I would have been prepared to wager that the lock could have been picked by any skilful man with a good bunch of skeleton keys. The thing looked so heavy that the poor ignorant man in the street would have thought it to be perfectly safe, and the burglar, wishing to pick it, would have thought it to be the simplest job in the world.
Still, the chap now had managed to get a bunch of keys out of his pocket, and was struggling to insert one of them into the lock. His hands still trembled so violently th
at he found it a tough job. The key rattled against the lock, but did not go into the keyhole.
I lost patience. “Here, give the keys to me!” I snapped. I grabbed the keys from him and in a moment had the padlock unfastened.
Bender swung open the sliding gates. He then stood back, as if he was still too scared to go in. I glanced inside the lift, and stepped in.
There was no doubt that it was murder. The man was lying flat on his face, with one arm doubled under him in an unnatural manner. Sticking out of his back was the short hilt of a nasty-looking knife. It was, as far as I could see without touching it, one of those unpleasant weapons that they issued to Commandos during the war. It had clearly been driven in with pretty considerable force, just below the left shoulder-blade. And, judging by the blood, it must have struck an artery of some sort. The blood was pretty liberally spattered about the Broadgate Lift. I reflected that the dainty ladies who paraded the promenade from day to day would probably prefer to climb down the stairs for some days to come. If I knew anything about police methods, the lift, in any event, would not be in use for some time.
By this time Bender had followed me into the lift.
I looked at him with eyebrows raised. “Well?” I said.
“Well?” he replied.
“Have you looked at his face?” I asked.
“No.”
“But you said that you didn’t know the man,” I objected.
“I don’t.”
I gently raised the body so that the face became visible. It was a handsome face, made in the classical mould. There was a black toothbrush moustache, neatly trimmed. The hair was black and sleek. I should have placed the man at about thirty years of age, though that was, naturally, a mere guess. Anyhow, say he was between twenty-five and forty. That’s near enough for the moment. I’d never seen him before to my knowledge.
“Still think you don’t know him?” I snapped.
“I’m sure I don’t,” said Bender.
“Good enough,” I commented.
I fished in the corpse’s inside pocket. I know that, strictly speaking, this was not legal, but I had to get some information before the police arrived; otherwise, I knew, it wouldn’t be easy to sell the story to any paper.
There was a wallet there. It contained about twenty pounds in pound notes. And there were a few papers there, too. I looked at them hastily. Letters addressed to Mr. John Tilsley, at the Charrington Hotel, Broadgate. And a bunch of visiting cards, inscribed with John Tilsley’s name. No address, though. In fact, there was nothing to connect the man with anywhere outside the little Kentish town where his dead body was now lying.
I could see that Bender was looking at me pretty suspiciously. Indeed, I imagine that my behaviour must have seemed moderately odd to anyone not well acquainted with the ways of journalists. Still, I knew that I was in on a good thing, and I was not prepared to allow a liftman’s suspicions to put me off. It was absolutely essential that I should do something which would make a good story for the Fleet Street market. I had got the name of the dead man; I had got his Broadgate address. That was a fairly promising start. No doubt at his hotel they would be able to tell me something about him. The main thing was that I didn’t want to waste too much time. I knew that, if I took long, the police would have a few awkward questions to ask as to what I had been doing. And where the police are concerned, I like to keep a place discreetly in the background.
But, at the same time, I felt that I should do my best to get hold of some more information. I took one or two of the letters out of their envelopes. They looked commonplace enough. They were clearly personal letters of the most innocuous kind, signed “Bill” and “Sally.” The addresses at the top of the letters were London addresses, and the letters were the sort of thing which most of us have written from time to time to friends on holiday. They merely expressed the hope that Tilsley was having a good time at Broadgate, and went on to give some scraps of what were obviously mere personal gossip about friends and neighbours, acquaintances and relatives. I didn’t think that there was any question of there being any genuine revelations here.
I looked up at Bender. “Chap called Tilsley, it seems,” I said. I tried to make my voice sound as casual as I could. It would not do to let this fellow develop all sorts of suspicions as to my interest in the case. He might tell the police too much about what was going on. Then any sort of journalistic material which I hoped to get hold of would be completely lost, and my chance to get back into the headlines would be gone.
“Tilsley?” he repeated, in a colourless kind of tone.
“Yes.” I studied his face carefully, but it did not seem to me that there was anything resembling recognition there. I would have been prepared, at that moment, to swear that John Tilsley was a complete stranger to Aloysius Bender. And, anyhow, I didn’t see why he should not be. A locked lift is a cunning enough place to hide a body—but it would not be so cunning if one had the only available key.
But was it the only available key? It was some indication of the speed with which the whole affair had taken place that this was a question that had not previously entered my mind.
“Mr. Bender,” I said.
“Yes?”
“You said that there was a key—in fact, I’ve seen it—which remained on the bunch in your pocket all night.”
“That’s right.”
“Is there another key anywhere?”
“Another key?” He stared at me stupidly as he said this. Again I felt my patience going. Of course, I told myself, this fellow had undergone a pretty nasty experience; it probably gave him a sense of shock, and it might indirectly be responsible for any sort of stupidity which he might show. And yet, even though I knew that this was reasonable enough as an explanation, it did not make it any easier for me to be patient with him.
“Yes, man,” I said. “Somebody got in this lift last night, after you locked it, stabbed our unfortunate friend here, got out again, and relocked the lift on the outside. That is, of course, unless the murderer could manage to get through the iron gates without unlocking them. And I don’t believe in that kind of dematerialisation.”
“I see.” He paused and looked at me. I thought that I could see signs of some spark of intelligence in those green eyes; but I had been mistaken. He simply relapsed into a lumpish silence.
“Well,” I said. “Is there another key somewhere? There must be a second one, you know. After all, suppose you lost your key, the lift wouldn’t just go out of action, would it? Or would it?”
He shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t go out of action,” he admitted.
“Then where is the other key?” I was getting completely impatient now, for I knew that in a matter of minutes I should have to tell the police about our discovery. I had wasted enough time already, time that I should find it mighty difficult to account for, if the legal gents should ever enquire into what I had been doing that morning.
“In the council offices, at the top of Manvell Street,” he replied suddenly, as if he had abruptly come to life.
“Ah!” This was more the sort of information that I was after.
“It hangs on a peg inside the entrance to the offices, just above where the commissionaire sits,” he went on. The man was getting quite chatty now, I reflected. It seemed that he was either getting over the preliminary shock of his discovery, or he was losing the mistrust of my motives which was only too obvious a little earlier.
“I see,” I said. I had made no notes up to now, trusting to my moderately good memory. I knew that nothing was so likely to put off a reluctant talker as the fact that what he said was being written down. I suppose that the taking of notes, even by a journalist, savours a bit too much of the policeman noting evidence for most people to like it very much. However, I now thought that I had probably milked Mr. Bender of all the information that he was likely to be able to give me.
&
nbsp; “Mr. Bender,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Do you know the police station?”
“Of course.”
“Is it far away?”
“About ten minutes’ walk, I should think.”
“Would you go and fetch the police? I’ll stand guard here and make sure that nobody interferes. It is important that we do that, and I think it would be better if you fetched the police, since you will know the way to the station far better than I should.”
“All right.” There was a kind of sulky acquiescence in his voice. I knew that he was not too willing to do what I was asking, but at the same time it was impossible for him to dispute the rationality of my suggestion. I was, in fact, kicking myself for not having thought of it a bit sooner. If I had only sent him off to the police before I searched the body I might well have been able to get the information without Bender knowing what I had been doing. And now he was sure to blab to the police, and I should have to do a bit of explaining.
Still, the damage was done. It was no good crying over spilt milk, so to speak.
Bender went off, leaving me in charge. I had another rapid glance at the body. I thrust my hand, with some reluctance, into the other pockets. One of the side-pockets of the coat contained a pipe, pouch, and a box of matches—nothing else. The other one had some loose change and a lighter. It was queer, I thought, that this man had little in the way of identifiable property—certainly nothing to indicate that he had had any sort of life before coming down for this holiday in Kent. His hip-pocket I was reluctant to examine, since I knew that it would never do if I got any blood on my hands, and there was blood in plenty in the region of the hip-pocket. Still, I managed to steel myself to the task.
I was rewarded. The pocket contained a small notebook. This, I told myself, might well be the personal property which would lead to something. It did, indeed. Inside its cover was scrawled: “John Tilsley, 25 Thackeray Court, S.W.5.” I jotted down the address on the back of an envelope which I took from my own pocket. It might well be that this clue would lead to something. After all, I did not expect that this murder had its origin in Broadgate. It almost certainly originated from something in the man’s own private life.