Mr. Zero

by Patricia Wentworth

  “You must tell him,” said Gay. “Now, Sylly-think! What happened to the letters?”

  “I don’t know, darling.”

  “Just think. Did you give them to Mr. Zero? You say he told you to, but did you do it? Did you?”

  “I don’t know, darling-at least-”

  “Good girl-go on.”

  Sylvia looked puzzled.

  “If I’d given them to him I wouldn’t remember crunching them up in my hand when they were fighting, would I?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Is that what you remember?”

  Sylvia’s voice had a groping sound.

  “Well, I did think so-just now-when you asked me-but I don’t know really-I just had the sort of feeling of the corners running into my hand-” She gazed at her open palms as if she expected to find the mark of the stolen letter there.

  “But Sylly-”

  The telephone bell rang from the table beside the big four-post bed. Sylvia got up as if she were glad of the interruption. She put the receiver to her ear, and heard a voice which set her heart knocking against her side.

  “You know who is speaking, Lady Colesborough.”

  Sylvia said, “Do I?” And then panic took her, and she added in a choking hurry, “Yes, yes, yes-of course I do. What do you want?”

  The voice said, “I want those letters. Where are they?”

  “I don’t know. Everyone asks me that, and I don’t know.”

  “The police haven’t got them?” Mr. Zero’s voice was smooth, but there was a sound in it as if the smoothness might break-quite suddenly, at any moment.

  Sylvia said, “Oh, no. Oh, I’m sure they haven’t, because they keep asking me-everyone does.”

  “And what do you say?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sylvia. “I mean, that’s what I say, but I don’t know.”

  “Keep right on saying it,” said Mr. Zero, and rang off.

  Sylvia, turning round with an expression of relief, was met by a demanding look from Gay and a quick “What was that?” The relief faded.

  “He wanted to know about the letters too. I told him I didn’t know.”

  “Sylly, who was it? Who were you speaking to? Who asked you about the letters?”

  “It was Mr. Zero,” said Sylvia. Her voice began confidently and then shook. It shook most on the name.

  “Mr. Zero!”

  Sylvia caught her breath in something like a sob.

  “He oughtn’t to, ought he? Not if he shot Francis. I don’t think he ought to ring me up like that.”

  Gay had a startled look.

  “You ought to tell them at once. They ought to find out where the call came from.”

  But Sylvia shook her head.

  “Oh, no,” she said.

  “Sylly!”

  “He wouldn’t like it at all,” said Sylvia with conviction.

  Gay looked, opened her mouth to speak, shut it again, and ran out of the room. What was the good of speaking to Sylvia?

  She ran all the way downstairs and into the study. The three men who were there all turned to look at her. Inspector Boyce admired the scarlet in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes. Mr. Brook wondered what had brought her there in such a flying hurry. Colonel Anstruther was confirmed in his convictions that girls had no manners nowadays.

  Gay stood with the open door in her hand and said, with the words tripping over each other,

  “He’s just called her up! He’s been talking to her-on the telephone-Mr. Zero! So it couldn’t be Algy-you must see that it couldn’t be Algy if he’s just been talking to Sylvia on the telephone!”

  Colonel Anstruther said, “Bless my soul!” and Mr.

  Brook said, “Won’t you please come in and shut the door, Miss Hardwicke, and sit down and tell us what you mean?”

  She came in, and the door fell to with a bang.

  “You must see that it can’t be Algy now!”

  Mr. Brook said, “Why?” and looked at her.

  She stamped an angry foot.

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? Or are you all too stupid to take it in? I tell you Mr. Zero rang up-just now, just this minute, while I was up in Sylvia’s room. He wanted to know about the letters. So how could he be Algy? Algy couldn’t be telephoning to Sylvia-you must see that. Algy’s in the house.”

  Colonel Anstruther said “Tcha!” and would have gone on to say something else, but Mr. Brook was before him.

  “Mr. Somers went out in his car about twenty minutes ago,” he said.

  XXVII

  When Algy left Gay in the drawing-room he went straight down to the stables and got out the Bentley, which had been consigned to a coach-house. He wondered whether anyone would stop him. Hardly, at this juncture-unless they were prepared to arrest him then and there. No, he fancied that they wouldn’t do that-not till the safe had been opened at any rate. His own feeling was that if he stayed in the house another minute he would find himself telling Gay just what he thought of her, or old Anstruther just what he thought of him, and he didn’t want to do either. He wanted to get on a straight road and let the Bentley out.

  He emerged upon the lane, turned right-handed, and was aware of a plodding figure head, a figure in a dark blue suit and a bowler hat, not at all the figure of a man who walks for pleasure in the muddy lane. Algy recognized Sturrock the butler, wondered where he was off to, and then remembered that this was Sunday afternoon. It was probably Sturrock’s afternoon out, and the fact that his master had been shot last night was not, apparently, to interfere with his taking it. On an impulse Algy slowed down as he passed, opened the door on the butler’s side, and said,

  “Like a lift, Sturrock?”

  The man stood still. He had an egg-shaped face, pale and smoothly shaved. His manner was respectful as he said,

  “I should be very much obliged, if it wouldn’t be troubling you, sir.”

  His voice suggested that he served a house in mourning-a rich voice, with a kind of funeral hush upon it. Algy didn’t like it very much-or him. He was shortly, “No trouble at all-jump in,” and shut his own door again.

  At any time in the past fifteen years it would have been impossible for Sturrock to jump. He climbed in at the back and closed the door noiselessly behind him. A man of weight, a man of dignity, a man who certainly would not walk for choice. Algy wondered where he was bound for, and said without turning round,

  “Well, where can I drop you? Colebrook?”

  “If you are not going any farther, sir.”

  “Railing any good to you?”

  “I shall be very grateful, sir. I was afraid I might have missed the bus, but I shall get one back all right. It’s my half day, and there seemed no reason why I should stay in. I mentioned it to the Inspector.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t,” said Algy.

  Sturrock pursued the subject in an earnest, painstaking manner.

  “The Inspector said it would be quite all right, sir. But I shall not be taking the full time. There is a bus at half past four-I thought of catching that. I shall be in the house again before five o’clock. I told the Inspector that such was my intention. I told him I shouldn’t feel comfortable about being out of the house for long-not in the circumstances. William has only been there a short time, and, as I said to the Inspector, if there was to be any emergency it would be beyond him, especially after last night.”

  Algy was profoundly bored with Sturrock’s scruples. Railing was, mercifully, only four miles away. He dropped the butler in the market-place, and as he drove out of the square on the farther side, his driving mirror showed him a blue suit and bowler hat disappearing within the doors of the Hand and Flower. If the walls had been transparent, he would presently have seen them esconced within a telephone booth, the bowler hat a thought pushed back, the eyes beneath its brim intent, watchful, and aware.

  Algy Somers got back to Cole Lester at half past four. Mr. Patterson, Sir Francis Colesborough’s solicitor, had arrived, and the business of opening the safe w
as going forward in the study behind closed doors. It fell therefore to Algy to receive Mr. Montagu Lushington when he arrived at about a quarter to five. He had Mr. Brewster with him, and explained that they were on their way back to town-“And I must say, Algy, that you have a singular knack of getting into the limelight. Why you must needs get yourself mixed up in a murder case at this juncture! Heaven knows there’s enough talk already. I’ll see Brook, but things will just have to take their course. Maud is staying on with her sister for a day or two, so I’m taking Brewster back with me. I hope Lady Colesborough won’t think we’re intruding. I suppose she is keeping to her room.”

  Algy very nearly said, “Lady Colesborough doesn’t think,” but pulled himself up in time. It seemed rather difficult to find the right thing to say. If Brewster hadn’t been there, he could have talked freely to Monty, but there was Brewster, a little embarrassed, a little shocked, and obviously just a little thrilled at finding himself in the midst of a case which would be front page news in every paper in the country tomorrow, and actually shaking hands with the principal suspect.

  Algy said he didn’t think Sylvia would come down. He supposed that someone would bring them some tea. They were in the drawing-room, and to the drawing-room upon the stroke of five tea was borne processionally by Sturrock and two attendant footmen. Algy thought the butler had cut his afternoon uncommon short. He ventured a “Got your bus all right, Sturrock,” and received a glance of dignified rebuke and a quiet “Yes, thank you, sir.”

  Neither Gay nor Sylvia appeared, but presently Colonel Anstruther and Mr. Patterson came in, from which Algy deduced that the business of clearing the safe had been despatched. If he expected any information he was disappointed. Colonel Anstruther drank several cups of tea all scalding hot, and half emptied the sugar-basin without perceptibly sweetening his temper. He also partook of buttered toast, scone, and three slices of chocolate cake. These exertions left no room for conversation. He ate, he drank, he appeared to be on the point of saying “Tcha!” several times, and he regarded Mr. Brewster’s painstaking endeavours to make conversation with warm dislike. Mr. Patterson, who only drank hot water and refused food rather as if he suspected it of being poisoned, was quite as uncommunicative. Algy thought he had never seen an elderly gentleman in a worse temper.

  Monty discoursed upon migratory birds, a perfectly safe subject in which no one took any interest except Cyril Brewster, who, like a dutiful acolyte, supplied at intervals such responses as “How wonderful!” and “Marvellous indeed!” Not one of those meals which lend gaiety to social life.

  There was a moment when Mr. Patterson broke his ferocious silence to observe that the country was an unendurable place in winter and it passed his comprehension how any civilized man could endure it. “Barbarous-completely barbarous,” he said, and reverted to sipping hot water.

  There was a moment when Mr. Brewster, in a desire to make harmless conversation, addressed himself with an air of diffidence to the company at large.

  “It’s a pity that the evenings are still so dark. If it had been lighter, I should have been so much interested in seeing the grounds. There is a famous yew hedge, is there not?”

  Colonel Anstruther brought out a most undoubted “Tcha!” Fellow was a secretary, wasn’t he? In his young days secretaries spoke when they were spoken to.

  Algy gazed almost reverentially at the unconscious Cyril.

  “There is certainly a yew hedge,” he murmured. “Oh, my only aunt!”

  “You mean?” Mr. Brewster raised anxious eyebrows.

  “Oh lord, yes, man! That’s where Colesborough was shot!”

  “Indeed-I had no idea.” The embarrassed tone faded out.

  Montagu Lushington went on talking about birds.

  It was over at last. Colonel Anstruther and Mr. Patterson withdrew, presumably to the study. Mr. Lushington expressed a wish to see Mr. Brook, who presently appeared. Algy Somers and Cyril Brewster left the room.

  XXVIII

  The door of the butler’s pantry opened and Mr. Zero came in. He shut the door behind him and said in an easy, affable voice,

  “Well, Sturrock, have you got them?”

  Sturrock had turned round at the first sound, but he showed no surprise. He was expecting Mr. Zero, and expecting to make a very good thing out of him. There would be some haggling and chaffering, but he wasn’t going to come down in his price. He had the letters, and that was all the same as having Mr. Zero’s neck in a noose. What a bit of luck-what a really remarkable bit of luck his being first down to the yew walk. They had all come streaming away without so much as a thought for the letters and left him to find them where they had dropped, right down beside the hedge, under the window. Well, he’d got them cheap and he meant to sell them dear, and he didn’t mean to run any risks neither. No meetings in dark gardens for him, not if he knew it. If Mr. Zero wanted to talk, he could do it here where he wouldn’t be tempted to try any more of his fancy stuff. All this took no time. It was in his mind, a settled policy, all thought out and clear. He didn’t have to think about it. So when Mr. Zero said, “Have you got them?” he had his answer ready.

  “I’ve got them all right, if you’ve got the money, sir.”

  “Fair exchange,” said Mr. Zero. Then he looked across at the other door. “How private are we? What’s through there?”

  Sturrock glanced over his shoulder.

  “Private enough,” he said. “No one comes eavesdropping on me. There’s a passage between this and the servants’ hall, and they’ve got the wireless on there-military band programme. We’re private enough. Have you got the money?”

  “I have got it,” said Mr. Zero. He put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. “Lucky I had them by me-for emergencies. You never know, do you? Quick, man-show me the letters!”

  Sturrock’s eyes were on the notes. Money for jam, that’s what it was-big money, and not the last of it neither, because as long as he knew what he knew he could cut and come again. As long as he knew… He dived into an inside pocket and brought out a knotted green silk handkerchief checked with brown. It had been untied, and tied again, since Sylvia Colesborough had fastened the stolen letters in it, and the knots were loose and slipping. Sturrock pulled out the letters-there were no more than three of them-and pushed the handkerchief back into his pocket. He’d burn it presently. It would be better burned. It was the letters that were worth their weight in gold-and more.

  Mr. Zero threw the bundle of notes down upon the News of the World which lay spread out on the pantry table.

  “Count them while I have a look at the letters,” he said. He stretched out his left hand for them.

  The butler hesitated, leaned forward, reached for the notes, and saw Mr. Zero’s right hand go down into his pocket again-a gloved right hand.

  But it hadn’t been gloved just now-

  Mr. Zero smiled, took a long step forward, and shot him dead.

  There was very little noise. The pistol had been fitted with a silencer. This Mr. Zero removed.

  Sturrock had fallen across the table, but the heavy body would probably slide down on to the floor. With his gloved hand Mr. Zero clasped the limp right hand about the pistol butt. He put the letters and the notes into his pocket. Then he left the room.

  William gave the alarm ten minutes later, rushing white-faced into the study.

  “Mr. Sturrock-oh, sir, he’s shot himself! Oh, sir!” And then an incoherent story of how he had tried the door of the butler’s pantry, the one on the kitchen side, and found it locked-“And when I couldn’t get an answer I went round by the other door-and he’s shot himself! Oh, sir, whatever made him do it!”

  Inspector Boyce went quickly out of the room. The. study faced the terrace, with the dining-room behind it, and the butler’s pantry behind that. As he ran through the hall, he saw Algy Somers on his way downstairs. He ran on.

  The door through which William had entered the pantry opened from the dining-room. It stood wide open no
w, and Inspector Boyce could see the heavy figure of the butler fallen in a heap beside the table. That he was dead was past all question. That it was suicide seemed likely enough. And if it was suicide, then perhaps they need not look any farther for the murderer of Sir Francis Colesborough.

  The Inspector tried the second door, and found it locked. Then he went over to the telephone and rang up the police station.

  XXIX

  Not suicide?” said Colonel Anstruther.

  “Well, I shouldn’t say so. It’s not impossible, you know.” Dr. Hammond’s voice was brisk. “I’m not going to say it’s impossible, but he was shot through the left temple, and he wasn’t a left-handed man. Work it out for yourselves. I don’t say it’s impossible that a man who’s going to commit suicide should take the pistol in his left hand and shoot himself through his left temple, but I don’t believe it’s ever happened. I mean, why should he? The thing’s absurd. Besides-”

  “There’s this, sir,” said Inspector Boyce. He leaned across the writing-table at which Colonel Anstruther was sitting and laid upon the blotting-pad a green silk handkerchief checked with brown.

  “Bless my soul-what’s that?”

  “Handkerchief the missing letters were tied up in, sir. Lady Colesborough has identified it. You can see where the edge of the letters has marked it, and where the corners have been knotted.”

  “Well?” said Colonel Anstruther, staring.

  “Where are the, letters, sir? That’s the point.”

  “He burnt ’em. How’s that, Brook?”

  Mr. Brook shook his head.

  “There was only a very small fire, sir,” said the Inspector-“pretty well dead. Sturrock had been out for the afternoon, you know. If he’d tried to burn the letters, there’d have been some ash about. There wasn’t any. And if he was Mr. Zero and he’d got back letters incriminating him by murdering Sir Francis, he’d have destroyed them right away, and destroyed the handkerchief too.”