Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  His lordship had not appeared, but they sang it all the same, perhaps under the illusion that Mr Jennings had been elevated to a position of rank. “Goodbye Dolly Gray” was their choice, and an enthusiastic rendering took place. They were still singing it as they climbed on to the charabanc, and with Charlie taking the reins, the horses were turned and made their merry way down the drive.

  But surely there was something wrong . . .

  Belated realization sent Auguste running after the charabanc yelling “Stop.” No one heard him, or if they did, no one took any notice. Mr Jennings was pulling him back, shouting, “Are you mad?” and between that and “Dolly Gray” Auguste’s pleas went in vain. “Dolly Gray” grew fainter and fainter.

  Auguste groaned, to Mr Jennings’s annoyance. “What is wrong with you, Mr Didier? His lordship instructed that they all depart by two o’clock. It is now five minutes past.”

  “Everything is wrong,” Auguste replied. “They did not all depart.”

  “Are you inebriated, Didier? We saw them go.”

  “Twelve arrived, but only eleven left.”

  Lord Bromfield was instantly summoned, but a ten-minute search of the house failed to find Joachim Schmitt, for which his lordship appeared much relieved. “Obviously,” he announced, “the fellow has decided to walk into the village and get the train back. What was his name?”

  “Schmitt, sir,” Auguste replied. The one-man-band harness and instruments had been found in the servants’ hall, where they had been left before the tour began, and to him this discovery would seem to rule out his lordship’s theory. Auguste’s visions of calamity came back with a rush.

  “German, eh?” Lord Bromfield looked momentarily taken aback.

  “It is not uncommon in music halls,” Auguste tried to reassure him.

  “That is so, your lordship. The Soulful Songster fellow is also German.” Mr Jennings too was anxious to calm his master.

  Lord Blomfield seemed slightly cheered. “Mere coincidence that there are two of them then. Anyway, this Schmitt isn’t in the house now and the other fellow’s left, so that’s that. Besides, the German ambassador’s dining here himself, so he can report to the Kaiser on what’s going on. That puts paid to any of your damned spy nonsense, Didier.”

  Auguste nerved himself. “The French too might have their spies. There is—”

  “You’re out of your mind, Didier. The French don’t have spies any more than we do,” Lord Bromfield interrupted crossly. “Like us, they’re gentlemen.” He thought about this. “Almost.”

  Should he mention the possibility of assassination? Auguste wondered frantically. As the German ambassador was hardly likely to leap up in the midst of a Didier-inspired menu to kill the President personally, a hired killer would be required, and thus Herr Schmitt should be tracked down without delay. But with his lordship’s present attitude, he could say nothing. In any case his attention had been caught by what he could see outside the morning-room window.

  “Good thing Scotland Yard’s accompanying the President, eh?” Lord Bromfield added a forced laugh.

  Auguste cleared his throat. “It is indeed, sir. However, it appears to have arrived here already.”

  The charabanc was once again coming to a halt outside the Towers, with eleven noisy occupants, some crying, some angry, some shouting. Auguste was more interested in the carriage following it, however. Two men were stepping out of it, one of whom was very familiar. It was Detective Chief Inspector Egbert Rose. Lord Bromfield hurried outside to greet the other man, and Auguste promptly followed him.

  Egbert’s face registered a mixture of pleasure and wariness when he saw Auguste. “Trouble,” he said gloomily. “Wherever you are, I find trouble. What is it this time?”

  “A missing man.”

  “Not this Schmitty that this lot are on about? Got left behind, did he?”

  “I hope that is all, but he hasn’t yet been found, and his one-man-band instruments are still here.”

  Rose frowned. “Good thing, I came down early. Monsieur Lapelle here is one of the President’s private secretaries. He’s convinced someone is out to slaughter the President, and he wants to go through the house with a toothcomb before the main party arrives. First thing we found was this charabanc blocking the gateway as they argued over whether to come back or not. Back, I told them. No one leaves this house without my permission, I said, or my governor will have my guts for garters. Now you’re telling me you can’t find this German bloke. Got drunk and lay down for a snooze somewhere?” he asked hopefully.

  “I think not. It’s at least possible that he planned to stay behind and has hidden himself all too well. A thorough search is needed, and, Egbert, there is something else.” Auguste passed on his doubts about his assistant chef in a discreet whisper.

  To his annoyance Egbert chortled. “Probably planning to jump out of a cake in pink tights and do the dastardly deed herself.”

  “Perhaps she is,” Auguste replied with dignity, with a nightmare vision of his Swan of Savoy being so desecrated.

  “You’re right,” Egbert said hastily. “We’ll get this search going. Can you look after this mob for me?”

  Auguste faced the prospect with sinking heart. “We can entertain them in the servants’ hall.”

  This was easier said than done, as Daisy and Emmeline had to be restrained from rushing into Tranton Towers immediately to conduct their own searches for the missing Schmitty. Lured by the promise of tea and cakes, however, they meekly followed Auguste back into the servants’ hall.

  “Poor Schmitty,” wailed Daisy, dabbing at her eyes with a delicate handkerchief with one hand and restraining her dogs with the other, “what’s happened to my poor darling?”

  “That’s not what you were calling him last night,” the Wapping Blackbird snapped. “Not when you found out he has a wife and children back in Germany.”

  “Nor you.” Joe rounded on her in Daisy’s defence. “You didn’t like it, Emmeline. Fancied your own chances, did you? Some hopes.”

  Blackbird Emmeline went very pale, and decided to side with Daisy, throwing a comforting arm round her. “We were both betrayed,” she said mournfully. “I too was betrothed to him before I found out The Truth.”

  Schmitty seemed a busy man, Auguste thought, juggling not only his one-man-band instruments but sweethearts too.

  Soulful Songster Stefan took advantage of the situation to do his own comforting, slipping a manly arm round the Blackbird’s purple-feathered dress. “Meine Liebling, do not fear. I am here to protect you.”

  The Wapping Blackbird did not seem to appreciate this offer. “Joachim will explain all when he returns. This story about a wife was surely a misunderstanding. And you,” she whirled round on Auguste, “where are those cakes we were promised? And tea.”

  “And Kugelhopf,” the Soulful Songster added hopefully.

  The latter at least would still not be forthcoming. Auguste had never been able to see the attraction of this concoction, which to him was merely a doughy brioche with raisins and almonds added to make it edible. He ignored the request. “The police will require a photograph of Mr Schmitt? Does anyone have one?”

  “Of course,” the Blackbird declared grandly. “Next to my heart.” Under everyone’s fascinated gaze she drew on a silver chain, a locket jerked itself up from her bosom, and she handed the photograph inside it to Auguste. It was unpleasantly warm.

  “That’s not Joe Schmitt,” Egbert Rose snorted, taking one look at the photograph. He had been conferring in the morning room with Lord Bromfield and Monsieur Lapelle, who owing to the tension of the situation did not seem to think it unusual that a temporary chef should apparently be working for Scotland Yard.

  “This Schmitt might be a one-man-band,” Egbert continued, “but his trade is killing. His real name is Carl Halbach, and he does the dirty work for the Camarilla. Heard of them?”

  Monsieur Lapelle had, and he looked grave. “That is the name given to the group of parasi
tes that surround the Kaiser,” he explained. “They dream up ways to please their master, and assassinating the President of France could well be one of them. Mon dieu, and he will soon be here.”

  His lordship paled. “You know all about this fellow, Rose. Find him.”

  “We will,” Egbert assured him, with more confidence than Auguste had. “It seems clear enough that the Camarilla arranged for a sight of the German ambassador’s invitation to forge one for the Wapping Palace of Varieties – including Halbach. I only know about this Halbach through the bureau noir, your lordship. The French spy service. They sent me a photograph of him a month or two ago.”

  Auguste drew great satisfaction from the sight of Lord Bromfield’s face as he took in this confirmation that the French did not play by gentlemanly rules.

  “We must find Halbach before the President arrives,” Lapelle lamented. “If we cannot, I must stop the President from leaving the train at Bexley.”

  Auguste was aghast. Cancel the dinner? After all his work on the Chantilly Swan? It could not be allowed to happen.

  Mr Jennings seemed to have abandoned all hope of a life that did not feature the Wapping Palace of Varieties, as an intensive search was ordered and he and Mademoiselle Dagarre reconstructed their tour round the house, closely followed by Egbert Rose, Pierre Lapelle and Auguste Didier. The tour for the Wapping group had been a brief one, Auguste realized, the bare minimum to satisfy it. Only the library, the dining room and the famous long gallery had been included. When Egbert questioned the charabanc party in the servants’ hall there had been no consensus as to where Schmitty, as they continued to call him, had last been seen. The Great Charlie remembered seeing him last in the library, the Soulful Songster spoke to him in the dining room, and the Wapping Blackbird claimed to have seen him in the long gallery examining the fireplace.

  Auguste hoped that her testimony was a reliable one, as the gallery had been the final stage before the Wapping group returned to the servants’ wing. The library offered no possibilities for secreting Herr Schmitt and neither did the dining room, but the corridors in between the destinations had opportunities aplenty for anyone trying to slip away unseen.

  Even Egbert Rose was daunted by the time the small party reached the long gallery, and Auguste began to despair. Was there room in the chimney for a man to hide? Investigation proved not. Nor was there a closet with enough space for Schmitty to conceal himself in even temporarily. The Blackbird had either been mistaken or lying.

  Then his eye fell on a large aspidistra adorning a low table which was covered with a red plush cloth. Surely it was too low even for an occasional table . . . He looked at the aspidistra again – a plant he had always hated – lifted it off and picked up a corner of the cloth, conscious that his heart was beating loudly. It proved to be no table that lay beneath, but an antique wooden chest.

  Hearing his cry of triumph, Egbert was quickly at his side. “Get ready, Auguste. He’ll fight, and is probably armed.” He stood guard, as Auguste took the corner of the lid. “Now!”

  The chest was empty.

  “Search the whole house, every corner, every cranny, every damned mousehole,” roared Lord Bromfield. Monsieur Lapelle was quick to follow him, beckoning Egbert Rose to come with him, which left Auguste and Mademoiselle Dagarre alone.

  The answer to the problem of the disappearing one-man-band was tantalizingly close. Auguste was sure of it. But where to start with so little time left? He decided to speak out directly to his new assistant, as they hurried back to the servants’ domain in the basement.

  “You know nothing of this man Halbach, mademoiselle?”

  Françoise looked so innocent that he could almost believe her to be so. “But I am a mere cook. An assistant chef.”

  Auguste’s eyes gleamed. So she wanted to play games – and at such a time. “And yet you made oyster forcemeat. A risky choice for adopting the role of an assistant chef.”

  “Merely a slight mistake,” she purred, “which only a master chef such as yourself would recognize.” She paused. “If a mere assistant chef may make another suggestion, it is wise to study the ingredients of every recipe for life – and, monsieur, for death also.”

  No game, now. “What ingredients would you recommend I study immediately?” he asked gravely.

  “If I knew, I would tell you, but I do not. My task is to return to my work which is to ensure that no impure ingredients are lurking there.”

  Recipe for death? The master guiding plan for assassination? His mind began to work, as with a whisk of her skirts, she left him standing in the servants’ corridor. Not for him the delights of the kitchen yet. Those impure ingredients – had she been speaking metaphorically, or of the food to be served to the President? The latter possibility was too terrible to contemplate, and first he must deal with the ingredients of the missing Carl Halbach problem.

  Question: why did Halbach leave the one-man-band instruments in the servants’ hall if he intended to disappear? A glaring mistake for a would-be assassin. Every ingredient is included in a recipe for a reason. What was the reason here? Answer: to make his pursuers believe that he was hidden in the main house, whereas . . . Auguste’s eye wandered round his many-roomed temporary basement domain.

  Question: why would Halbach want to hide in the servants’ quarters, when in the main house he would be much closer to the President? Answer: there was something here that he needed.

  Question: how did he plan to get close enough to the President to kill him? Answer: by appearing to be a servant . . . a footman, who would have best opportunity to be close to the President.

  The last two ingredients melted into one another like a roux of butter and flour. Answer to the roux: Halbach needed a spare livery.

  Summoning up his courage, Auguste walked towards the room where the footmen changed into their livery, and where there were usually spare sets. He held his breath as he gently pushed open the door, but there was no one to be seen and no closet large enough to hold a man. Then his eye fell on a chest underneath the window. This time he was more cautious. Even if the chest did contain his quarry, he must remember that he was likely to be armed, and there was no Egbert Rose here now. But there was also no time to waste if his Swan was to be appreciated this evening.

  He flung open the lid. Inside lay Carl Halbach’s body. There was a gun beside him, and he had been strangled.

  The would-be assassin had become a victim.

  It was 3.30. The body of the unfortunate Halbach had left Tranton Towers, Lord Bromfield, Pierre Lapelle and Egbert Rose were in conference, and Auguste Didier was pacing between his twin responsibilities not knowing which offered the least comfort – the sight of a kitchen where the Chantilly Swan only required the last-minute addition of spun sugar to attain its full glory for a President who might never see it, or the sight of the Wapping artistes in tears, tempers and shock. He manfully chose the latter responsibility.

  “I just cannot believe it, I really cannot,” exclaimed the Wapping Blackbird. “That dreadful man was only a nasty spy who might have killed us all in our beds.”

  “I always said there was something odd about him,” Daisy sniffed, at last in accord with Emmeline.

  Joe looked puzzled. “But someone killed Schmitty, he didn’t kill no one.”

  “He meant to,” the Soulful Songster said. “He meant to kill the President.”

  “And to think I hired him for the Palace,” the Great Charlie mourned.

  “A disgrace to his fatherland,” declared the Songster.

  “But who killed him?” Joe persisted.

  Auguste retreated. He would see if Egbert Rose could be found. There was little doubt that the assassin would have been Halbach, but even if the slightest possibility of danger remained it was his duty to help Egbert in his task. He found him alone in the morning room.

  “I had my eye on the other German chap as Halbach’s murderer,” Egbert grunted, “but that doesn’t add up. If he was an accomplice, he wouldn�
�t go and kill Halbach instead of the President, would he?”

  “Among the Wapping visitors there are several with personal reasons for wishing this man removed,” Auguste said. “Have you considered them? Two ladies, both falsely believing themselves betrothed to the so-called Joachim Schmitt, discovered last night that he was already married, and two gentlemen, the strong man, and Stefan Meyer were extremely jealous of him.”

  “Doesn’t seem like a woman’s job to me. Of course, it’s possible, if it was done from behind with a garrotte of some kind. But I prefer the sound of these two gents, especially Meyer, who could have been Halbach’s accomplice and also had personal reasons for wanting him out of the way.”

  “But Meyer would surely wait until after Halbach had killed the President if he was his accomplice. Why kill him before that, and make the job more difficult for himself?”

  Another grunt. “Very well. Back to his personal motive – flimsy though it is. It would have been easy enough for any of that Wapping lot, perhaps the Great Charlie himself, to follow Halbach on the spur of the moment. Tell you what, Auguste, that’s what I don’t like about that theory. Too spur of the moment.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Too straightforward for a case you’re mixed up in.”

  Auguste let this slur pass with dignity. “So I take it that you think my assistant chef might still be planning to jump out of a cake.”

  “Ah,” said Rose. “Matter of fact you were right about her. Lapelle told me she works for the bureau noir, and so indirectly for him. She was under strict orders not to draw attention to herself; her task was to watch in case someone poisoned the President’s food.”

  Auguste was aghast. So Mademoiselle Dagarre had not been speaking metaphorically. There had indeed been a risk to his exquisite food. The full horror of such an outrage terrified him. He had much to thank the attractive Mademoiselle Dagarre for. At any other time . . .

  “I keep coming back to this other German chap,” Rose said. “Accomplice and jealous lover.”