“Oh, for God’s sake don’t do that,” wailed Berkeley. “I don’t want Sir Cyril hanging round the station all day. I can manage it easily on my own. It’s a slack time here.”
“All right, then… Oh, now I come to think of it, you’d better have two men at the cottage: one to follow her—in a car, if necessary—whenever she goes out.”
“She’s not going to like that, you know. What do I do if she turns nasty?”
“Stick to your guns—but politely, of course. If she makes a fuss at a higher level, I’ll shoulder the blame… Is she alone?”
“No. Got her secretary with her. Grim, hatchet-faced female. As far as I can gather, the secretary’s doing all the cooking and whatnot.”
“Mm. Get her on your side if you can. And for the Lord’s sake, Berkeley, don’t trip up on the job. There’s a murderer loose, and if he gets a chance at Madge Crane there’ll be a national uproar.”
And that, thought Humbleby as he replaced the receiver, is about as much as, I can do along those lines. Now for Nicholas.
Nicholas, it was obvious, had devoted the interregnum of Humbleby’s telephoning to putting his evidence in order. After a brief, incurious enquiry as to his sister’s safety he embarked on it.
“The first thing,” he said, “is that my flat is practically impossible to break into. And up to the time I left it this afternoon it hadn’t been broken into, I can assure you of that.”
“Good. And then?”
“Well, as you know, Thursday was the night of the wretched party, so I suppose I’d better start from there. After Gloria had gone, I locked up the flat and went to bed. And early on Friday I came on here; when I get sick of my own company I sometimes do that, and stay a night or two, and I wasn’t feeling at all fond of my own company after that ghastly business with Gloria.”
“Let me get just one thing clear: you’re not working at the moment?”
“Not apart from The Unfortunate Lady conferences, no. I’m between films.”
“Just so. Go on, then.”
“Well, the thing is, you see, that there are burglar alarms on the door and windows of the flat; they ring in the porter’s office on the ground floor, and there’s always a man there. The fellow who had the flat before me was a diamond merchant, and it was him had the alarms installed. I always switch them on when I go away from the flat for more than a few hours, because I’ve got one or two pictures—a Cezanne and a Picasso—that’d be quite worth stealing… Anyway, what it all amounts to is that up to the time I went back to the flat—that’s to say, Saturday afternoon, after Maurice’s death—no one could possibly have got at that medicine. And after that, for reasons I needn’t go into in detail, no one could have got at it till this morning.”
“This morning, then: how was it accessible this morning?”
“I told you I’ve been having my meals out, didn’t I? Yes. Well, this morning I got up early and strolled up to a sort of snack-bar place in North Row for breakfast. They do you delicious home-made sausages there, with little crisp bits of raw onion in them… However.
“The point is that I didn’t shut the front door of the flat properly. When I got back I found it was open—not wide open, mind you, but not latched. At first I imagined someone might have got hold of a duplicate key somehow, but then it struck me that if someone had, they’d certainly have been careful to close the door properly when leaving, so as not to suggest that the place had been entered; and besides, I remembered vaguely—the way one does—that the door hadn’t clicked properly when I shut it on the way out.”
“You mentioned duplicate keys. Are there any?”
“Only the one my servant has. And he’s been away on holiday for the past week, and I got his key off him before he went. Here it is, with mine.” Nicholas produced a key-ring, and displayed two elaborate, identical Yale keys. “As you can see, it’s a very special sort of lock—that’s the jewel merchant’s doing again—and I think any other keys besides these two are out of the question. What’s more, I can guarantee that these haven’t been out of my possession for a single moment.”
Humbleby nodded. “Good enough. When did you leave the flat for breakfast and how long were you away?”
“I can remember that. I left at almost exactly seven a.m. and I got back at almost exactly eight.”
“And you looked round, no doubt, to see if anything had been disturbed?”
“I most certainly did. But there was nothing out of place that I could discover. And in any case my policy was not to eat or drink anything that was kept in the flat, so it was just a question of carrying on with that. There was no proof, of course, that anyone had entered the flat at all.”
“Did you ask your porter about that?”
“Yes. But he was shut up in his room—they aren’t expected to hang about the entrance hall all day—and wouldn’t have seen or heard anyone go in or out. So that was no help.”
Humbleby consumed his thimbleful of black coffee, asked for more, and, having received it, lit a cheroot. “And then?”
“Well, after that our poisoner didn’t get another chance till I arrived here.”
“When was that?”
“About five this afternoon.”
“And what sort of a chance did he have then?”
“I unpacked and dozed for a bit on the bed. Then about six I came downstairs—I should think it must have been about an hour later when it suddenly occurred to me that it wasn’t very sensible to leave the medicine lying about in my bedroom for anyone to get at. So I went up and locked it away; and it stayed locked away till I got it out to give to you.”
“Then what it all adds up to,” said Humbleby slowly, “is this: colchicine could have been introduced into the medicine either before your party and Miss Scott’s suicide, or between seven and eight this morning, or between six and seven this evening. Is that right?”
“Perfectly. And presumably number one can be ruled out.”
“I think so, yes.”
“And number two as well? The Mercury didn’t appear till three this afternoon, and I take it the attempt to poison me was a result of the publication of that unfortunate letter.”
Humbleby considered acquainting him with his theory of a literal vendetta, and decided against it; it was not a contingency which he liked to contemplate himself.
“That is probable,” he agreed. “So by far our likeliest time is between six and seven this evening. Now, just what were X’s chances of getting at the medicine then and remaining unseen?”
They had been considerable, he elicited; and subsequent questioning of Eleanor, David, Medesco and the servants confirmed this. The overgrown condition of the estate made an unobtrusive approach to the house perfectly feasible; at any one of a dozen open doors and windows an outsider could have made his entry; and inside, there were innumerable places where he could have concealed himself in an emergency. A very vulnerable place, Humbleby reflected, with the vendetta theory nagging at the back of his mind; the only snag was how, without searching all the bedrooms (a perilous though not impossible course), X could have known where Nicholas was sleeping—for the Cranes had only occupied the house for a few months, and the location of Nicholas’ room could not have been at all widely known, except to the family and domestic staff. However, an enterprising person could have solved that problem without excessive difficulty; and the strength of those who killed for vengeance rather than gain, as well as their weakness, was that commonly they were prepared to run abnormal risks…
It was after eleven when at last Humbleby took his departure. Nicholas walked out with him to his car. The rain was temporarily holding off, and here and there a drowned star winked blearily through a gap in the clouds. The gravel was loud underfoot, and an accumulation of water gurgled and dripped in the gutters. Humbleby was by this time thoroughly exhausted—and so also, he guessed, was Nicholas, for the tic on his check had become more frequent and pronounced, and at each spasm his face screwed up with the pain.
Humbleby told him.
“Why my idiot sister didn’t burn the thing,” he commented when the story was finished, “I simply cannot imagine. But women are like that. They can none of them ever bring themselves to destroy anything.”
Humbleby opened tire car door and climbed in. Through the window he said:
“And you’re quite certain you don’t want police protection? It can easily be arranged.”
“No, I can look after myself, thanks. I’ve got my pistol, I shall sleep with my bedroom door locked, and from now on I’ll do all my eating and drinking at pubs in Aylesbury.”
“Then you’re going to stay on here?”
“For a day or two, till I see how things turn out.”
Humbleby grunted. “Well, be careful. For the Lord’s sake, be careful.”
“Don’t worry,” said Nicholas, laughing. “I’ve no intention of dying yet awhile… Good night.”
Humbleby drove off. Once, just before trees and bushes screened the carriageway finally from the house, he looked back. Beneath the wan, fluctuating bulb outside the pedimented front door Nicholas was standing alone and motionless, his hands thrust hard into the pockets of his obtrusively well-cut dinner jacket, staring blankly after the retreating car…
And that was the last time Humbleby saw him alive.
Chapter Four
Morose and mistrustful, Tuesday’s dawn loitered in from the east like a trade unionist contemplating a strike. From the bedroom window of her Bloomsbury flat Judy Flecker looked out at it, and at the damp prospects it revealed, and sleepily sighed. Then she stripped off her pyjamas, bathed, dressed, cooked and ate her breakfast, and by eight o’clock was in the street. A short walk brought her to a bus stop at which, while waiting, she was able unemotionally to contemplate the massive colonnades of the British Museum; and the bus took her to Marylebone, most restful and appealing of the London termini, where she embarked on a train for Long Fulton.
By ten o’clock of a day which was to be the most eventful—as also the most sheerly terrifying—of her life, Judy had cleared up such routine work as the Music Department could provide, and was in Sound Stage Number Two, listening while the Philharmonia Orchestra, under Griswold’s direction, rehearsed and recorded the score for Ticket for Hell. Upon the screen in front of her two lovers, bereft of their sound-track, mouthed preposterously at each other; in the sound engineer’s glass-fronted control-room, behind her, the composer sat complacently imbibing through a substantial loudspeaker the noises he had contrived. The ticker on the wall spelled out the seconds; Griswold, with headphones adjusted and a cigarette in his mouth, glanced rapidly and continuously from the players to the score to the ticker to the screen; and music appropriate to its erotic context—susurration of strings, plangency of French horns, the oily sweetness of tubular bells and the aqueous ripple of harps—filled and overflowed the room. Not a bad score, Judy conceded: in his concert works Napier was a somewhat acrid modernist, but like most such composers he unbuttoned, becoming romantic and sentimental, when he was writing for the films.
Presently the take ended and the lights went up again. Someone came and sat down rather heavily in the canvas chair next to Judy’s, but for the moment, since the film’s Chief Editor had buttonholed her and was talking shop, she had no idea who it was. Only when the Chief Editor had taken himself off did she turn round to identify the newcomer.
It was David Crane.
His appearance there did not surprise Judy particularly, since in recent months he had developed the habit of drifting into her office at odd times of the day for a purpose which he seemed at a loss to isolate and define but which struck Judy as being in all probability fundamentally amorous. These irruptions were a nuisance, but with David Crane it was impossible ever to be seriously exasperated—and, moreover, his diffidence was such that it usually drove him away again, inchoately apologising, within five minutes of his arrival. Of all the Cranes, David, in spite of his intolerable gaucherie, was the one Judy liked best. The air of blank misgiving with, which he habitually faced the world aroused her protective and maternal instincts. He got little sympathy, she suspected, from his fellow-workers in the Script Department, and was consequently obliged to forage abroad for that commodity.
“Hello,” she said pleasantly. “How are things?”
“G-good morning, M-Miss Flecker.” Despite the studio vice of always using Christian names, he had never addressed her in terms less formal than these. “I hope I’m n-not in your w-way.”
Judy laughed. “Of course not. I’m slacking.” She stretched her long legs out luxuriously, noting in amused but not scornful tribute to his solid conventionality that he was wearing black. “And you?”
“I b-beg your pardon?”
“I mean, has the Script Department given you an hour off?” Rather a condescending turn of phrase, Judy reflected: he wasn’t, after all, an office-boy. But David, it seemed, had been born to be victimised, even by those who wished him well, and in his presence one’s language seemed to mould itself automatically into shapes of unintended derogation. Fortunately, he seemed quite incapable of taking offence.
“There’s n-not much d-doing this m-morning,” he said; and suddenly smiled. “And anyway, they n-never let me handle anything i-important because they’re afraid I should m-make a m-mess of it. So I can g-get away whenever I l-like, really.”
“What nonsense!” said Judy, who was none the less admitting to herself, with regret, that if this were so they were probably very wise.
“I d-don’t m-mind it, really. I’m quite happy just p-pot-tering about. No b-brains, that’s my trouble.”
Judy felt slightly embarrassed by this admission, which in candour it would have been difficult to gainsay. Rather awkwardly she changed the subject.
“And how is everybody at home?” she asked; in the circumstances—she realised as soon as the words were out—a fatuous and even slightly impertinent question. But again David seemed unconscious of the blague. He ran a hand through his scanty hair and applied himself to answering as earnestly and painstakingly as if some detailed piece of technical information had been required of him.
“M-mother’s all right,” he said. “B-but I c-can’t imagine anything ever really ups-setting her. N-Nick’s a b-bit jumpy, as you can imagine. And we h-haven’t h-heard from Madge at all.” All at once he looked wretched. “It’s h-horrible, isn’t it? About that g-girl, I m-mean.”
“Did you know her?”
“I m-met her for the f-first time at N-Nick’s p-party. She s-stayed with mother at Ch-Christmas, but I was away with Nick in Bermuda.”
“And I suppose you’d no idea what was going on?”
“No. N-none. They d-don’t confide in me m-much. B-but it’s a frightful d-disgrace. I c-could hardly b-bring myself to c-come here this m-morning. I f-felt I wanted to c-creep away and hide s-somewhere, like c-cats do when they’re ill.” Upon this zoological simile he paused; he was a man who rarely indulged in such advanced and literary tricks, and this present lapse must, Judy thought, be the issue of powerful emotions.
“No one,” she hastened to reassure him, “could possibly blame you, David.”
“No, I know, but you s-see, it’s a f-family affair. A m-matter,” he said simply, “of honour. Th-that’s how I s-see it, anyhow, though I suppose it’s v-very old-f-fashioned of me.”
“I think it’s a very proper feeling to have,” said Judy. “But you mustn’t,” she added firmly, “let it g-get—damn! sorry—get you down.”
He smiled. “It’s f-funny how c-catching a stammer is.”
“Anyway, it’s not as bad as my lisp,” said Judy repentantly. “I’m afraid that between us we must sound like the ‘Before’ section of an Elocution School advertis
ement.”
“Oh n-no. I l-like your lisp.” David flushed. “It’s very attractive.”
“Plebeian,” Judy countered severely. “I’ve studied the subject, and I know. You hardly ever get it in the middle and upper classes.”
David appeared to be uncertain about the proper response to this.
“Anyway,” he said at last deprecatorily, “it’s only v-very slight… I say, though, it’s awful ch-cheek of me to be t-talking about you l-like this. Rotten b-bad form.”
Judy looked into his large spaniel eyes and was saddened by the feeling she glimpsed there, since she knew that she would never be able to reciprocate it. She was, however, a particularly feminine young woman, and consequently her mild dejection was mixed with a determination to make modest use of David’s infatuation. She crossed her legs and looked shyly at her toes.
“Good lord,” she said, “I should be a fool if I thought there was anything offensive about that… I say, David, is your brother going to sue that loathsome paper?”
It had been decided that the last take was satisfactory, and Griswold was accordingly going on to deal with the next music section. “Roll the film, please,” he said; and when it obediently appeared on the screen he conducted the score through, in silence, with one eye on his stopwatch, while the Philharmonia gossiped, did crossword puzzles or read detective stories. Napier came up, and before David could answer her question, Judy said:
“Good morning, Mr. Napier. It’s a beautiful score.”
“For heaven’s sake,” said Napier, visibly pleased, “don’t judge me by this stuff.”
“That’s what all you composers say.” Judy smiled. “On the day one of you admits that his film score is the best thing he’s ever done, the Music Department will take a week off and get plastered by way of celebration.”
Napier chuckled and went off to pester Griswold. “Sorry, David,” said Judy. “I interrupted you.”
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