Mr Löwenstjierna (the missing Director) making a speech at a recent dinner given by the North European Chamber of Commerce. Inset: Mr Löwenstjierna’s pretty secretary, Maud Johnson, who gave sensational evidence at yesterday’s hearing of the case.
Mr Löwenstjierna, ‘the missing Director’, had been photographed by flashlight, and the result was not too good. He was tall, slim, good-looking and probably a little over thirty. His evening clothes were admirably cut. His long forehead was well covered with dark hair. The nose was well formed and aquiline, the cheeks were slightly indrawn and cadaverous and the lips thin and ascetic. The chin was covered by a small pointed beard which gave the whole face the look of an artist rather than a business man. The ‘inset’ Maud Johnson was a very pretty young woman of about twenty-three or -four.
The two remaining pictures were both of the Vice-Chairman and did not interest me. I studied Mr Löwenstjierna’s photograph for a while, and then moved to the little writing-desk, where I wrote the following note:
Dear Harley,
I wonder if you would have the great kindness to write down your mother’s Christian name and her surname before she married, and send them to me by the bearer of this letter. (I enclose a spare envelope and piece of paper in case you haven’t writing materials at hand.)
You must try to forgive my strange request. I really have a most urgent reason for wanting the information, and I assure you that my inquiry is anything but impertinent. I shall be grateful, too, if you will, for the time being, tell no one the contents of this letter.
When one feels real sympathy, it is almost impossible to convey it by word of mouth. May I therefore now tell you how very sorry I have been for you, and how glad I should be if I could do anything to help you?
Yours very sincerely,
MALCOLM WARREN
After sealing up the letter in an envelope, which I addressed:
H. Harley, Esq.,
Beresford Lodge
I rang the bell. It was answered, somewhat to my relief, not by the astute Edwins but by a housemaid.
‘Do you know,’ I asked, ‘if Mr Harley is in?’
‘I’m not quite sure, sir,’ she said, ‘but I dare say he’s in his room.’
‘Well, if you can find him I should be most grateful if you’d give him this note. If there’s an answer, perhaps you’ll bring it back to me here. And if you can’t find Mr Harley, perhaps you’ll bring my note back, will you? Then I shall be able to send it to him later, if I want to.’
She was a little surprised, I think, but took the letter without question and went out. When she had gone, I turned to the photograph of Mr Löwenstjierna once more, and wrote the following observations on a sheet of notepaper:
QUISBERG LÖWENSTJIERNA
Long sloping forehead. Bald. Long sloping forehead, partly covered with luxuriant hair.
Eyes wide apart. Eyes wide apart.
Nose, bent and snub. Nose, shapely and aquiline.
Cheeks, bulging and somehow crinkled. Cheeks, spare and in-drawn.
Lips, thin. Lips, thin.
Chin, pointed. Chin, covered by beard.
My two difficulties were the nose and the cheeks. Was it possible, I wondered, for age to alter their contours so completely? Noses, of course, are sometimes broken and reset. Then, suddenly, I remembered a phrase used by Dr Green when he was talking to me in my bedroom. ‘There’s nothing,’ he had said, ‘I wouldn’t do for Axel. I once even mended a broken nose.’ Excellent! Had the breakage been quite accidental, though? And was it necessary, in resetting the nose, to make such a change in its shape? Dr Green, I felt sure, was not a clumsy operator. As for the cheeks – but at that moment the housemaid brought me the answer to my note.
Dear Mr Warren,
My mother’s name before she married was Maud Johnson. Thank you very much indeed for your kind sympathy.
Yours sincerely,
ERNEST HARLEY
I sighed with relief and pride. Indeed, my vision had led me to the truth, and my excitement now was the excitement not so much of discovery (which I had really made with instantaneous clairvoyance on the terrace that morning), but of a successful verification. What, then, was I to do with these new facts? How work them into the pattern? Mrs Harley had been Mr Quisberg’s secretary. Mr Quisberg had, to say the least, left England under a cloud at the time of the Cabal crash. (Had not a quarter of a million pounds vanished with him?) Twenty years later he returned not only older but physically changed, a rich man, a model husband, a conscientious stepfather to his new wife’s children. How was he to know when he engaged Harley that he was engaging Maud Johnson’s son? It was a cruel coincidence, and more cruel still that he should ever have been brought face to face with Maud Johnson herself. If only the Quisbergs had not been so kind to their dependents, or if Mrs Harley had not elected to come to London just at the time when her son could not be given a holiday to look after her – if the Harrington Cobalt crisis had occurred a week earlier or a week later – in short, if nothing unforeseen had happened, he would never have been unmasked. But unmasked he clearly was. Mrs Harley recognised him at first sight, he recognised her, and they both knew it. The same night, while Quisberg was staying at the Carlton, Mrs Harley was murdered.
Again, I asked myself, as in my list of ‘clues’, what of this alibi? How could I possibly test it? I might, to be sure, have a long talk with Harley and try to get his account of Quisberg’s movements on Christmas Eve. But any information he could give me was bound to be inconclusive by itself. I might even ask the Inspector’s leave and go to the Carlton and, as in detective stories, by judicious largess of ten-shilling notes, try to collect evidence from waiters, valets, porters, chambermaids and liftboys. But this task I really felt to be beyond me, apart from the distastefulness of it. Suppose, for the moment, that Quisberg had no alibi. Then I must assume that he visited Beresford Lodge, silently and unobserved, during the small hours, murdered Mrs Harley, threw her body out of the window and crept away back to the Carlton so as to be ready for the early morning conference with G——. Such an escapade would have been both difficult and dangerous; for there was always the risk that our Christmas Eve tomfoolery might have continued till any hour. Indeed, Amabel, Dixon and their friends, the Drews, were in such high spirits that we probably should have been up most of the night if I had not interrupted the party by straining my wrist.
Another point. What, if anything, did Dr Green know of Mrs Harley? How far was he in the secret? Was he even an accomplice? But people do not murder their accomplices – unless, perhaps, there is a threat of blackmail. I was rather startled by this thought, which seemed to give me a new line on which to work. Suppose Dr Green knew too much, and it was essential to get rid of him? Had Quisberg a perfect alibi at the time when Dr Green was murdered? So far as I knew, he was in bed, a sick man. But what if the sickness was mental rather than bodily? Had not the shrewd Edwins hinted to me that his master’s illness was ‘worry and nerves’? If this were so, there was no reason why Quisberg should not have been able to slip out and commit his second crime.
Then I remembered the spade and the trench already dug to contain the body. There must have been a previous ‘slipping out’ to make these preparations. Could Quisberg twice have eluded all those, including his wife, who were devoting themselves to his illness? It would have been difficult, I thought, though I could not say it was impossible. And what of Dixon’s stick, which was found by the body? Was it a fact that the blow which caused Dr Green’s death was actually made by the stick? Was Dixon’s story more or less true, and did the doctor really borrow his stick when taking a last walk over the Heath? If so, Dixon was merely the victim of a coincidence, and the murderer had provided himself with another weapon; for he could not have known that the stick would be available.
Then I had an idea, of which at the time I was quite proud. Suppose the injury to Dr Green’s head had been caused by the spade – not the metal part, but the wooden handle? No doubt, medi
cal evidence on this point would be forthcoming, but the theory had the merit of making it possible for the murderer to have set out without carrying either a duplicate stick or any other weapon. It implied, of course, a pre-arranged rendezvous – but so, in any case, did the digging of the trench. What pretext was used to entice the doctor to the chosen spot, I could not guess, unless perhaps the nurse were used as a decoy. This showed the laughing lady in a very sinister light, though she need not, necessarily, have been cognisant of the whole plot. ‘I want you,’ the murderer might have said, ‘to have Dr Green at such a place at such a time. This thousand-pound note will make it worth your while.’ No wonder the poor woman had fainted when she heard that her charms had led to such a fatal result.
As I proceeded with my theory, I kept remembering small disconnected sayings and events with which to give it confirmation. Yet, even then, I knew I was ignoring other memories which were in apparent conflict with it. Why, for example, had Quisberg fainted when he and Harley returned from the Carlton on Christmas morning? If he was the murderer of Mrs Harley, he should certainly have assumed a look of consternation, but there was no need for him to faint. Of course, it might have been a faint induced by several hours of acute nervous strain, or by relief at finding that his crime was generally accepted as an accident. But this explanation did not altogether satisfy me. Indeed, as the reader may have gathered, all the time I was working on the supposition that Quisberg was guilty, I was distracted by another problem – a problem of ethics rather than detection. Now that I was sure that Quisberg was Löwenstjierna and that Mrs Harley had been Maud Johnson of the Cabal case, what was I to do? Ought I to go at once to the Inspector, or ought I to say nothing? There was a third course open to me also. I could demand an interview with Quisberg and threaten that, unless he cleared himself to my satisfaction, I should have to tell the police what I knew. This course appealed to my romantic instincts as being the most heroic, but at the same time I viewed it with apprehension. Suppose Quisberg were the murderer. He had already got rid of Dr Green who was too dangerously in the know. How would he deal with me? It would not be pleasant to sit facing him and wonder every minute whether he was going to whip out a knife or a revolver. True, my death in such circumstances would very probably lead to his conviction, but there was no knowing what he might do, if pressed too far.
I sat for about half an hour by the window, watching the daylight yield to the early darkness and trying to make up my mind. If I had been certain that Quisberg had killed either Mrs Harley or Dr Green, I should not have hesitated, but without this certainty I felt strongly that I had no right to make free with his past life – however full it was of financial knavery – and bring him and Mrs Quisberg to ruin. Even my wish to be fair to the Inspector was outweighed by these qualms. So great, indeed, was my perplexity that I began to regret my clairvoyant access of memory and the responsibility which my zeal had thrust upon me. It had been very pleasant to probe the minor secrets, to learn that Amabel was in the habit of letting off fireworks with Dixon, and that Clarence had addressed a sonnet to Nurse Moon, but it was not a little harassing to make a big discovery.
Try as I would, I could only find one line of action which was not repugnant to me. I must see Quisberg and tell him openly that I knew his secret and how strong a motive he had for wishing to murder Mrs Harley. If he cleared himself, I would suspend sentence. If he did not – but just as I was making these somewhat presumptuous decisions, there was a knock at the door, and I had barely time to hide my photographs before the Inspector came in.
*
‘I’ve taken a great liberty,’ he said. ‘I’m dying for some tea, and I’ve asked them to serve it in here – for two. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ I answered. ‘I’m delighted.’
‘You see,’ he went on, ‘I think we really have a good deal to talk about. I’ve taken you very much into my confidence, and I’m sure that by now you have a lot to tell me in return. Haven’t you?’
I blushed.
‘I’m trying to develop my ideas,’ I said. ‘You must give me time.’
‘Oh, I’ve no doubt,’ he answered with disconcerting acumen, ‘that you intend to find the murderer yourself first, and then give me his name, or her name, if you think I ought to know. I don’t blame you. But I may perhaps warn you that I already know one or two things which you may think I don’t. You yourself have given me some useful help. Won’t you give me some more? Hello – here’s tea.’
We made conversation till Edwins, who had brought up our tea, was safely out of the room. Then the Inspector turned to me and said, with a smile:
‘So as to pile up your indebtedness to me still further, I’m going very shortly to give you the chance of seeing an interesting experiment. Don’t ask me now what it is. I think it’ll surprise you. It may even be slightly dangerous – but not really to you, or I shouldn’t let you come.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘I hope you think it is. Now won’t you help me in return?’
‘You mean, you want to know why I telephoned to Fleet Street this morning?’
‘No, not yet. I can see that you’re all agog with some discovery or other, and positively refuse to confide it to me. I won’t press you then for the time being. What I want you to do, is to give me some of the details – isolated details, if you like – which you’ve been going over in your mind and have either fitted in, or been unable to fit in, to your theory. Not the theory itself, mind you. Won’t you help me like this? You won’t be able to reproach yourself afterwards, even if I arrest – Amabel . . . No? That prospect doesn’t seem to harass you very much. Shall I say Mrs Quisberg?’
I hesitated for a minute. Though I was still resolved to tell him nothing about Quisberg’s alias, I felt it really might be my duty to give him some of the subsidiary facts which had come to my notice. Perhaps the man had hypnotised me a little. At all events, I pulled out of my pocket the list of headings I had made while waiting for the messenger from Fleet Street.
‘If you like,’ I said, ‘I’ll read you some of the memoranda I have prepared for myself. They’re incomplete, of course – and probably irrelevant—’
‘Never mind about that. Can I see the paper?’
‘I’m afraid not, because it contains a reference to what I still—’
‘Want to hide from me, you mean,’ he said with a smile. ‘Well, I shall be most grateful for any crumb that falls from your table. And I’m not at all sure that a crumb won’t be more useful to me than a whole loaf of bread.’
I then read to the Inspector the first thirteen points on my list, suppressing the last three, because they tended to draw too much attention to Quisberg. The Inspector listened to me with a concentration which was both flattering and alarming, and asked me many a quick question, the import of which I could not always follow.
‘I really am pleased with myself,’ he said when I had finished. ‘It shows what an excellent judge of character I must be. I thought you were a person of great intuition and perception, and find myself admirably justified. The way you’ve put your finger on many of the key-spots, without any technical practice or assistance, is quite amazing. And what a keen sense of hearing! Well, I must go and make myself very busy now – arranging the party I promised you. Will you meet me in the hall in half an hour – that is to say, at twenty to six, wearing your hat and coat – and umbrella, if you like?’
‘I shall be most delighted. But what are we going to do?’
‘That you will learn very soon. Now be good and don’t go downstairs till you come to meet me in the hall.’
‘One question, Inspector. I can’t keep it back. Have you really solved the mystery?’
‘In a sense, yes. That is to say, I am sure I understand its broad outlines. I realise all the principal motives, the characters on which those motives acted, and the main opportunities presented to those characters for criminal behaviour. I am still in the dark as to some of the mechanism –
perhaps, indeed, some of these details will never be fully known – and I still have some tests to make in the hope of strengthening the weaker links in my chain of evidence. But, taken as a whole, the case is over.’
‘Will the result, when I come to learn it, be a great shock to me?’
‘That depends on what you are really thinking – and how shockable you are!’
He smiled again, with his sweet, rather shop-walkerish smile, and went out before I had time to reply.
XVIII. House-hunting
Sunday – 5.40 p.m.
‘Come outside,’ said the Inspector, ‘and I will introduce you to Mr Edwards. I, by the way, am Mr Rogers for the time being. You are still Mr Warren.’
He was wearing a brown mackintosh, with the high collar turned up over his chin. I wore the only overcoat I had with me – my dark ‘City’ overcoat – and carried an umbrella. It was as well I did, for when the Inspector had shepherded me through the lobby and down the front steps, I found that a fine but very wetting rain was falling.
A man, wearing a mackintosh somewhat like the Inspector’s, was standing by the gate.
‘Mr Edwards – Mr Warren,’ said the Inspector. ‘By the way, Mr Warren, for your own sake, I think it will be as well if you will maintain complete silence during this expedition of ours – even should anyone speak to you. If that happens you must let me answer for you. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘But where are we going?’
‘To Paragon House.’
He said no more, and we all walked in silence down Lyon Avenue to the right – the direction which led away from the Heath. Though the road in which Paragon House stood was parallel to Lyon Avenue, it did not give access, like the latter, to West Heath Road, and in order to reach Paragon House we had to go round three sides of a square. It was perhaps the strangest little walk I have ever made, lying as it did in such very respectable thoroughfares, all of them flanked with large quiet houses and gardens, and leading to what I could not possibly guess. With an odd sense of contrast, as I saw the familiar glare of the arc lamps on the wet roads and our three shadows now lengthening in front of us and now suddenly dropping diminutively behind, I felt that we might all have been going to evening service in a suburban church. Indeed, when we made our second right turn, we did pass a church. The bell was tolling, and through the open door I caught the muffled sound of the organist practising his voluntary, and a whiff of ecclesiastical odours.
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