The Plague Court Murders

by John Dickson Carr

  “Couldn’t be identified, sir. … This is the way it was. When I went to the house first, Marion had mentioned something about the servants’ hearing things in the house that morning, and she wanted me to look into it. But I put it off until I returned from Euston. She had gone out, so I got the servants together and put the question.

  “You remember, Ted seemed a bit—well, shaky and upset when he left us last night. At about half-past four this morning the butler at Latimers’, level-headed fellow named Sark, was awakened by somebody throwing pebbles at his window. I may mention that the house is set back from the street, with gardens around it, and a high wall. Well, Sark looked out the window (it was still pitch dark) and heard Ted calling to come down and open the door; he’d lost his key.

  “When Sark opened the front door, Ted fell inside on the floor. He was muttering to himself; Sark said it gave him a turn to see him as dirty as a chimney-sweep, spotted with candle-grease and dazed-looking about the eyes—and with a crucifix in his hand.”

  The last detail was so weird that McDonnell involuntarily stopped, uneasily, as though expecting comment. He got it.

  “A crucifix?” repeated H.M., stirring abruptly. “This is news, this is. Very religious turn of mind, was he?”

  Masters said in a flat voice: “The boy’s mad, sir; that’s all. I could have told you. … Religious? Just the contrary. Why, when I asked him if he’d been praying, he flared out at me as though I’d insulted him. He said, ‘Do I look like a pious Methodist?’ or some such bilge. … Go on, Bert. What else?”

  “That was all. He told Sark he’d walked a good deal of the way back, and was in Oxford Street before he could find a cab. He said not to wait for Marion; she’d be back in good time; then he poured himself a big dose of brandy and went up to bed.

  “The rest of it happened about six o’clock. There’s a girl who gets up to start the fires, and she was coming down from the third floor past Ted’s bed-room. It was very quiet and darkish outside, with a mist in the garden. When she passed the room she heard Ted mumbling something in a low voice; she thought he was talking in his sleep.

  “And then the other voice spoke.

  “The girl swears she never heard it before. It was a woman’s voice, apparently of a quality ugly enough to scare the girl half to death; talking fast. … Then she recovered herself, and thought something different. It seems that one night about a year ago Ted had been pretty drunk, and he’d brought a girl-friend, also remarkably tight, back to the house with him; smuggled her up to the bedroom by way of a balcony, with a staircase, that runs all along that side of the house. …”

  McDonnell gestured.

  “It was a simple enough conclusion; but when this girl heard the news about the murder later on, and what time Ted had got in, and all the rest, she got scared. And she told Sark. All she could say was that it didn’t sound like what I’d thought’. She said the voice was ‘creepy and crazy’.”

  “Did she get any words?” asked Masters.

  “She was so frightened when I talked to her that I couldn’t get her to make it clear. She made one remark (not to me; to Sark; but I got it second-hand) that’s either startlingly imaginative or plain damned ludicrous, according to your conception. She said that, if an ape could talk, it would talk just like that voice. The only words she remembers are, ‘You never suspected it, did you?’ ”

  There was a long silence. Masters discovered that Darworth’s butler was listening; and, to cover the things we were all thinking, Masters thunderously ordered him out of the room.

  “A woman—” Masters said.

  “Doesn’t mean a blasted thing, worse luck!” said H.M., opening and shutting his fingers. “You get anybody of nervous type all worked up, man or woman, and the voice will go into falsetto. Humph. That very curious and interestin’ remark about an ape suggests something big—something—I dunno. And yet why does Ted rush off like that, with a traveling bag. …? Humph.” He brooded. His somnolent eyes moved round the hall. “All I can do for the time bein’, Masters, is agree with you that I don’t like it either. There’s a murderer walkin’ around this town that I wouldn’t want to meet on a dark night. Ever read De Quincey, Masters? Remember that part about the one poor devil hidin’ in the house, who’d got overlooked when the murderer butchered all the rest? And he tried to creep downstairs and get out, when he knows the murderer’s prowlin’ around in the room by the front door. And he’s crouchin’ on the stairs, scared to a jelly, and all he can hear is the noise of the murderer’s squeaking shoes goin’ around and around, and up and down, in the front room. Just the shoes. …

  “That’s all we’re hearing. Just shoes. …

  “Now I wonder —Ha.” For a moment he leaned his big head on his hand, tapping at his forehead, and then he sat up irritably. “Well, well, this won’t do. Work! Got to get to work. Masters!”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m not navigatin’ any stairs, d’ye hear? I got enough stairs to navigate as it is. You and Ken go down to this Darworth’s workshop. Get me that slip of paper you were talking about, with the figures on it; also scrape some of that white powder off the lathe and put it in an envelope for me.” He stopped. He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “And by the way, son. In case the idea occurs to you: I shouldn’t taste any of that powder, if I were you. Just a precaution.”

  “You mean, sir, it’s—?”

  “Go on,” the other commanded gruffly. “What was I thinkin’ about? Oh, yes. Shoes. Now, who’d know? Pelham? No; he’s eye and ear. Horseface! Yes, Horseface might. Where the devil’s the telephone around here? Hey? People are always hidin’ telephones on me! Where is it?” Darworth’s butler, who had magically reappeared, hurried to drag open a cupboard at the back of the hall, and H.M. was consulting his watch. “Um. Won’t be at his office now. Probably home. McDonnell!. … Oh, there you are. Hop to that phone, will you? Ring Mayfair six double-O four, and ask for Horseface; say I want to speak to him.”

  Fortunately I happened to remember who Horse-face was, and passed the word to McDonnell as Masters led the way towards the rear of the hall. No misdirection was intended in the least. It would simply never have occurred to H.M. that there was anything strange about telephoning the home of Doctor Ronald Meldrum-Keith, possibly the most eminent bone-specialist in Harley Street, and inquiring for Horseface: either on his own part or McDonnell’s. It is not at all that he dislikes the sometimes stuffed dignities into which the people about him have grown; it is that he is unconscious of them. What he wanted with the Harley Street man I had no idea.

  But, as Masters opened a door at the rear of the hall, I got a definite notion that for the moment he wanted everybody else out of the way. He had got up, and was stumping towards a curtained door at the left.

  Masters led the way downstairs, and through a cluttered cellar, turning on lights as we went. He very deftly picked the lock on the door of a boarded-off partition at the front; and, as I followed him inside, I could not help jumping a trifle. A dim green-shaped bulb made a sickly glow from the ceiling; the place still smelled of dead heat from an oil stove, of paint, wood, glue, and damp. It resembled a toymaker’s workshop, except that all the toys were ghoulish. A number of faces stared at me; they hung drying on the walls above a clutter of workbenches, tool-racks, paintpots, and thin sheets of wood stretched in frames; they were masks, but they were hideously lifelike. One mask—it was of a bluish skim-milk color, one eye partly shut and the other eyebrow lifted, peering down through a parody of thick spectacles-one mask I could not only have sworn was alive, but that I knew it. Somewhere I had seen that moth-eaten drooping mustache, that nervous cringing leer. …

  “Now, this lathe—” said Masters, laying his hand on it rather enviously. “This lathe—” He picked up a slip of paper from a steel shelf under it, and from the turning-blade scooped some whitish grains into an envelope; then he went on discussing the lathe’s excellences. It was as though he were wrenching his mind away, with a sense of reli
ef, from the riddles of the case. “Oh, you’re admiring the masks, eh? Yes, they’re good. Very good. I did a Napoleon once, to see how it looked, but nothing like this chap’s stuff. It’s—it’s genius.”

  “ ‘Admiring,’ ” I said, “isn’t exactly the word. That one there, for instance. …”

  “Ah! You’ll do well to have a look at that one. That’s James.” He turned away abruptly, asking me whether I had ever seen any gauze ectoplasm treated with luminous paint. “Can be compressed to a packet the size of a postage stamp, sir, and stuck on the inner side of the medium’s groin. A woman in Balham used to do it like that; so that she could be searched beforehand. Wore only two garments, above and below the waist; and manipulated ’em so quickly that they could swear they’d searched her beyond doubt. …”

  Upstairs, the doorbell was ringing. I stared at that replica of James’s face, at Darworth’s canvas work-apron carefully folded over the back of a chair; and the presence of Darworth stood as vividly in the room as though I had seen him standing by that work-bench, with his silky brown beard, his eyeglasses, and his inscrutable smile. These toys of sham occultism seemed all the more ugly for being shams. And Darworth had left one even more terrible legacy—the murderer.

  Sharp in my mind was a picture, as I imagined it, of the servant-girl standing outside the closed door of Ted Latimer’s room just before daybreak; and hearing the intruder’s voice cry, exultantly, “You never suspected it, did you?”

  “Masters,” I said, still looking at the mask, “who, in the name of God—! Who got into that fellow’s room this morning? And why?”

  The Inspector said imperturbably: “Did you ever see the slate-trick worked? Look here. Lummy, I wish I dared pinch some of this stuff! It’s expensive in the shops, much more than I can afford. …” He turned round to face me. His voice grew heavy. “Who? I only wish I knew, sir. I only wish I had. And I’m getting worried, so help me. I only hope the person who called on young Latimer this morning wasn’t the same person—”

  “Go on. What do you mean?”

  He said in a low voice “—the same person who called on Joseph Dennis this afternoon, and was going up the walk leading Joseph to that house in Brixton, and patting him on the back. …”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “It was the phone call; don’t you remember? The phone call from Sergeant Banks, when Sir Henry talked all that nonsense about the Russell Square Zoo. He was making such a row about the call that I didn’t have time to tell him then; and, besides, I don’t think it’s important. It can’t be important! Blast it, I’m not going to get the wind up like I did last night!—”

  “What was it?”

  “Nothing much. I sent Banks, who’s a good man, out to get a line on that house, and the Mrs. Sweeney who runs it. I told him to keep a sharp eye out. There’s a greengrocer’s just across the street, it seems, and he was standing in the door talking to the grocer when a cab drove up. … The grocer pointed out Joseph getting out, with somebody else who was patting him on the back and leading him up to the gate in the wall around the house. …”

  “Who was the other person?”

  “They couldn’t see. It was foggy and raining, and the body of the cab was in the way. They could only see a hand urging Joseph forward; and by the time the cab had driven off the two were inside the wall round the house. I tell you, it’s all bosh! It was only some caller, and what the devil could I do about it?”

  He looked at me a mement, and then said that we had better go upstairs. I made no comment on the story; I only hoped he was right. On the stairs we heard a new voice coming from the hall. Marion Latimer was standing in the middle of that cold place, her face rather pale, and holding out a crumpled sheet of paper. She was breathing quickly; she started a little as she saw us emerge from the door at the rear of the hall. From somewhere close at hand we could hear H.M.’s voice booming over the telephone, though we could distinguish no words.

  “—they must know something about him in Edinburgh,” the girl was saying to McDonnell, almost pleadingly. “Or else why should they send this telegram?”

  I had realized before that she was beautiful, even at that dark hour in the squalor of Plague Court: but not to the dazzling extent she showed against the background of Darworth’s crookedly brilliant hall. She was dressed in some sort of shimmering black effect, with a black hat and a large white-fur collar. It might have been animation, it might have been only more make-up; yet, despite the pale face, her eyes had a softness and appeal as though the woman had found herself again after some blighting influence. She greeted us quickly and warmly.

  “I couldn’t resist coming over here,” she said. “Mr. McDonnell left word he was on his way, and said he wanted to see me. And I wanted all of you to see this. It’s from my mother. She’s in Edinburgh now. … staying there. …”

  We read the telegram, which said:

  “MY BOY IS NOT HERE BUT THEY SHAN’T HAVE HIM.”

  “Ah,” said Masters. “From your mother, miss? Any idea what it means?”

  “No. That’s what I wanted to ask you. That is, unless he’s gone up to her.” She gestured. “But why should he?”

  “Excuse me, miss. Has Mr. Latimer the habit,” asked Masters with blunt contemptuousness, “of running off to his mother when he’s got into trouble?”

  She looked at him. “Do you think that’s altogether fair?”

  “I’m only thinking, miss, that this is a murder case. I’m afraid I’ve got to ask for your mother’s address. The police will have to look into this. As for the telegram—well, we’ll see what Sir Henry makes of it.”

  “Sir Henry?”

  “Merrivale. Gentleman who’s handling this. He’s using the telephone now; if you’ll sit down a minute. …”

  The door of the telephone-closet creaked, letting out a wave of smoke and H.M. with the old pipe fuming between his teeth. He looked sour and dangerous; he had started to speak before he saw Marion; then his whole expression changed instantly to a sluggish benevolence. He took the pipe out of his mouth, and inspected her in frank admiration.

  “You’re a nice-lookin’ nymph,” he announced. “Burn me, but you are!” (This, as heaven is my witness, is H.M.’s idea of a polite social compliment, which has frequently caused consternation.) “I saw a girl in a film the other day, looked just like you. About the middle of the picture she took off her clothes. Maybe you saw it? Hey? I forget the name of the picture, but it seems this girl couldn’t make up her mind whether to—”

  Masters emitted a loud, honking noise. He said: “This is Miss Latimer, sir—”

  “Well, I still think she’s a dashed nice-lookin’ nymph,” returned H.M., as though defending a point. “I’ve heard a lot about you, my dear. I wanted to see you and tell you that we mean to clear up this mess, and get your brother back for you without any fuss. … Now, my dear, was there anything you wanted to see me about?”

  For a moment she looked at him. But such had been H.M.’s obvious sincerity that it was hardly possible to rap out whatever may be the modern equivalent for “Sir!” Suddenly she beamed at him.

  “I think,” she said, “that you’re a nasty old man.”

  “I am,” H.M. agreed composedly. “Only I’m frank about it, d’ye see? Humph. Now, now, what’s this—?” Masters had thrust the telegram into his hands, to shut off further discourse. “Telegram. ‘My boy is brr-rr brrr—’ “he mumbled through it, and then grunted. “To you, hey? When did you get it?”

  “Not half an hour ago. It was waiting for me when I got home. Pléase, can’t you tell me anything? I hurried over here. …”

  “Now, now. Don’t get excited. Dashed good of you to let us have this. But I’ll tell you how it is, my dear.” He became confidential. “I want to have a long talk with you and young Halliday—”

  “He’s outside in the car now,” she told him almost eagerly. “He brought me over.”

  “Yes, yes. But not now, you see. But we go
t lots of work to do; find the man with the scar, and so on. … So look here. Why don’t you and Halliday arrange to be at my office tomorrow morning; say, about eleven o’clock? Inspector Masters will call for you, and show you where it is, and everything?” He was very easy and pleasant, but there was a slow dexterity about the way in which he maneuvered her towards the door.

  “I’ll be there! Oh, I’ll be there. And so will Dean. …” She bit her lips. Her appealing glance took us all in before the door closed.

  For a time H.M. remained staring at that door. We heard the sound of a motor starting in the street. Then H.M. slowly turned round.

  “If that girl,” he said with a meditative scowl, “if that girl hasn’t tumbled off the apple-tree years before this, then somebody’s been damned unenterprising. Nature abhors a vacuum. What a waste. Humph. Now, I wonder. …” He scratched his chin.

  “You shoved her out of here quick enough,” said Masters. “Look here, sir, what’s up? Did you find out anything from that specialist?”

  H.M. looked at him. There was something in his expression. …

  “I wasn’t talking to Horseface,” he said, in a voice that seemed to echo in the bleak hall. “Not just then.”

  There was a silence, and still the words echoed with ugly suggestion. Masters clenched his fists.

  “It was at the end of that,” continued H.M. in that heavy, unemotional voice. “It was a relay call through from the Yard. …Masters, why didn’t you tell me somebody called on Joseph at five o’clock this afternoon?”

  “You don’t mean—?”

  H.M. nodded. He stumped over and flopped his vast weight into the black chair. “I’m not blamin’ you. … I wouldn’t have known. … Yes, you’ve guessed it. Joseph has been murdered. With Louis Playge’s dagger.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  With the second murder by the person they described in their stereotyped fashion as the “phantom killer”—words which do not in the least convey the horror, or give a proper impression of the circumstances—with the second murder, the Plague Court case had not even yet taken its last and most terrible turn. Remembering the night of the 8th of Sep tember, of our sitting in the stone house staring at the dummy on the chair, I can realize that other things were only a prelude. All events seemed to return to Louis Playge. If Louis Playge still watched, he would have seen his own fate reenacted in the solution of the case.