Death of a Frightened Editor: A Golden Age Mystery

by E.

  “Leaning forward. You mean he may have been in some physical discomfort?”

  “Oh, no. He was craning forward the better to hear Mackie.”

  “Right. Then we have reached about a quarter-to-six. Supposing we go on from there?”

  “I reckon it was earlier than Crispin or Edgar think, mister,” Mackie said.

  “Why?”

  “Because there were two sets of bangs, which messed up me story.”

  “Bangs! What have they to do with it?”

  Crispin explained. “It was the banging which led to finding Mortensen, Doctor. The noise was so loud that we couldn’t hear Sam speaking. He had to stop. We thought the stewards were shifting beer crates. I went out to stop them. The steward said the bangs were coming from inside the lavatory. I went back and told the others . . .”

  “Was Mr. Mortensen in his seat then?”

  “He couldn’t have been, but I didn’t notice at the time. Then, later, the bangings started again and we all went into the corridor.”

  “When you knew it was, or might be, Mr. Mortensen?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Not until then!” Manson rubbed a hand over his chin. He took a couple of turns across the room. His head was bent forward in thought; it accentuated the stoop of his shoulders. He came to a halt in front of Edgar. “You were his table companion, and therefore in a better position to observe him. Was there anything in his demeanour to suggest that he was apprehensive in any way?”

  The insurance man shook his head.

  His appraising eyes rested on the superintendent. “On the contrary,” he said, “I thought him a little more sociable than usual.”

  “Was he usually unsociable?”

  “Well . . . no. But not very sociable. That is not saying he was at all unsociable. There is a difference, Doctor Manson. If he were spoken to he would answer quite pleasantly. But he rarely started a conversation.”

  “And in what way was he different last night?”

  “He asked my advice about insurance procedure.”

  “What did he do during the journey?”

  “Read the evening paper, and the gossip in The Tatler until Mr. Mackie began his story. Then he leaned forward to listen. When Mrs. Harrison asked where he was, I swivelled round in my chair and was surprised to find he was not there.”

  Manson swung round and took the company in his glance. “Which of you were in close proximity to Mr. Mortensen while he was lying in the lavatory?”

  “I certainly was,” Betterton answered. “I examined him, you know.”

  “The others?”

  “Most of us, except Mrs. Harrison, tried our hands at lifting the body so that we could open the door and get inside. We failed, as you know.”

  Manson quizzed each with his eyes and received nods. “We all tried to help,” Starmer said.

  Manson sat down for the first time during the questioning. “Anything you’d like to ask, Inspector?” he asked Edgecumbe. “No? Then I think you can all go for the moment—except the steward. I’ll see you separately in a few minutes.”

  Reeves sat solidly on his chair. “Been on these cars all my working life, sir,” he said when the door had closed behind the file of passengers. “Nothing like this ever happened before. It’s a blow to me.”

  “Well, don’t worry, steward,” Manson said comfortingly. “You couldn’t help it, and it’s no reflection on you. There are one or two things you may be able to satisfy me about, however. For instance, what time did Mr. Mortensen come on board last night?”

  “About 4.40, sir. Same time as usual. He didn’t hardly vary. Took off his coat and hat and shoved them on the seats of Mr. Edgar and Mr. Starmer so as to keep them for them gentlemen. Same like he always did. He was a very nice gentleman but didn’t like strangers round him. Of course we aren’t supposed to keep seats, but we wink our eyes when it’s regulars.”

  “But if the train doesn’t leave till 5.20, why on earth board it at 4.40?”

  “Bit of a necessity, sir. The gentlemen and lady liked travelling together. There are only eight seats and a hundred people trying to get ’em. So some of this crowd gets here early so as to be sure of keeping all the seats.”

  The Doctor grinned slightly. “It sounds more like a penance than a journey. Did Mr. Mortensen have a meal?”

  “Yes, sir. His usual mixed grill. He liked to start as soon as he came aboard.”

  “What time did he finish?”

  “Just before five. Then I cleared his side of the table.”

  “What did you serve him with after that?”

  “Nothing at all, sir.”

  “Coffee or tea, for instance?”

  “He never took them, sir.”

  “How was Mr. Mortensen looking when he boarded the car?”

  “He was jolly, sir.” The steward hesitated, and puckered his brows. “I can’t understand him dying like that, sir. Poison, you said. That means suicide. It seems a funny thing to me.”

  “You interest me, Reeves,” the Doctor said. “You say he was jolly, and you emphasised it. What do you mean by that? Was he different from usual in any way?”

  Reeves scratched his head. “Well, he was in a way. Mr. Mortensen was always cheerful-like. But yesterday he was—well, JOLLY. He said he’d had a good day and I wasn’t to expect him on Monday and Tuesday night as he was going to Paris to have a good time with the girls. I said I’d never been to Paris and Mr. Mortensen said, jokingly, as he’d bring me a mam’selle back to play with. Very lighthearted he was.”

  “And then he dies suddenly. All right, Reeves. Ask Mr. Phillips to come in, will you.”

  * * *

  “There are only one or two questions, Mr. Phillips,” Manson began after the stock-broker had come charging into the room as if running for a Rugby scrum. “Did you have a Bismuth tablet last night?”

  “Yes. I stopped at Mortensen’s table on my way back from the lavatory, and took one.”

  “Could you say how many tablets there were in the bottle?”

  “Not really . . . except . . . half a minute. It must have been fairly empty because I remember having to tip the bottle.”

  “Did you know your fellow passengers, apart from the train journey, I mean?”

  “Oh, yes. We used to meet at Bridge, or the theatre, and so on. All except Crispin who being a much younger man, I suppose had his own set.”

  “Did you know Mortensen, apart from the journey?”

  “Not at all.”

  Manson looked at the man. He thought that the slumberous eyes had a startled look in them. If they had it vanished in a second. He waited a moment: Then: “Why not Mortensen? What was there different in the train comradeship compared with the others?”

  “You know what he was, Doctor. I don’t think he cared to cultivate my acquaintance. His class were the ones he wrote about . . . Society.”

  “Did the same apply to the others?”

  “That I can’t say. I don’t remember any of them mentioning being with the man.”

  Manson dismissed him. “Ask Mr. Mackie to come in, please.”

  The bookmaker sidled in. He had lost the breezy camaraderie which made him so admirable a train companion. His weather-beaten face bore a subdued appearance, and the glint had gone from his eyes.

  “Don’t like this ’ere, cock,” he announced. “He didn’t orter done it and let us all in for copper quizzing. Why couldn’t he ’a done it at home? Eh?”

  “I’m asking the questions—er—Honest Sam, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right, guv’nor. Got a reputation I have.”

  “How long have you known Mr. Mortensen?”

  “On the train? About seven months.”

  “And before?”

  “Never knew him before. Knew about him, of course.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “Well, never really knew him, so to speak. Just on the train.”

  “Never mixed with him in Brighton?”
/>   “What, him! Lah-di-dah society. Look at me, guv’nor.”

  “Did you have a Bismuth tablet last night?”

  “Not ruddy likely. Got a digestion like a horse. Any belching I get whisky puts right. Never left me seat all night, guv’nor.”

  “Ever have any business with him?”

  “No. Tattersalls was his market. I reckon.”

  “That’s all, Sam. Ask Mr. Starmer to come in next.”

  The banker was as full of negatives as he would have been to a demand for an overdraft at the bank. No, he did not have a tablet. No, he had never gone over to talk to Mortensen or his table companion, Edgar. No, he did not know Mortensen off the train—had never met or seen him in Brighton or London. He was quite sure about that. No, he didn’t know whether any of the others had met him socially.

  Mrs. Freda Harrison came in with a flourish. She had evidently killed two birds with one stone and done her weekend shopping, for she carried a large string-bag bulging with purchases. She caught Manson’s glance, and grinned. “Didn’t know how long you’d be keeping us,” she said, “and I’ve got my house to run.”

  “Be prepared, eh?” Manson quipped. “You’ve a mixed bag of men on board, haven’t you?” he said. “Do you find that the presence of a woman rather cramps their travelling style?”

  A chuckle came from the comfortably ample woman. “You should have seen their faces when I first appeared,” she said. “They had been telling a story, and stopped when I came in the car and took a chair. I waited a minute then said: ‘If you boys are telling a club story, don’t mind me. I love ’em. And I can tell you a few you haven’t heard before’.”

  “And that did the trick?” Manson grinned.

  “They re-started the one they had been telling, so that I could appreciate the end. They’re a likeable bunch.”

  “You met them outside the train?”

  “Sometimes—at the theatre. They’d generally ask me to have a drink in the intervals.”

  “Did you have a drink with Mortensen often?”

  “With HIM.” She noticed the Doctor’s look of surprise at the emphasis on ‘him’, and coloured a little. “I meant to imply that he wasn’t the kind of man to mix with us outside the journey. He was in the County set. At least so I’ve heard. Editor of Society, he was.”

  “I take it that though he was a fellow traveller and shared in the company, he was not exactly a popular figure?”

  “I should say that’s right, Doctor.” She became ruminative. “I don’t think any of us liked him, judging from casual remarks they’ve made from time to time. I didn’t. We were all pleasant on the train, but I reckon that was as far as we wanted to go—even if Mr. Mortensen had wanted to go with us. That’s the feeling we had.”

  “Did you have a tablet last night?”

  “Yes. I didn’t fetch one, though. When Mr. Phillips went to get one, I asked him to bring one for me.”

  “You didn’t go into the corridor after Mr. Mortensen was dead?”

  “I went out with the rest, but stayed at the back. Death isn’t pleasant.” Crispin came in protesting. “Look, Doctor, I’m the crime reporter for the Sun, you know. I’ve got to get stories through, or I’ll lose my job. I want to telephone my paper. Can’t you see me some other time?”

  “I can finish you off now. Did you have a tablet last night?”

  “Yes, twice.”

  “What do you know about Mr. Mortensen? Personally, I mean, not as a traveller.”

  “Not a great deal. We used to run into each other at the Press Club. But I didn’t have much to do with him. He was not, if I may say so without appearing uppish, on the respectable side of journalism. ‘Society’ was a nauseating kind of sheet.”

  Manson smiled. “So!” he said. “Now, I find some of the nudes in the Sun a little nauseating. I suppose you knew the others?”

  “Betterton and company? Yes. We used to meet at Brighton Club, and at various evening functions.”

  “You were helping to try to get Mr. Mortensen out of the lavatory?”

  “I lent a hand with the others, yes.”

  “All right. Go off and do your telephoning.”

  The journalist departed. Inspector Edgecumbe frowned. “We don’t seem to be gaining much from them, do we, Doctor?”

  The telephone shrilled out a call. The inspector lifted the receiver. “For you, Doctor—the Yard,” he said and passed it over.

  “Dawson here, Doctor,” came the chief inspector’s voice. “We got nothing from the watch on ‘Society’ offices, last night. Do you want the constable kept on?”

  Manson thought for a moment. “Can you keep him there until this afternoon?” he asked. “I’ll be back in Town about”—he turned to Edgecumbe—“what time is there a train after lunch—about three o’clock, Dawson, and I’ll go through the place then. All right? Thanks.” He turned again to Edgecumbe.

  “I don’t think you’re doing quite justice when you say we aren’t gaining much, Inspector,” he said. “Now, I think we’re learning quite a few surprising items of information. How many are there left?”

  “Betterton and Edgar.”

  “Then we’ll have Edgar.”

  The insurance company teetered in with the smile of a canvasser trying to sell life insurance. “No,” he said, in reply to the Doctor, “I had no acquaintance with Mortensen other than being his viz-a-viz in the Pullman. Queer?” He echoed the scientist’s surprise. “No, I don’t think so. We did sit with each other every evening but we hadn’t much in common. I am a business man; he wasn’t. He had little conversation of the kind we others in the car talked. He didn’t even enjoy a drink except last night—”

  Manson broke in. “Did you say Mr. Mortensen had a drink last night?”

  “Yes. It staggered me for a moment. Many times I had asked him to join me in a drink, but he always refused. Last night after the steward had brought me a whisky and soda he suddenly said: ‘Do you know, Edgar, I fancy one tonight’.”

  “But the steward told me positively that he served nothing to Mortensen after the meal.”

  Edgar chuckled. “He probably thinks he’s right,” he said. “I was on the point of going to the lavatory, and passed my whisky over to Mortensen, saying I’d collect one for myself on my way back. I saw him take a drink. When I came back he had finished it off. The steward later collected the two glasses. But he wouldn’t know that they were not the two he served me with.”

  “This is something quite important, Edgar. You should have mentioned it. What time would that be?”

  Edgar considered. “I can tell you to within a minute or so. When I came back with the second whisky the steward followed me in with tea for Mrs. Harrison. And then she ordered a chicken sandwich. Now that was a minute or so before Sam Mackie began to tell us his story. It was the chicken sandwich order that started him off.”

  “You didn’t see Mr. Mortensen take anything with the whisky?”

  “I saw him start it, and he certainly didn’t take anything then. I was out, as I have said, when he finished it off.”

  “And that would be about 5.20. All right, Mr. Edgar.” Manson seemed to lose interest in the incident.

  Edgar had reached the door when a thought seemed to strike him, and he turned. “There’s one thing, sir,” he said, “which strikes me as a little odd. Not at the time, mind you, but since looking back over the evening. There’s probably nothing in it . . .”

  “Every detail, even the smallest, is important, Mr. Edgar,” the Doctor rebuked. “What is it you have in mind?”

  “Mortensen asked me if I had the correct time, and I said I had. I had checked my watch with Big Ben striking five o’clock. It was 5.10. Mortensen looked at his watch and said: ‘Damn. It’s stopped.’ And he wound it up and set it right. Thinking it over, it seems an odd thing to do when he was going to kill himself.”

  “Very.” Doctor Manson had stiffened and his eyes startled into awareness.

  “You’re quite sure about
this?”

  “Oh, yes. Certain.”

  “I’ve seen his watch, Mr. Edgar. As I remember it was a very old one, a family watch I should have said.”

  “That’s right. I noticed it myself.”

  “How did Mr. Mortensen wind it?”

  “With a key. He opened the back inserted the key and turned.”

  “I see. Thank you again, Mr. Edgar.”

  Betterton was the only passenger remaining. He came in, elegantly, black coat and striped trousers, a grey cravat with its pin in the exact centre. He inclined slightly at the officers and sat down, crossing one leg over the other after hitching up the trouser leg. He waited.

  “We are in a dilemma, Mr. Betterton,” Manson said, “and would like your reaction. So far as we have been able to ascertain from your fellow passengers and the steward, Mr. Mortensen finished his meal somewhere about five o’clock. Somewhere about 5.20 he had a drink of whisky. He seems to have left his seat about five minutes to six, and five minutes later he was dead. So for nearly an hour he had nothing to eat at his table and only a drink which had actually been served not to him but to Mr. Edgar. Is that clear?”

  Betterton acknowledged the clarity with a smile. “In other words, Doctor Manson,” he said, “it would appear that his death was due either to an unfortunate accident, or to suicide.”

  The Doctor looked up sharply. “I had not considered accident, Mr. Betterton. Do people usually go round carrying strychnine—unless they are doctors?”

  “Perhaps not.” Betterton stammered a little. “I was trying to get rid of the suicide angle.”

  “Why should he not commit suicide?” Manson asked, quietly.

  “Because he was, it seemed to me, too fond of living and had plenty of money to do it.” There was a trace of resentment in his tone; a suggestion it seemed to the Doctor over the money earned by a surgeon compared with the dubious means by which Mortensen came by his wealth. He looked up quickly.