‘About what time was this?’ Mitchell asked.
Sargent considered. He wasn’t very sure. But Carrie had left the stage about ten, and Beattie had discovered her soon after the half hour. On the whole Sargent considered it must have been about a quarter past ten, though he couldn’t be certain to a minute or two.
‘Where were you and Mr Irwin at the time?’ Mitchell asked.
‘In the passage – just where it leads down to my office,’ Sargent answered, though a little uneasily, as if he did not much like this close questioning. ‘We saw Leslie Irwin in the doorway, and when he saw us he cleared off quick. I expect he hoped his father hadn’t seen him, and knew there would be a row if he had. Mr Irwin followed him – at least, that’s what he said. I don’t know how his hat got in the room, unless he went in. I’m sure he had it when he left me.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing. I was only having a look round. I was looking for Martin – one of the staff – to speak to him, but I couldn’t see him at first. After a time I found him. I was just beginning to speak to him when we heard a commotion, and someone told us there had been an accident and Carrie Mears had hurt herself.’
‘You didn’t see either of the Irwins again?’
‘No. I thought most likely Leslie had gone home and the old man had followed him, I told him there was nothing to worry about, Carrie didn’t want to have anything to do with Leslie. But I don’t think he believed it. He thought everyone was as cracked about his boy as he was himself.’
’Had you any reason for saying Miss Mears didn’t want anything to do with Leslie Irwin?’
‘Well, she told me so herself.’
‘I see. By the way, that reminds me. Isn’t it a little unusual for one of the competitors to be assigned your private office for a dressing-room?’
‘Well, she had to go somewhere; everywhere else was full,’ Sargent explained, but, though he answered readily and easily, Mitchell was aware of an impression that the question had been expected and prepared for. ‘You must remember what it’s been like, fixing everything up,’ Sargent went on. ‘I can tell you it’s no joke finding places for all that tribe of girls and their mothers and their fathers and their uncles and their aunts – pandemonium, that’s what it’s been all night, a regular pandemonium.’
‘But why your private office for Miss Mears?’ Mitchell insisted.
‘Well, it’s this way,’ Sargent answered. ‘Pandemonium, it was all right, all evening; and then, to make it worse, we found Miss Mears’s name had been left out of the list, and she had been forgotten – no place provided for her. Naturally, she raised Cain, so I told them for the Lord’s sake put her anywhere to keep her quiet, and when they said there wasn’t anywhere that wasn’t full up to the ceiling, I told them to shove her in my room – I had had it in my mind as a possible last resource all the time, of course.’
‘I’m told Miss Mears was the favourite; everyone expected her to win and be crowned Brush Hill Beauty Queen,’ Mitchell said. ‘Rather odd she should be the very one to be overlooked?’
‘Well, you see, that’s just why,’ Sargent explained again. ‘We ticked them all off to different rooms in order of entry, but I remember telling Mr Martin, I think it was, that Miss Mears was quite likely to be the winner, and she had better have accommodation near – you see, some of them we had to put right down in the cellar, five minutes’ walk from the stage. And so, I suppose, with her name being left out for the time, it got forgotten altogether, and we had to push her in at the last moment.’
‘I see,’ said Mitchell. ‘Apparently the murderer knew just where to find her, too.’
‘What struck me,’ observed Sargent, ‘is that perhaps it wasn’t that. Perhaps it was some fellow taking advantage of the fuss and confusion – I told you there was a regular pandemonium behind, all evening – to have a go at the safe in my room. Then, when he found her there, he knifed her and ran for it.’
‘That’ll have to be considered,’ agreed Mitchell, ‘but there seems no reason for the knifing. If he hoped the room would be empty, and found her there instead, he need have merely said, “Beg pardon,” and gone away again. Was there anything in the safe?’
‘Well, no – not to-night,’ Sargent confessed. ‘The takings are still in the box-office safe – we don’t generally transfer them till after the place closes.’
‘There’s no sign of the safe in your room having been tampered with, and there’s nothing missing – except her own handbag. And she was already there in the room, so she can’t have disturbed a thief at work and been stabbed while he was making his escape. If there was a thief, there doesn’t seem any reason for him to have attacked her. I think you said she told you herself she didn’t want to have anything to do with Leslie Irwin. You were on fairly intimate terms with her, then?’
‘Oh, no. Only in a business way,’ Sargent protested, his voice sullen and hesitating now, as if he did not wish even to admit that much. ‘She was very keen on getting a start, acting for the films. She came to see me here once or twice, to know if I could help her.’
‘Did you try to in any way?’
‘Well, of course, there wasn’t much I could do really. I told her – well, we talked it over once or twice, at dinner.’ He added defiantly, ‘We went up West, now and then, to have dinner together. I tried to choke her off, but in the end I had to promise to introduce her to some of the big people.’
‘Did you do that?’
‘Well, no. You see’ – Sargent stopped, and laughed in an embarrassed way – ‘I expect I blew a bit about my influence and the people I knew. Of course, I do know some, but just as an exhibitor. I don’t reckon any introduction I could give would be much use. That’s really what I wanted to explain – to let her down lightly, if you see what I mean, after she had got to expecting too much. That’s why I treated her to a dinner or two, to ease her off.’
‘To ease her off,’ repeated Mitchell doubtfully, thinking the method was one hardly likely to be successful, and wondering greatly how much this story meant. ‘Was it at one of these dinners she told you she didn’t want to have anything to do with Leslie Irwin?’
‘Well, yes, it was.’
‘Do you know anything about a Claude Maddox?’
Sargent looked blank, and shook his head.
‘No. Who is he?’ he asked.
‘Apparently he was engaged to her – at least, that’s what he says.’
‘Oh, that’s a lie,’ Sargent protested, looking very much disturbed. ‘I’m sure... I never heard... I mean, she would have told me... I should have heard.’
‘Or Mr Beattie?’ Mitchell asked.
‘Oh, I knew he was running after her,’ Sargent answered. ‘There were plenty like that. This Maddox was most likely another of them – lots of them, I know. She hardly knew them all herself.’
‘She does seem to have been a busy young lady,’ Mitchell agreed.
‘I don’t want you to misunderstand me,’ Sargent went on. ‘I just took a friendly interest in her, that’s all. I wanted to help her if I could. That’s why I hit on this idea of a Beauty Contest. I knew she would have a good chance of winning it. I thought it was a good publicity idea in itself, and if she won it she would have all the introductions she wanted. Of course, what she was after was to get out to Hollywood – that’s what she was really keen on. Look here, I don’t want any of this to get out. I suppose it needn’t, need it? You see, Mrs Sargent... I didn’t tell her about those dinners up West Carrie and I had together – no need to; there was nothing in them... Oh,’ he added, with a touch of bitterness, ‘Carrie knew how to take care of herself – just how to keep you at arm’s length.’ He paused, and seemed to ruminate in silence on past experiences that had not been altogether flattering to his self-esteem. ‘Well, now then, I don’t want anything said about it publicly, you understand? Not that it matters really, only it might lead to a little bit of bother at home – cost me a new diamond ring or a new fur coat to
put it right,’ he explained, with a somewhat feeble grin.
‘Nothing will be said that is not necessary, nothing will be kept back that is,’ Mitchell assured him gravely; and, after a few more questions, Sargent was allowed to go, though not before he had reiterated once again that his friendship with Miss Mears had been of the most ordinary and innocent type.
‘Which I am inclined to think it was,’ Mitchell commented, after his departure, ‘but more thanks to her than to him, I daresay. I’m beginning to think Miss Mears was a rather remarkable young lady in her way. I wish I knew what was keeping Penfold – have to send an expedition to look for him soon. You had better bring in that doorkeeper you were telling me about, Owen. Wood’s his name, isn’t it? We had better hear what he has to say.’
But Wood merely repeated the story already told – that a rough-looking man had asked for a Miss Quin, and while the list was being consulted for her name, which was not on it, had pushed by into the building.
‘Any other night,’ declared Wood, ‘I’d have been after him like a shot, and had him out before he knew what was happening, but, to-night – well, a pantomime, that’s what it’s been; same as Mr Sargent said himself – a pantomime, he said, and so it was all the blessed evening, with all them blessed girls all rushing in and out same as they were, all mad together, and all their friends and relatives after ’em, brothers especial. If you ask me,’ said Mr Wood solemnly, ‘every girl what entered for the competition to-night had ten brothers at the least, and most of ’em a good many more. Brothers – why, they sprout brothers, they do.’
‘Well, never mind that,’ said Mitchell. ‘Did you see this man, you speak of, again?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Didn’t see him go out?’
‘No; never set eyes on him again. But that’s not to say he didn’t go by without me noticing, harassed as I was with brothers and suchlike by the dozen and the score, so as it was all evening just a fair pantomime.’
‘So you said,’ interposed Mitchell. ‘Can you describe him?’
But that was altogether beyond Mr Wood’s powers, except for the bare facts that he was elderly, about middle height, was shabbily dressed, wore a cloth cap, and hadn’t shaved that morning – or washed either, in Mr Wood’s opinion. Also he had been drinking, for his breath smelt of beer, which Mr Wood considered a good smell in its time and place, but not in his little office at a moment and on an evening which was more like a pantomime.
‘Quite so,’ agreed Mitchell, and, as there was apparently no more information to be got out of the worthy doorkeeper, dismissed him, with thanks and a cigarette, and then turned to Bobby. ‘Penfold must have got lost,’ he said. ‘I–’
But then the door opened, and Penfold himself appeared. ‘Very sorry to have been so long, sir,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t get any answer at first, and then, when they did open the door, all I could get out of Mr Irwin was that he had nothing to say, and there was no object in coming to see you. He said we could arrest him if we liked, but short of that he wasn’t going to stir. He just kept repeating he had nothing to say.’
CHAPTER TEN
A Boy’s Denial
Penfold was plainly very angry and disturbed – quite hurt indeed. To him Mr Irwin’s attitude seemed simply deliberate insult to law and authority – not to mention Scotland Yard. Had it rested with him, Mr Irwin would promptly have been marched off, in custody, to the nearest police station, and deeply he regretted the pedantry of British law that made inadvisable such prompt handling of the situation.
‘That’s all I could get out of him,’ he repeated, and added darkly: ‘Means he knows a lot he doesn’t want to say, most like. I put that to him, but I couldn’t get a word more out of him, he just stuck to it he had nothing to say. So then I said he had better come and see you, and he said he was going back to bed, and off he went. Left me sitting there and walked off. Told me to stop as long as I liked, but when I did go would I put the light out and be careful to shut the door. “I mean, of course, if you do go,” he said, and cleared off.’ Penfold paused, ruminating, indignant, and bewildered. ‘Jiggered, I was,’ he concluded. ‘Fair jiggered.’
‘Were you, though?’ said Mitchell sympathetically. ‘Well, I don’t wonder. Still, if the mountain won’t come to you, I believe precedent is that you go to the mountain.’ But, though he spoke lightly enough, he was evidently almost as puzzled and surprised as Penfold himself by this new development. He began again his drumming with his finger-tips on the table, and then, noticing that Bobby was looking at the felt hat apparently identified as Mr Irwin’s, he said: ‘Well, Owen, what do you make of that?’
‘There’s evidence Leslie Irwin was seen coming out of the room where Miss Mears was found,’ Bobby answered, ‘and apparently about the time of the attack on her, though there doesn’t seem to be much to show whether it was before or – or just after. It seems he was in love with her, and she had just turned him down. Mr Irwin must have been in the room some time, as his hat was left there. He is said to be very fond and proud of his son. After Leslie was seen coming out of the room, apparently both father and son left here as quickly as possible.’
‘There, now then,’ Penfold cried, quite excitedly. ‘Just what I said myself – they know, the two of them.’
‘Very likely,’ agreed Mitchell. ‘Only what? And how much?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Not much chance of bed,’ he sighed. ‘It’s nearly three, and a bit late for a call. Still, I think I would like a chat with this gentleman who’s so sure he has nothing to say. You didn’t see the young man, Leslie Irwin, did you?’ he added, to Penfold.
‘No, he didn’t show himself,’ Penfold answered. ‘I asked if he was in, and the old man said he was in bed, and I left it at that. You can’t,’ he protested indignantly, ‘do much with a man you can’t get a word from, except that he has nothing to say.’
‘Holding your tongue does make things difficult,’ observed Mitchell. ‘Lucky for us so few people can manage it. What did you think of Mr Irwin?’
‘Jiggered,’ answered Penfold slowly, ‘jiggered if I know. He is the sort you would always look at twice and wonder who he was. Under fifty, I should say, and well-preserved at that, very tall and thin, with a thin face and a big nose, and eyes that – well, that seem to see things, if you know what I mean. Mouth tight shut all the time – even when he speaks he hardly opens it, though the words come out clear enough. Black hair, rather long, a little thin on top, but not a sign of grey hair. Close beard. Very neat and precise. Gives you the idea he’s watching all the time, only you don’t know what, but all the same he’s ready. He makes you think of a Mills bomb that might go off sudden if you weren’t careful.’
‘Sounds as if he were going to be difficult,’ Mitchell mused. ‘Very difficult. We had better go and see him, anyhow. Perhaps he may be more reasonable now he’s had time to think a bit.’
He led the way into the corridor outside. There were still a number of people hanging about, whispering, awestruck, in corners, or unable to tear themselves from the fascination the scene of so strange and terrible a tragedy exercised upon them. There were still newspaper men, too, waiting in the hope of some further crumb of information they could pick up and announce in enormous letters as, ‘Exclusive to Us,’ or, anyhow, as ‘Amazing Development.’ They swooped down on Mitchell the moment he appeared, but long experience had taught him the technique for dealing with them. Pacified with the assurance that important clues were being closely studied, and that a successful issue to the investigation was confidently anticipated, the newspaper men departed, and Mitchell, having given Ferris a few instructions and assured himself a constable was in position at the door of the room where the attack had taken place, so as to guard against any risk of disturbance, went out, with Penfold and Bobby, to the waiting car.
* Headquarters,’ he ordered, in a loud voice, for the benefit of any lurking, listening reporter, but the chauffeur knew that phrase was really an indication to him to stop presently
for further orders.
Round a corner or two, and well out of sight, he slackened speed accordingly, and Mitchell gave him the Irwin address.
It was not far, and the house proved to be a fair-sized, old-fashioned-looking residence standing by itself in a large garden. In one window above the front door a light still shone, but the rest of the house was in darkness.
‘Someone awake, anyhow,’ Bobby remarked.
‘Probably they’ve been expecting us,’ Mitchell said. ‘I doubt if there’s been much sleep there to-night.’
‘The fight only shows in one window,’ observed Penfold.
‘The son probably,’ Mitchell suggested. ‘If the father’s waiting for us, he’s waiting in the dark. Well, we’re in the dark, too. Better knock, Owen.’
Bobby obeyed, and this time, within a minute or two, a light went up in the hall. The door opened, and on the threshold appeared the figure of a man, strangely tall and thin between the darkness of the night and the lighted hall behind. He was wearing a dressing-gown and pyjamas, and his bare feet were in bedroom slippers. He said coldly:
‘You have come back, then. It was quite unnecessary. I have nothing to say. Could you not wait till the morning?’
‘Death did not wait for the girl who has been murdered to-night,’ Mitchell answered gravely.
‘I suppose you want to come in?’ the other said, after a pause. ‘But I tell you again, I have nothing to say.’
He led them into the dining-room; an apartment well, and indeed comfortably, furnished, though in the somewhat heavy Victorian style modern taste is apt to find oppressive. The atmosphere of the room was chill and a little damp, as though it were not much used, and everything was not only in its place, but looked as though in no circumstances would it ever dare to be otherwise. Even the droop of the curtains before the window seemed depressed and sad, as if hiding melancholy things, and a text prominent upon the wall above the empty fireplace, ‘The Lord Watcheth,’ seemed meant for a warning and a threat rather than as a promise of protection and comfort.
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