Except For One Thing

by John Russell Fearn

  “He may have left some tell-tale dust in some of the carpets, though,” Garth answered thoughtfully. “We’ll have them inspected and any residue checked by spectrograph if need be. Depends what else we find…”

  For a while there was only the sound of their footsteps in the quiet road.

  “This letter of Valerie’s to Williams baffles me,” Garth sighed. “Apart from “tete-a-tete” I can’t imagine why a woman so high in society and such an artiste — I’ve seen her, by the way, in that revue at the Paragon Theatre — should be so intimate with a very ordinary Lancashire man as to call him “Ricky”…Yes, “Ricky”,” he repeated slowly, and Richard felt his pulses quicken. “Would you call “Ricky” the short for Rixton, Dick?”

  “I might. “Rixy” would be more appropriate but not as easy to say. I think it’s normal enough.”

  The lighted fronts of the shops loomed up ahead of them. Garth entered the grocery-shop-cum-post office and glanced about him. A man wearing a soiled apron was affixing a ticket beside the postal counter.

  “Evening, gentlemen…” He turned — shrewd, dark, smiling.

  Garth displayed his warrant card and the man’s expression changed.

  “Scotland Yard? Why, what have I done?”

  “Nothing — I trust,” Garth answered dryly. “Don’t excite yourself, Mr. — er — ?”

  “Spalding, Inspector. Douglas Spalding.”

  “Well, Mr. Spalding, I merely want a little help. You’re aware of the business going on at the Williams house, I suppose?”

  “Yes,” Spalding admitted. “But how can I help?”

  “What about the mail for this particular district? From where is it sent out? Here?”

  “Yes. We get it from Twickenham main office and this branch office handles the immediate neighbourhood. As a matter of fact my brother is the postman — ”

  “He is? Good! Family affair, eh? Is he in?”

  Spalding nodded and called to somebody in the house part of the building. A man some years Spalding’s junior came in.

  “I understand you are the postman around here?” Garth asked. “How many times have you delivered letters to Mr. Rixton Williams at number forty-seven, down the road?”

  “Never. If it matters.”

  “This is Chief Inspector Garth of Scotland Yard,” the postman’s brother said quickly, and the younger Spalding’s expression changed at once.

  “Oh! I beg your pardon, sir, I didn’t know…But that’s the truth. I’ve never delivered anything to Williams.”

  “Today is Saturday. How long has he occupied that house? Any idea?”

  “A week, as far as I know. I remember that this time last week the removers were taking the furniture in.”

  “I see. And you have seen Williams himself at times? What does he look like?”

  “Oh, about what you’d call average height, Inspector, limps with the left foot, and always seems to have his cap on. Never been able to place his age properly.”

  Garth nodded. “Thanks very much. You’ve been quite helpful. Good night.”

  Richard followed Garth out into the gloom. He mentally cursed the slip he had made. He had gone out of his way to avoid correspondence and overlooked that the move had defeated its own purpose. It struck him as peculiar that Garth did not even refer to the letter when he presently spoke again.

  “The description of Williams checks up with Potter’s, anyway. Which is a help. Checks, too, with the descriptions obtained by Superintendent Chalfont…But where is the man now? If this is an elopement it’s about the most secretive one I’ve ever encountered. It begins to look as though Williams left that letter on purpose so it could be found. Obviously it didn’t come through the mails. Have to check up and be sure if Valerie Hadfield did write it…”

  So the subject had come round to the letter again, after all. Richard made no comment and in silence they reached the cars. Garth singled out the Superintendent in the gloom.

  “Super, find out from whom the house furniture was bought, and all details about the buyer; also find the name of the agent who sold the house. Get all the facts about Williams that you can — the bank upon which he drew, everything. In detail. Send your report in to me at the Yard.”

  “I will, sir, as soon as possible,” Chalfont promised.

  Garth nodded. “Fingerprint boys and photographers finished yet?”

  “They left five minutes ago,” Sergeant Whittaker said. “No sign of anything upstairs, beyond removers’ finger marks. They’ll send in their stuff in the usual way.”

  “Good!” Garth took a deep breath. “Well, I think my indigestion will permit of a good tea, then we’ll go into a huddle in my office, boys. We may need to work fast in this business before the trail goes stale. Come on…You follow us, Whiteside.”

  Richard took his customary seat in the back of the car next to the Chief Inspector.

  “Any ideas?” Garth asked, as the car got on the move.

  “Not the vaguest, but I might have if you’d let me come to that conference tonight. I’ve nothing else to do…”

  “Come by all means,” Garth smiled. “I’ll stand the whack for our tea and maybe this evening we’ll really learn something!”

  CHAPTER XI

  By seven-fifteen that evening the group in Chief Inspector Garth’s office overlooking the Embankment was complete.

  Garth sat browsing through reports, studying them carefully, rechecking everything.

  At right angles to him Sergeant Whittaker was leafing through his notebook. By the window, Divisional Inspector Whiteside sat by the window, and Richard sat in the deep hide armchair by the door, contemplating Garth as he studied the reports.

  “Not a trace of Valerie Hadfield or Rixton Williams anywhere…” Garth sat back in his swivel chair. “There are reports here from all over the country, collected during the day, but no results.”

  “Maybe the missing pair are in hiding,” Richard suggested.

  “Even to hide, though, you have to get there first,” Garth remarked. “And according to these reports nobody has even had a glimpse of our elusive friends. I’m sure now it isn’t an elopement, but something deeper…Anyway, let’s get down to a few concrete things. Here is Dr. Lewis’ report on the chauffeur, Peter Cranston…” Garth cleared his throat and read: ““Post-mortem report. Deceased was stunned by a blow from a blunt-edged instrument, which fractured the base of the skull at the occipital bone, which of itself did not cause death but loss of consciousness. Death was caused by inhalation of carbon monoxide fumes. The Pathological Department’s Gasometric Test reveals the blood-extract of Peter Cranston as having carbon monoxide content of twenty-five c.c. to one hundred c.c. of blood”…”

  “Then it wasn’t the sand bucket which did it?” Divisional Inspector Whiteside mused. “I’ll take another look round the garage tomorrow. Pretty plain we’re dealing with murder.”

  “Exactly,” Garth assented. “We want everything we can find concerning Cranston, Inspector. If we can trace his killer we also stand a reasonable chance of discovering what happened to Valerie Hadfield — and to Williams. Unless Williams is the man we’re looking for.” Richard was silent, reflecting on the rubber gloves he had been wearing when he had struck down the chauffeur. He had not cleaned the tyre-lever, which had been a mistake. But then there had not been time. It could only prove to be the instrument of death, but would yield no clue as to who had handled it.

  Garth glanced up as the door opened and Dr. Winters of the Home Office came in, a white card in his hand. He laid it on the desk in front of Garth.

  “There you are Garth — precipitin findings on the bloodstains on the car. Group AB human blood, and fairly recent. Not more than fifteen or sixteen hours old, I’d say. It answered readily enough to test.”

  “Thanks,” Garth acknowledged. “Nothing odd about it in any way, I suppose?” Winters shrugged. “Not particularly — except that AB is the rarest of the blood groups, and can only be agglutinated by gro
ups O, A and B. Don’t know if it is a man’s or woman’s, of course. Anyway” — Winters shrugged as he went back to the door — “it’s all yours. I’m going home.’Night.”

  Garth looked at the report and sighed. “Might equally well belong to Valerie Hadfield, Rixton Williams, or an unknown entirely. Only thing in our favour is that it is in a rare group if we ever get the chance to match it…”

  He turned to the mass of papers on his desk and drew forth the three letters that Whiteside had brought. To them was clipped the letter from the house in Twickenham.

  “None of these letters is forged,” Garth said. “The ultra-violet has shown that. Concerning the three letters from Williams to Valerie, there are only her fingerprints on them. The letter found in Twickenham has a “mashed” surface where prints have been erased. Valerie definitely wrote the letter found in Twickenham, but she wrote it some time ago — some other Thursday.”

  “What makes you think that?” Richard asked curiously.

  “The age of the ink. Infra-red tells us this note is over a year old, but the others from Rixton Williams are quite recent. So it seems as though Williams got hold of one of Valerie’s old letters somehow and left it behind in Twickenham, maybe in an endeavour to prove that Valerie came to see him of her own accord. As for the card in the roses — only Valerie’s prints.” Richard sat pondering. Good job he’d held that card edge-wise. But the infrared! The age of the ink! Yet another point he had overlooked.

  “The more I study these letters from Williams to Valerie the more puzzled I get,” Garth muttered, “For a whirlwind courtship it sets an all-time record. First this card — “To that lovely actress Valerie Hadfield from a man who admires her from far off and whose name is Rixton Williams…” The confounded thing sounds like a ritual!”

  Garth tossed it down, picked up the letters and brooded.

  “Last Saturday — a week ago today — he sent his first letter and called her “Dear Lady”, signing himself “Rixton Williams”,” Garth went on. “On the following Tuesday he called her “Dearest Valerie” and remarked on what a wonderful time they had had on the previous night. Signed himself ”Rixton”. Notice the slight improvement in relations? Then on his Wednesday letter — we’re in this week now, don’t forget, he arrived at “Dearest Val” and signed himself ”Rix”. “Rix”! Mark that! Not “Ricky,” which is what she called him in that Twickenham letter…Incidentally, Whiteside, did the maid verify that her mistress was out on the Monday night of this week?”

  “No,” the Divisional Inspector answered. “It seems that the maid goes off to her own rooms after leaving some theatre stuff at the flat. Nothing to prevent Valerie doing just what she liked once the maid had gone. Blind alley lead there, I’m afraid.”

  “And the maid has never seen this man Williams?”

  “No. Only the doorman seems to have done that, and his description is identical with the one we’ve got.”

  “Mmmm…But I wish I could understand this relationship between Valerie and Williams. He’s only a recent arrival, I’m sure of it. In other words, since infra-red cannot lie as to the age of ink, Valerie knew somebody called “Ricky” over a year ago!”

  Garth put the letters down and scratched impatiently among the papers, finally yanking yet another report into view.

  “Calligraphy department,” he said. “According to the experts, the letters Williams wrote were written with the right hand bent at an angle, or else the person had writers’ cramp or some form of paralysis.”

  “Unless,” Sergeant Whittaker said slowly, thinking, “somebody with a hand familiar to Valerie wanted to disguise the style?”

  “Possible,” Garth acknowledged, and fell to reflection.

  Richard became aware of the Chief Inspector’s cold, deadly eyes fixed on him — not in suspicion; merely absent-minded interest as he weighed up Sergeant Whittaker’s suggestion. Twice now Whittaker had revealed a disturbing sagacity.

  “I don’t think that angle has much to it,” Whiteside commented. “I gave that maid a thorough cross-examining and one fact emerged quite clearly — namely, that this Hadfield woman had no men friends whatever. Outside of this Williams chap, that is, and it seems she positively gloated over his letters when they turned up. As for the chauffeur, his mother told me that he never revealed any of his mistress’ activities. Conscientious, of course, but infernally awkward for us.”

  Richard smiled faintly and his thoughts strayed back to the earlier part of Whiteside’s statement. Of course Valerie had gloated. She had admitted it herself — that she had been proud of the fact that there was another man interested in her. What had she said now? Hadn’t it been — “…you are not so unique as you think! There’s great power in black and white, Ricky…” Something like that…

  “Ricky!” The name stilled Richard into grim reflection again. That name must never have been seen or heard within the Chief Inspector’s sight or hearing or the fat would land in the fire with a vengeance. Garth was already suspicious of it: he had revealed that much…

  “Well, Inspector,” Richard said presently, “from the expression on your face you actually look as though you’re up against a brick wall.”

  “I admit it. I can’t even decide what the motive is. For the time being I think we have done all we can,” he added, glancing at Whiteside. “A lot will depend on what you find out in the garage tomorrow, and also upon what Superintendent Chalfont discovers on Monday about the furniture and purchase of the house. Tracing backwards, we’ll probably get to know a good deal about Mr. Williams, and then…”

  Garth rose from his chair and shrugged. “Time we were getting home. It’s past eight o’clock now and I’ve a crossword puzzle I want to finish. Let’s be moving.”

  “Can I give you a lift?” Richard asked, rising.

  “Be glad of it. Thanks.”

  When Richard arrived home towards nine he received something of a surprise as old Baxter met him in the hall.

  “A Mr. and Miss Prescott are here, sir — ”

  “They are! When did they arrive?”

  “About an hour ago, Mr. Richard, sir. I said I had no idea when you would be home, but they insisted on waiting. They are in the library.”

  “Thanks, Baxter. Bring in some sherry, will you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Richard, sir.”

  Richard hurried across the hall and pushed the library door open quickly. Joyce Prescott was seated before the fire, deep in an armchair, and her father in another armchair with a book in his hands.

  “Ricky!” The girl got to her feet immediately, the light paling her face and setting the copper glinting in her hair. “Ricky, I just had to come…to say I’m sorry…for this morning.”

  Richard hesitated and then smiled faintly. He turned and shook Dr. Prescott’s hand as he rose from the chair and gave a slow, knowing smile.

  “Remember, Richard, I said it couldn’t be as bad as all that,” he murmured.

  “I’d forgotten all about it, sir,” Richard said, shrugging.

  “I don’t think so, Ricky; you’re simply trying to be nice about it.” Joyce gripped his arm tightly. “You were hurt — and rightly! Dad here made me see that. I’ve been thinking about it ever since you rushed off in a huff this morning and I made up my mind to square things before the day ended. So I…That is, we…came over.”

  Richard stood looking at her for a moment, then he turned as Baxter came in with the sherry.

  “Just put it down, Baxter,” Richard said. “I’ll attend to it.”

  “Sherry?” Richard questioned, and the girl and her father both nodded.

  Richard gave Joyce a glass. “Then the unknown woman doesn’t matter anymore?” he asked, then turned to hand Dr. Prescott’s glass to him.

  “I wouldn’t quite say that…” Joyce turned back to the armchair and perched on its arm, one graceful leg swinging. “I’d still like to know who she is, but it occurred to me afterwards that you’ll tell me in your own time — or so dad says. And
he knows!”

  “I am merely a student of human nature,” Dr. Prescott said benevolently, setting down his glass. “And I don’t like to see two young people heading for the rocks. You will tell Joyce, one day?”

  Richard met the dark eyes behind the glasses and nodded slowly.

  “Yes, of course I will…” And for a moment Richard found himself dwelling on the twist of circumstances that had placed him beside Chief Inspector Garth all day. It had been Joyce herself who had done it. But for her making him dash off like that…

  “You don’t seem very pleased even now,” Joyce said irritably, pursing her lips. “What’s wrong, Ricky? Something bothering you?”

  “Why, no!” He drained his glass and set it down. “I’ve been thinking, though. I’d rather you didn’t call me “Ricky” any more.”

  “And why not?” she demanded in surprise. “Haven’t I always called you that? Didn’t you ask me to?”

  “Yes, but…Well, she called me that, too. I don’t want any reminders, that’s all.”

  Joyce drank her sherry and reflected. “She’s gone away, then?”

  “Gone away?”

  “You said “called” me that. Isn’t she here anymore — or what?”

  Richard tightened his lips, aware that he had made the same slip as he had made before the chauffeur. His damnable misuse of grammar: his seeming inability to realise that Valerie was alive until proven dead…

  “To me,” he said with effort, “she’s in the past tense. Finished! Done with! Like the nickname she used for me and which I don’t ever want to hear again.”

  Joyce smiled coolly. “All right then, I’ll remember and call you “Dick”.” She put her glass down and then added: “But old habits die hard, you know. If I forget now and again you’ll have to forgive me.”

  “Just don’t forget,” he suggested, with unintentional hardness.

  Joyce got up and moved over to him, still smiling. Richard relaxed a little and his big mouth smiled back at her as he put an arm about her shoulders.

  “That’s better,” murmured Dr. Prescott. “Much better.”