Death of a Beauty Queen

by E. R. Punshon

  ‘I noticed that,’ Mitchell agreed. ‘I saw behind the desk would be hidden from anyone standing in the doorway. Go on, please.’

  ‘I thought at first she had fainted or something. I went across to her. I was hurrying, and my foot slipped in something.’ He paused and shuddered, remembering what that something was. He continued. ‘I went down on my knees. I tried to lift her. She was looking at me, and I think she knew me, but I’m not sure. She didn’t say anything. I saw a knife just at the bottom of her throat. I caught hold of it and pulled it out. That made the wound bleed worse than ever for a moment, and then it stopped suddenly. I tried to stop it with my handkerchief, but it stopped itself. I didn’t know what to do. I think I hardly believed it. There was blood all over me. I got up and ran to the door and there was a man passing, and I shouted out to him that Miss Mears had been murdered. I think he thought I was mad. Someone else came, and I told him, and he looked inside the room and then he ran off, and I think I went faint or something – I only remember leaning against the wall and trying to tell a policeman, who had turned up somehow, all about it, and his keeping on telling me not to say anything.’

  He paused and then, after an interval, he added abruptly:

  ‘I had got myself all over blood.’

  Mitchell took no notice of this remark. He was again drumming with his finger-tips on the table before him. He said:

  ‘Was Miss Mears alone when you were taking the photographs you spoke about? Was there no one with her?’

  ‘No, she was quite alone.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather peculiar? Hadn’t she any friends with her? I should have thought all these girls would have been running in and out of each other’s rooms all the time?’

  ‘Well, you see,’ Beattie answered, ‘there was this story about the trick she had played on Miss Ellis. Some of them were rather indignant about that. I think Miss Mears knew what they were saying, so she stopped in her own room. It was because she was all alone, and I thought it funny, that I asked what was up, and some of them told me about the trick she had played Miss Ellis.’

  ‘Is that why you went back to see her again?’

  ‘Well, yes, in a way. I thought it was a dirty trick if it was true. I thought I would ask her. I thought if it was true I would scrap her photos and not show any of them – I had exclusive rights.’

  ‘By way of punishment?’ Mitchell asked gravely.

  ‘Well, to pay her out, if you like. That’s really why I gave those I had taken of her to the door-keeper, so as not to mix them up with the others I was getting developed right away.’

  ‘You are friendly with Miss Ellis?’ Mitchell asked.

  ‘Yes, in a way – yes,’ Beattie answered, flushing slightly, just as he had done before when asked the same question about Miss Mears, and again Mitchell looked at him slowly and gravely.

  ‘You were angry at the trick you heard had been played upon Miss Ellis?’ he asked.

  ‘I wanted to know if it was true what they were saying,’ Beattie answered uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t believe it,’ he added.

  ‘Perhaps I had better not ask you any more questions just now,’ Mitchell said slowly. ‘If there is anything more you wish to say, well and good.’

  ‘My God,’ Beattie cried out at that. ‘You don’t mean you think I did it?‘

  ‘We are trying to find out what to think,’ Mitchell answered. ‘You don’t wish to make any further statement?’

  I think I’ve told you everything I know, and it’s the truth,’ Beattie muttered.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Mitchell said, ‘I’ll ask you not to leave here for the present. Owen,’ he added, to his assistant, tell Mr Penfold that Mr Beattie has kindly promised to wait a little in case he can give us any further information.’

  I suppose that means you are going to arrest me,’ Beattie said moodily.

  Neither of them answered. Bobby went out into the corridor with him. A tall young man was hurrying down it towards them. He had on the leather jacket and overalls motor-cyclists often wear, and behind him a policeman was following, calling to him to come back. He took no notice, and his thin gaunt face, his blazing eyes, his mouth half open with twitching, nervous lips, all seemed to show that he was in a very excited condition. His clothes were muddy down one side, as if recently he had had a fall, and indeed his whole appearance seemed a little wild. The policeman caught him up and laid a hand upon his shoulder, and he shook it off with a fierce, powerful movement of his whole body.

  ‘I tell you, I’ve got to know – I must know,’ he almost shouted.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘Is it true? Is it true what they’re saying outside?’ the stranger asked him. ‘God, is it true?’

  ‘Is what true?’ Bobby asked, and the other answered:

  ‘Is it true Carrie’s murdered?’

  ‘I am afraid so,’ Bobby answered. ‘Did you know her?’

  The stranger stood still. He covered his face with his hands, and one could see his body shake with his emotion. He said, not very loudly, but very distinctly:

  ‘It can’t be true. It’s only this morning she promised to marry me.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Missing Handbag

  Mitchell, whose keen ear had caught the note of emotion and excitement in the voice of the new-comer, came out into the corridor. The motor-cyclist, by an apparent effort, straightened himself, and yet still kept one hand against the wall, as if for support. His lean, cadaverous face, too, was quivering with the agitation he was trying to control; his eyes were wild and dreadful. One had the impression that his self-control might give way at any moment, and that lie knew this and was using all his nervous energy to prevent it. He said hoarsely:

  ‘Where is she? I must see her.’

  ‘Miss Mears’s fiancé,’’ Bobby explained to Mitchell. ‘He says they were engaged this morning. He has just heard–’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ the motor-cyclist interrupted. ‘It’s not possible... Is it true?’ he asked, almost as if hoping that, even now it might appear there was some mistake or misunderstanding. Then: ‘Who did it?’ he shouted fiercely.

  ‘We are only beginning our inquiries,’ Mitchell answered. ‘Possibly you can give. us some information. So far we haven’t got much to go on. Owen, carry on, and then come back here – oh, and tell Penfold again to concentrate on that handbag. Every woman has a handbag – you must if you’ve no pockets. It must be somewhere. Tell Penfold to report the moment he has any information.’

  The cyclist drew a long breath. He said to Mitchell, quickly and eagerly:

  ‘Her handbag’s missing... Carrie’s handbag? Then it’s been stolen... then the murderer’s got it... find it and you’ve found him.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mitchell thoughtfully. ‘Yes... quite so... so far we haven’t much information about Miss Mears’s identity. I take it you can help us there?’

  ‘Yes, but I must see her. I must see her first,’ the other answered. He looked at Mitchell, and said, quietly and steadily: ‘Is she dead?’

  Mitchell made a sign of assent. The other turned and walked the length of the corridor. He stood at the further end of it for a moment or two, and then came back. He seemed quieter now, more composed, as if he had braced himself to greater self-control.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you will understand... I can hardly realize even now... it’s so awful.’ He paused, shuddering, and continued: ‘How did it happen? Have you no idea who did it?’

  ‘Not much at present,’ Mitchell answered. ‘It will be our duty to find out... we always do in the long run.’

  ‘Always?’ the other repeated. ‘Always?’ he said again, and mentioned a recent sensational case at Brighton concerning which, up till then, little had been discovered.

  Mitchell made no attempt to justify his ‘always.’

  ‘I suppose there’s nothing you can tell us... no one you suspect for any reason?’ he asked.

 
‘No, no. I can’t believe... I can’t imagine anyone doing such a thing... it seems, so... so unnatural, incredible... could it have been an accident... or?’

  ‘Or what? ’

  ‘Nothing... it’s only that murder seems so... so incredible.’

  ‘I think you were going to say something, or make some suggestion,’ Mitchell insisted, and, when the other still shook his head, Mitchell said: ‘You were thinking of the possibility of suicide?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t – not thinking; it just came into my mind, only because it all seems so impossible, and then she said something once. She didn’t mean anything; it was only just talk.’

  ‘What was it?’ Mitchell asked.

  ‘It wasn’t serious; it was because she was so keen on becoming a film star. She burst out once she would kill herself if they wouldn’t give her her chance on the pictures. Of course she didn’t mean it. I told her not to talk rot. She never said anything like it again – at least not that I ever heard.’

  ‘It may be important,’ Mitchell said, and led the way back into the room, where almost immediately they were joined by Bobby.

  ‘Mr Penfold has gone to complete inquiries about Miss Mears’s identity,’ he reported. ‘There don’t seem to be any friends or relatives of hers here. I gave Mr Ferris your instructions about the handbag. He says there is no trace of it so far. He is sending round to the hospital, to make special inquiries there, and, of course, continuing to look here. He wants to know if he should offer a pound or two reward for its recovery.’

  ‘You ought to – more. I’ll stand it, if you like – ten pounds – twenty – as much as you want,’ the cyclist interrupted excitedly. ‘It must have been stolen. Find it, and you’ve found the murderer.’

  ‘Seems an odd thing for a murderer to steal,’ observed Mitchell thoughtfully. ‘Unless she had jewellery in it. But she seemed to be wearing all her trinkets, and she would hardly be likely to bring much money with her to-night. Do you know of anything valuable there might be in the bag?

  ‘It would be the bag itself,’ the other answered. ‘It was a very good one – real crocodile, worth five or six pounds. If it’s missing, it must have been stolen. Afterwards. If it had been taken before, or even if it had been mislaid or lost, she would have been sure to say something.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Mitchell. He added to Owen: ‘I don’t think we’ll do anything about a reward just yet. If the murderer took it for any reason, the offer of a reward will only let him know we are looking for it and he’ll destroy it. If any third person has it, it’ll be handed over all right without any reward offered.’

  ‘Anyhow, it’s a clue,’ the cyclist said.

  Mitchell nodded.

  ‘Even an important one,’ he said. ‘Though that’s not certain yet. Now, sir,’ he continued, ‘perhaps you’ll tell us your name – I don’t think we know it yet – and any information you can give us that may be useful in any way whatever.’

  ‘My name is Maddox,’ the cyclist answered. ‘Claude Maddox. I’m with my uncle’s firm – South American Trades, Ltd. My uncle is managing director. I suppose I shall be that myself some day, when he retires. I worked for the firm in South America for some years – from soon after leaving school, I went out almost immediately. I came back home to take up an appointment in our London office. Miss Mears worked in an office near ours. I used to see her in the lunch-hour. I suppose I fell in love with her at first sight, as they call it. She kept me at arm’s length a long time. She thought I hadn’t been properly introduced. But I didn’t care how much she snubbed me. I managed to get her to let me speak to her at last, and we got friendly. I asked her several times to marry me. She kept putting me off, but this morning she promised. I bought the ring in Regent Street after lunch.’

  ‘Have you given it her?’

  ‘Yes. I met her as she was leaving work to hurry home and get ready for this show to-night. You didn’t see it? She wasn’t wearing it?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Mitchell said.

  ‘She told me she wouldn’t – not yet; not to-night. I expect it was in her handbag. I expect that’s why it was stolen.’

  He gave a description of the ring – diamond, set with small seed pearls – and mentioned the shop in Regent Street where it had been purchased. It had cost £5, he said. Bobby took careful note of the details, and after one or two more questions, and after Maddox had explained that he had been cycling most of the evening, Mitchell remarked:

  ‘Wasn’t that a little unusual? If you and Miss Meal’s had just got engaged, I should have expected you to be here.’

  ‘I wanted to be,’ Maddox answered. ‘I was rather sick about it. But Carrie asked me not to. I couldn’t very well turn down the very first thing she asked.’

  ‘Had she any special reason for that?’

  ‘Well, you see’ – Maddox hesitated – ‘the fact is... you see she was awfully pretty... and fascinating.’ He paused and had some difficulty in continuing. One could see how his deep emotion shook him from head to foot. Mitchell waited quietly, and presently Maddox regained his self-control and was able to continue: ‘There were several fellows who wanted her,’ he explained. ‘There was one chap who takes rather swell photographs – his name is Beattie, I think – that handbag of hers was a present from him. And another fellow called Irwin.’

  ‘Irwin,’ repeated Mitchell sharply, and his glance went to the big, broad-brimmed felt hat he had brought with him from the scene of the tragedy.

  Maddox followed the direction of his eyes.

  ‘His father always wears a hat like that,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if that’s his, but it’s like it. He runs the Building Society here, you know – the father, I mean; Paul Irwin. His son is Leslie, and he used to boast that Carrie and he understood each other, and their engagement was practically settled, only they were waiting till they could get round the old man. He’s very strict in his views – puritan – didn’t like her, or think her the right sort for his precious son. Leslie said he would come round in time – he always did. Carrie told me there was nothing in it. She had just been out with him once or twice, and he chose to think that meant more than it did. I think she was afraid there might be a bit of a row if he knew about us, and she wanted to keep us apart. He and I had already had words over it – over his boasting, I mean. I told him he was a cad to talk that way. I expect he only did it to try to warn me off Anyhow, we had a row, and I suppose she was afraid we might have another tonight. So she asked me to keep out of the way till she had had a chance to tell him. I think she thought site could make him reasonable about it and promise to be friends. I suppose it would be rather a shock to him – I know it would to me; it would have made me half mad if I had thought I was going to lose her. Perhaps it made him the same way.’

  ‘Do you mean you think–?’ Mitchell began, but Maddox understood and interrupted instantly.

  ‘That he did it? Oh, no! Oh, that’s impossible!... He’s not that sort... he’s no pal of mine, but he’s not a murderer... impossible!’

  ‘I hope so,’ Mitchell said slowly, ‘but we must consider everything, even the impossible.’

  ‘Leslie Irwin would never do a thing like that,’ Maddox repeated. ‘No one could.’

  ‘All the same, someone did it,’ Mitchell said, in the same slow abstracted tones. ‘The question is, Who and why? What was it made you think of going out on your motorcycle to-night? Anywhere special you wanted to go?’

  ‘Oh, no. It was just that I was too restless to stop in, knowing all that was going on here and wondering how she was getting on, and all that. I couldn’t settle to anything. I could hardly eat any supper, I remember, and afterwards I got out the old bus and went for a spin. I went a good way out – along the Edgware Road, and out into the country somewhere. I didn’t much mind where, and I didn’t notice particularly. I turned back about half-past nine, I suppose – or perhaps about ten. When I got near London again, I thought that, though Carrie had asked me to kee
p away, I could ring up the cinema and ask how she had got on. So I stopped at a call box and rang up, and, when I asked for her, I got a reply there had been an accident; and, when I asked what accident, they said, “Stabbed – murdered.” Well, I thought it was a joke or a lie or something, and I didn’t believe it. But they rang off, and I couldn’t get any reply, so I rang up again from another call box, further on, and this time, when I asked, I was told the police were in charge and then they rang off, too. Well, then I fairly got the wind up. I came along just as fast as the old bus would go. I had two falls on the way – luckily I didn’t hurt myself.’ He glanced at the mud-stains showing on his clothing. ‘I might have done. That mud’s from Brush Hill Common; somehow I came off all right, but it was a bit of a narrow squeak. When I got here, there was a crowd outside. They were saying ’ He paused. He got to his feet, drawing himself to his full height: ‘You’ve got to find who did it, and why,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to find her handbag, too, and then you’ll have found her murderer.’

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ Mitchell assured him quietly.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Finger-Print

  There came a knock at the door. Bobby went to open it.

  ‘Inspector Penfold, sir,’ he said to Mitchell.

  ‘Tell him to come in,’ Mitchell answered, and turned to Maddox. ‘I want to hear what the inspector has to tell us,’ he explained. ‘You won’t mind waiting a little longer, will you? There might be some other points you could help us on.’