Except For One Thing

by John Russell Fearn

  He turned over again, enduring the anguish of killers gone before — the pitiless awareness that life has been destroyed. He sat up, sweating, and prayed for the dawn.

  It came at last and somewhat soothed his aching nerves. Sore-eyed, weary, he clambered out of bed. Shuffling in his slippers to the dressing-table mirror he surveyed himself. His face was ashen and unshaved, eyes bloodshot both from insomnia and the chemical fumes in the laboratory. To appear downstairs like this would raise questions.

  He went along to the old-fashioned bathroom, took longer than usual shaving and washing, using plenty of cold water afterwards to bring a little colour into his cheeks. Then he dressed in a pin-stripe suit, brushed his hair carefully, and feeling a trifle better in mind and body went downstairs to breakfast, pressing the bell for Mrs. Baxter as he entered the dining room.

  He went over to the table and picked up the folded morning paper from the silver clip by his serviette. He half expected to see the mystery of Valerie

  Hadfield spread in glaring headlines, but instead the latest political wrangle took pride of place. Then he noticed a column on the right topped with the words — MUSICAL COMEDY STAR VANISHES!

  “Morning, Mr. Richard, and how are you this morning?”

  He forced a smile at Mrs. Baxter as she came hurrying in with her loaded tray. It wafted an aroma of bacon and coffee.

  “Oh, good enough,” he answered quietly.

  “But you’re looking a bit tired,” she said in concern. “Only to be expected when you worked all night…Or did you? I know you were at it when Mr. Baxter and I went to bed.” She set the plate down in front of him and started pouring out the coffee.

  “It was four o’clock when I retired. But I finished my experiment and now I’m free to do as I like. I can divide my attention equally between my fiancée and finishing that confounded garage.”

  “You and your garage, Mr. Richard!” Mrs. Baxter laughed. “Why don’t you let the contractors do it?”

  He smiled. “I started the job, as I did the lab, and I’ll finish it.”

  “And you’ve cut yourself too!” she exclaimed, as his cuff drew back to reveal the plaster above the inside of his wrist as he reached for the toast.

  “It’s nothing — just a scratch from the laboratory.”

  She picked up the empty tray and bustled out. Richard propped the newspaper up before him and read:

  Miss Valerie Hadfield, the famous musical comedy star, who has been appearing for the last two years in “Jingle Bells” at the Paragon Theatre, disappeared in mysterious circumstances last night. She is known to have left her car to enter the stage door of the theatre, but has not been seen since. The probability is that she went of her own volition and further details are awaited.

  “I’ll bet they are,” Richard muttered, and folded the paper up again; and in so doing he exposed the stop-press column.

  Peter Cranston, chauffeur to Valerie Hadfield (see page 1), was found dead in the garage adjoining his home this morning. Carbon monoxide poisoning following a fall is suspected.

  Richard put the paper down and turned to his neglected breakfast. He felt much more comfortable now. Instead of things hanging in mid-air they were coming down to earth and fitting into place as he had expected them to do. He felt satisfied that his plan was not showing any serious deficiency yet. There was only one flaw in the whole business that he could see: that inscribed cigarette box. Again he thought of calling on Ellen and trying to find out about it discreetly, and again he decided against it. From now on the less said the better. The thing to do was to forget all about Valerie Hadfield and Peter Cranston and become the normal Richard Harvey, chemist, anxious to marry Joyce Prescott.

  After breakfast he called for his Jaguar in the usual way and drove round to the Prescott home. Both the girl and her father were in.

  “It’s wonderful to see you again, Ricky!” Joyce kissed him as he embraced her in the hall. “I’ve missed you a good deal these past days…”

  His arm about the girl’s waist they went into the study where Howard Prescott was busy at a portable typewriter.

  “Hello there, Richard!” he greeted genially. He got up, came over and shook hands.

  “I’ve cleared up all outstanding business and there’s nothing to stop Joyce and me being married as soon as convenient,” Richard told him.

  “You really mean you are free of the encumbrance?” Joyce asked, her dark eyes shining.

  “Free as air! I had a bit of a job to disentangle myself but she finally listened to reason. Cost me a good deal, but if it had taken all my money I wouldn’t have minded — just as long as I have you.”

  Richard sat down as the girl motioned to a chair and she settled on the divan close to him. Dr. Prescott remained half seated on his desk.

  “Poor Joyce here’s been thinking you’d deserted her,” he chuckled.

  “But I told you I’d be out of town for a week, dear.”

  “You haven’t been away all the time. Dad here noticed how the garage has grown when he’s been coming from seeing that sick friend of his. You said you are building it yourself so surely you could have spared a few minutes to come along and see me rather than do a job like that?”

  Richard was silent. Damn the sick friend!

  “I thought I’d use what bit of time I’d got at home to get the garage nearer completion,” he said finally. “I’ll have it done by the time we’re married. It never occurred to me that you’d notice it, sir.”

  “Ordinarily I wouldn’t have…” Howard Prescott said. “Only I’m more than naturally interested in that garage because you are building it…And I still can’t think why!”

  Richard looked up sharply, trying to see if there was any hint of suspicion in those small, shrewd dark eyes.

  “Labour of love,” Richard said smiling. “Joyce likes the Jaguar and I want it on the premises. So I am building the garage myself to be sure it will be ready by the time we move in together as husband and wife. Contractors might take a long time.”

  “But, Ricky, it isn’t all that important!” Joyce protested, vague wonder on her face. “I’d much sooner you’d spend the time with me than on that messy job.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m going to finish it now I’ve started. I’ll have to; can’t leave it like that…Anyway, you don’t want to be with me all the time! What about being your father’s secretary?”

  Prescott laughed. “I’m thinking we’d better drop the subject. And incidentally, Richard, you’re going to take away a first-class secretary! But you’ll be getting a first-class wife. I know. I think I shall either have to remarry myself or else advertise for another secretary.”

  A thought was banging in the back of Richard’s brain. Dr. Howard Prescott had seen that garage increase its size while he, Richard, had said he would be out of town! Didn’t mean anything of course; quite a natural occurrence with nothing profound attaching — yet it would have been better if it had not have happened.

  Then Joyce said: “Are we going to lunch in town, Ricky? And maybe a show later on?”

  “Why not? I simply came along to show willing and see what plans you’d made for the day…Get your things on and we’ll nip in to the city to celebrate our first free day…Oh, but first let me give you this!”

  Richard took a small case out of his pocket and snapped it open to reveal a costly engagement ring — not as costly as Valerie’s had been certainly, but then Joyce had none of her avarice. She glanced at it as it lay in Richard’s palm, then she got to her feet. Richard looked at her in surprise.

  “Look here, Ricky, before you give me that I want to ask you something. Who is this woman who has been holding us apart? Now you’re free of her it doesn’t signify any more if I know, does it?”

  “You’re still worrying over that, eh?” Richard got to his feet, the ring in its case clenched in his palm. “Did you ever see such a girl, Doctor?” he asked, laughing. “Not content with having me she still wants to know who the
other woman is.” Howard Prescott said nothing. He remained looking at his daughter and Richard.

  “I’ve the right to!” Joyce snapped. “I think we ought to start fair and square, Ricky — with no secrets. In fact, I insist on it. Who is this woman? What difference can it make now if you tell me?”

  “What difference can it make if I do?” he countered. “The thing is over — finished with. Why dig it up again? I know why — because you are still hankering after seeing her yourself and telling her what you think of her. Just for that I shan’t tell you anything — and that’s because I love you, Joyce, believe me.”

  “You’re sure it is that?”

  “Of course it is!” he answered briefly. “Why not? Do you think I’m trying to hide something?”

  “I don’t want to think so, Ricky, but surely you realise that, as a woman, I want to know exactly how we stand — assure myself we shall never be interrupted by this — this shadow. I know so little, Ricky,” she pointed out. “You said she wouldn’t let you go for money, for anything at all apparently…Then you said you had a plan, and now…She’s no longer an obstacle. Tell me what happened. I don’t like mysteries!”

  Richard rose, a hard glitter in his grey eyes. He thrust the ring case back in his pocket.

  “The contrariness of woman!” he breathed amazedly. “I’ve been to all this trouble to smooth the path for us and now you won’t have me because I’m not prepared to explain every little thing! If that’s the way it is, Joyce, maybe we’d better not go any further.”

  “Oh, come now!” Howard Prescott protested. “It isn’t as bad as all that, surely.”

  “I think it is, dad,” the girl objected. “I want a clean breast of everything. Marriage is a serious business.”

  Richard smiled wryly. “And to think you said that if you didn’t get me you’d commit suicide!”

  “She said what?” Dr. Prescott asked blankly; then he laughed heartily. “Good Lord, man, you don’t think she meant it, surely? Oh, my poor boy! How little you know of Joyce as yet! She’s always joking, wangling things, changing her moods…All in good fun, of course.”

  “All in good fun, eh?” Richard repeated sourly; then he looked at the resolute girl. “You actually mean you were only joking when you said that?”

  “Of course I was,” she assented, surprised. “Anyway, it takes courage to commit suicide, and I haven’t got much of that…That’s one reason why I want to be sure of our marriage. I only said it because there seemed to be no other way of bringing you up to scratch in ridding ourselves of this unknown woman. And now you have got rid of her I’m wondering if I did right in prompting you.”

  Richard turned from her abruptly. From the doorway he looked back.

  “I can tell you the answer to that right now, Joyce! You did not do right. I believed you, and deception in a woman is just one thing I can’t stand. Goodbye!” He saw her look of blank amazement, but no more than that. Furious, white-faced, he stalked through the hall and strode out to his car.

  “Ricky…Ricky, listen to me…” Joyce’s fading voice reached him frantically as he drove off — to where he didn’t know, or care.

  Women! He glared through the windscreen in bleak fury. He had made a master plan, taken all those deadly risks, committed two murders, all to be sure of having Joyce Prescott — only to realise now that he had misjudged her character, only to find she was decent woman enough to want to know the facts before entering into the solemnity of marriage, only to find she had never had any intention of taking her own life, anyway!

  “You fool!” Richard breathed to himself. “You Goddamned fool!”

  CHAPTER IX

  Towards noon Richard found himself in London without much conscious realisation of how he came to be there — or why. His temper had cooled now into an icy resentment against all women. He felt he had been made to look a fool, that Joyce, with her deceptions, had driven him into a desperate dilemma. He would not have another thing to do with her! But deep in the back of his mind he knew his emotions towards her might yet undergo revision. He couldn’t overcome the inescapable fact that he really loved her — that everything he had done had been on that account alone…

  He parked his car in the city centre, lunched, and then strolled moodily into the Stag Club, to try and think things out. To his relief there were only two members present, strangers to him, and both of them were absorbed in newspapers and gave him nothing more than courteous nods when he strolled over to an armchair and sank into it. Lighting a cigarette and ordering a drink he sat down and brooded, staring into the fire.

  Should he tell Joyce that the woman had been Valerie Hadfield and say that she had fled? Too risky, and unconvincing. Well, invent some woman who didn’t exist and get round it that way? No — Joyce might quite easily try and seek the woman out, find she did not exist, and then the fat would be in the fire properly.

  “Damn!” Richard swore aloud, and noticed his drink had arrived on the table while he had been preoccupied.

  “Why, is it that bad, Dick?” asked a gruff, leisurely voice.

  He looked up sharply to a short, immensely powerful figure, hands in jacket pockets, hollowed face grinning genially.

  “Well, Chief Inspector Garth!” Richard exclaimed, forcing himself to smile back. “We seem to have a habit of meeting here, Garth. Or are you following me?”

  Mortimer Garth laughed and settled in the armchair opposite.

  “No coincidence about it, Dick,” he said. “When I’m not nosing around after some crook I spend an hour in here most days at dinner-time — more if I can spare it. I like the quiet. Gives me a chance to think.”

  “I agree with you there,” Richard said. “Have a cigarette?”

  “No — the old cheroots for me, thanks.”

  Richard watched in silence as a short cheroot was selected from a leather case by the strong hands, and presently the fragrance began to drift on the warm air. Richard realised that he must tread warily from now on.

  “So, there’s nothing occupying your attention at present, Garth?” he asked at length.

  “Nothing much,” Garth assented. “But I almost forgot! You’re looking for the perfect crime, aren’t you? And some hopes you have of finding it!”

  Valerie Hadfield! Valerie Hadfield! Richard wanted to pop her name out, but he didn’t. Instead he wondered why Scotland Yard didn’t seem to be concerned about her.

  “What were you cussing about when I came in?” Garth asked presently.

  “Oh…just a thought. Having a little girl-friend trouble.”

  “Which of us isn’t?” Garth asked, grinning. “Wouldn’t surprise me if girlfriend trouble wasn’t the cause of that actress running away as she did…What was her name now? Er…Valerie Hadfield. Maybe you saw about her in the paper this morning?”

  Richard could not be sure if he was being tricked into talking or whether this was sheer genuine conversation on Garth’s part.

  “Yes, I read something about it,” he admitted. “Bit queer really, her getting out of her car and then not being seen at all.”

  “Oh, I dunno…Women have done that many a time — and walked out on shows for a purely emotional reason. Not necessarily love: might be other psychological causes.”

  “Then you don’t think she has perhaps met with foul play?”

  Garth shrugged and smiled. “Why should I? Anyway, it’s nothing to do with me. I understand that Divisional-Inspector Whiteside for the Kensington district has been asked to look into the business, chiefly because of the death of the woman’s chauffeur. Did you see about that in the stop-press this morning?”

  “Why, no…” Richard feigned surprise.

  “Queer thing…Almost suggests a tie-up. Missing woman — dead chauffeur…But there I go!” he broke off, grinning. “Judging without evidence! It doesn’t do.”

  Richard remained silent, studying those cruel features, the scowl of concentration as unuttered thoughts went through the brain…Then a waiter glided over
the soft carpet and stopped at Garth’s side with a note on his salver.

  “For you inspector. I was asked to say it is urgent. The message came over the telephone.”

  “Eh?” Garth glanced up. “Oh — thank you.”

  He took the note up and read the message through. A faint grin came to his thin-lipped mouth.

  “Well, well, talk of the devil!” he exclaimed. “Or maybe it should be she-devil. A call from the indefatigable Sergeant Whittaker. Will I come at once. Somebody wishes to see me with regard to…Guess?”

  Garth got to his feet as Richard speculated.

  “Valerie Hadfield,” Garth finished. “So maybe I’m going to get mixed up in it after all — or else I’ll end up telling my visitor to relate his story to the Divisional Inspector and stop bothering me…Feel like coming along with me?”

  “I?” Richard repeated vaguely. “What have I got to do with it?”

  “Nothing, only you’re interested in crime and especially in running down us poor devils at the Yard. Maybe you’d like to see a thing or two. The man’s only got a statement to make: no harm in you hearing it. Come on.”

  Richard rose. The last thing he wanted to do was set foot in Scotland Yard, but to refuse might look a trifle odd.

  Ten minutes later they were climbing the worn flight of stairs leading to Garth’s office overlooking the Embankment.

  When they entered the drab, electric-lighted interior with its broad, paper-littered desk and metal filing cabinets two people glanced up. One was Sergeant Whittaker, Garth’s right hand man, and the other…

  Richard swallowed hard. The other was Timothy Potter, his pinkish round face concerned and his bald head shining in the light.

  Quietly Richard settled in a chair at the further side of the office and Garth put his hat and coat on the stand. Then he advanced with extended hand.

  “Well, sir, good afternoon…You want to see me?”

  “You’re the Chief Inspector, I understand? Criminal Investigation Department?”

  “That’s right. What’s the trouble?”