Three Inquisitive People

by Dennis Wheatley

  “Yes, I cleared off just as soon as I could with decency. I was joining a party at the Savoy afterwards, and I wanted to dance, not sit there listening to those old fossils throwing bouquets at each other. I must have slipped out at about ten minutes to ten.”

  “And can you recall if Sir Gideon was still there when you went?”

  Mr. Ritherdon looked De Richleau full in the eyes. “I don’t remember,” he said firmly.

  “Surely!” the Duke protested. “Since Shoesmith was actually seated beside you, with a little effort you could recall if you said good night to him before leaving?”

  The stockbroker smiled. “As it happens, I didn’t, but you know what these shows are. Once the King’s been drunk people start circulating a bit, move round and sit with a friend, if they can find a place, while the speeches and the music go on.”

  De Richleau had a very shrewd idea that Ritherdon feared to be more definite in case he should be drawn into the affair. He therefore stood up to take his leave.

  “Mr. Ritherdon,” he extended his hand, “I must thank you for the exceedingly kind way in which you have received me, and it’s unlikely that I shall have to trouble you again, but I would like to ask you one more question. In the event of it proving necessary, in fact, if it was found that your evidence was needed to corroborate certain points upon which a man’s life may hang, do you think you might search your memory and make some more definite statement regarding the dinner last Saturday?”

  The stockbroker looked into the Duke’s bright grey eyes. “I don’t quite know what you’re driving at,” he said slowly. “I can’t see what the dinner’s got to do with the murder, anyway, and as you’ve spotted for yourself, I don’t want to be drawn into this sort of business if I can help it; but if a man’s life is involved I should, of course, be prepared to answer any questions; and my memory’s pretty good.”

  “Thank you.” De Richleau smiled. “That is all that I want to know, and now I will not take up any more of your time.”

  Ritherdon led his visitor to the door. “Ever do anything on the Stock Exchange?” he inquired casually.

  “Occasionally,” said the Duke. “What are Sheffield and Kings-lade Development Company standing at today?”

  “Ten and six—eleven bob—there aren’t many dealings, it’s almost a private concern.”

  “You can sell five thousand forward down to nine shillings for delivery next month, on my account, if you wish.”

  Ritherdon gave him a quick look. “All right, very pleased, I’m sure. You know, I suppose, that Shoesmith’s interested?”

  “Yes, on the board, I believe. I will be quite frank with you. In my opinion he did not behave at all well to that stepson of his. When the case comes on I think his reputation may suffer considerably. I don’t suggest for one moment that his conduct has not been all that it should be with regard to his companies, but the British public is nothing if not sentimental. I think there may be heavy selling in those concerns in which he’s interested.”

  The stockbroker nodded. “I see your point. Of course, it’s a gamble. Fact he’s been hard on his stepson doesn’t alter the company’s assets, but the public do get funny sometimes. Maybe you’re on a good thing.”

  “Fortunately, I can afford a little gamble sometimes,” the Duke smiled. “Good day to you, Mr. Ritherdon.”

  As he went down in the lift De Richleau made rapid calculations. He had the advantage over Ritherdon in that the latter did not know the story of the pearls being copied. That was bound to come out at the trial. The Duke de Richleau meant to see that it did; he meant to see also that Shoesmith’s advice to his stepson as to filing his own petition without any thought of his unfortunate creditors should be made public. Sir Gideon’s credit would be in a pretty poor way by the time the affair was ended. Those shares would fall to five shillings the Duke reckoned. “Five thousand at four shillings profit per share, twenty thousand shillings, fifty pounds to the thousand, that makes one thousand pounds—well, well, perhaps, after all, it had been worth coming to the city this morning.”

  His next call was to be upon Sir William Juddkins, O.B.E., and his car soon took him to Moorpath House, in a narrow turning off Moorgate Street. It was a shabby, old-fashioned building, and upon the lift he found a large placard, “out of order.” He had, therefore, to climb the seven flights of stone stairs, and paused, breathless, before the glazed door which bore the legend, “Juddkins & Co., Estate Agents.”

  One of the few things which really put the Duke into a thoroughly evil temper was to lose his breath. Under no circumstances had he ever been known to run, but climbing seven double flights of stairs, however slowly accomplished, had defeated his care. The unusual exertion had drawn the blood from his brain, and his momentary loss of the power of thought absolutely infuriated him. He waited for a few moments on the landing to recover his composure.

  At length, feeling somewhat recovered, he pushed the door and stepped through into a small confined space shut in with partitions. In the one opposite the door there was a sliding panel upon which in faded lettering could be read the one word “Inquiries.”

  The Duke knocked; there was a slight slithering of papers, and the panel slid back to reveal the head of a pimply-faced and sulky-looking youth.

  “My name is De Richleau,” said the Duke. “Does Sir William happen to be in?”

  “Who from?” asked the youth, gazing at him stolidly.

  “I am not from anybody,” answered the Duke with some asperity. “If your master is in kindly inform him that I wish to see him.”

  The youth slammed the sliding door to with a bang and De Richleau heard him rustling with his papers on the other side of the partition. After a little the sound ceased and the panel was suddenly thrust open again.

  “Sir William says, what’s yer business?”

  “It is of a private nature,” replied the Duke, exercising some restraint. Again the panel was slammed to, only to be thrust open again a minute later.

  “Sir William says will you wait.”—Slam!

  De Richleau frowned, but he took comfort from the fact that the cigar which he was smoking was a good one. Ritherdon evidently understood cigars; the Duke had noticed when he took it that it was a Punch, and the condition was excellent.

  Five minutes, ten minutes, at length the panel did open once more.

  “Sir William says will yer come this way,” and the pimply-faced youth thrust open a door in the partition.

  The outer office proved to be far from inviting. High desks with two or three stools, from one of which the horse-hair stuffing was trying to escape, windows black with the grime of generations, rows of battered ledgers, and letter-files thick with dust.

  The inner office was scarcely less depressing: an enormous iron safe, a jumble of papers, a number of land development charts yellow with age, and a little ferret-like man with pale blue eyes, apparently Sir William, seated at an open roll-topped desk.

  He did not rise as De Richleau entered, but motioned with a pen to a sagging arm-chair. He seemed to be a man of few words.

  “Sit down. What can I do for you? I don’t think I know you, do I?”

  The Duke smiled, the idea of his knowing this person appealed to his sense of humour. “No,” he said mildly. “No, I don’t think we have ever met.”

  “Well, what’s your business? I dare say you know I’m a very busy man.”

  “Indeed—well—I will endeavour not to detain you more than a few moments. I am making a few inquiries, and I should be grateful for your assistance. I may say that these inquiries are not merely idle curiosity upon my part, and they are strictly confidential.”

  “Do you come from an agency?” asked Juddkins suspiciously.

  “No—no, I fear I am completely unsponsored. I must ask you to take my word for it that the result of my inquiries is of some importance. I believe you were at the London and Sheffield dinner on Saturday night?”

  “Well, what’s it got to do with you
if I was?” Juddkins gave the Duke a furtive look. “By the way, you’re a foreigner, aren’t you?”

  “I am a Frenchman by birth,” agreed the Duke, “but I cannot quite see what that has to do with—”

  Juddkins cut him short. “Well, I don’t see why I should discuss my private affairs with you.”

  The Duke shrugged his shoulders. “My dear Mr. Juddkins,” he began amiably….

  “Sir William Juddkins,” snapped the little man. “Sir William Juddkins, that’s my name.”

  “Ah, yes.” De Richleau rose slowly to his feet. “Sir William Juddkins,” he repeated, “you are then a knight?”

  “I am,” declared the ferret, “and what’s more I was among the first batch of O.B.E.’s in the War.”

  “Let me then recommend to you, Sir William, a book called Morte d’Arthur, by Sir Thomas Malory. You will, I trust, enjoy the contrast between the knighthood of yesterday and the knighthood of today. I find it exceeding strange.”

  Sir William Juddkins also rose to his feet. “I don’t quite know what you mean,” he began angrily.

  “No? Oh, no, I didn’t suppose that you would,” the Duke replied as he replaced his hat at a somewhat rakish angle on his head and prodded the swing-door open with his cane. “Only, my good Juddkins, to use one of your excellent British sayings—it is utterly impossible to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

  De Richleau walked out in an atmosphere heavy with the pregnant silence of baffled rage.

  His next call was upon Mr. Sidney Keiling, a wholesale cutler in Mark Lane, and in a comparatively short time, although it seemed a lengthy journey, he was set down before Keiling, Son & Keiling’s office. Here he was unlucky. A Mr. Keiling junior received him, a very pleasant young man, who regretted to inform De Richleau that his father was at the works in Sheffield; in fact, it seemed that Mr. Keiling senior rarely came to London except on business or for an occasional function.

  The last name upon De Richleau’s list was that of Christopher Deacon, also seemingly engaged in the cutlery trade. His office was on the third floor of a block in Cannon Street and the Duke was more fortunate on this occasion.

  Most of the people with whom he came in contact were aware of his title, and it was not his custom to announce himself by it; but having met with such a discourteous reception at the Juddkins office, and feeling that the Juddkinses of this world and their satellites would be more suitably impressed for his present purpose, he had announced himself boldly at Keiling’s, and with such success that here again he adopted similar tactics.

  “If Mr. Christopher Deacon is in would you be good enough to tell him that the Duke de Richleau would be glad of a few words with him.”

  The girl who had received him hurried away and a moment later a small, spectacled man of middle age came hastening out to him. “Good morning. I’m—er—I’m Deacon,” he said a little nervously.

  “And I am the Duke de Richleau. Can you spare me a few moments of your time?”

  “Oh, yes, of course, won’t you come in, my—er—sir.” He had almost said “My Lord,” and the Duke repressed a smile as Mr. Deacon held open the swing gate.

  “Thank you.” De Richleau walked through the counting-house to a small but neat office.

  Mr. Deacon dragged forward the only arm-chair from his desk. “Do—er—won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you,” the Duke smiled, “but don’t let me rob you of your chair.”

  “No, no—Go on—do,” Deacon urged anxiously.

  Without further protest the Duke lowered himself into Mr. Deacon’s swivel chair, while its owner stood before him, like a rather nervous, but expectant schoolboy.

  “Mr. Deacon,” the Duke began, “you were present I believe, at the London and Sheffield dinner on Saturday night?”

  “Oh, yes.” Mr. Deacon brightened perceptibly. “It was a wonderful gathering. Lord Stallworth took the chair.”

  “Indeed,” the Duke smiled amiably. “I am very anxious to obtain certain information regarding this dinner, and I think you can help me.”

  “Oh, anything I can do,” said Mr. Deacon eagerly.

  “I believe you sat next to James Ritherdon, did you not?”

  “Yes, I was very well placed, and Mr. Ritherdon told me about his horse, Tea Cup. He says it’s a certainty for the Lincoln. Of course, I never bet in the ordinary way, but I think I must have a little on, having met the owner, you know.”

  “Quite,” said the Duke genially. “Having had the tip from you I almost feel that I must have a little on myself. Do you by any chance remember the time that Mr. Ritherdon left?”

  “Yes, he left very early. We had only had one song. I was so sorry, but he had to catch a train to the country.”

  “I see, and so I suppose you moved up next to Sir Gideon Shoesmith?”

  “No—er—I don’t really know Sir Gideon Shoesmith very well; I’ve been introduced to him, of course. What a terrible thing that was about his wife.”

  “Yes, a tragedy. I suppose he was busy talking to his other neighbour, Sir William Juddkins?”

  “Oh, no, Sir Gideon left the table before Ritherdon.”

  “That was early to leave so pleasant a party.”

  “Sir Gideon hadn’t gone home. I saw him again later on, as a matter of fact he wished me good night at about twenty to eleven as the last guests were leaving.”

  “I suppose you could not tell me who Sir Gideon was talking to in between? I have a very special reason for wanting to know.”

  “I don’t think I saw him until he came back to the table after the speeches were over.”

  “You were perhaps engaged with your other neighbour?” De Richleau suggested.

  “No—er—” Mr. Deacon flushed slightly—“to tell you the truth I haven’t been in London from Sheffield very long and I don’t know many people. The gentleman on my other side moved down the table to talk to some friends soon after Ritherdon left, so in a way I was sitting all alone through most of the speeches.”

  “Then you would have had an excellent opportunity to observe the company; most interesting, I don’t doubt. Can you not recall where Sir Gideon was sitting during that time?”

  “Well, of course, I was very interested in the people, so many names that I know in business, or at home, you know; and I’m pretty certain that Sir Gideon Shoesmith was not there. In fact I’m pretty sure about it—I—er—amused myself by referring to each person by my table plan, to see as far as possible who they were.”

  “That,” said the Duke, “is exceedingly interesting; but where do you think Sir Gideon could have gone?”

  “I really don’t know. He may have gone to the cloakroom or been talking to somebody in the lounge of the hotel; he must have missed all the speeches, and they were so good.”

  De Richleau stood up. “I am extremely grateful to you, Mr. Deacon, for having given me so much of your time.”

  “Won’t you—er—have a cigarette? I’m afraid they’re only gaspers.” He tentatively offered the box upon his desk.

  “Thank you.” The Duke took one and lit it. “Thank you very much. I must be going now or I shall be late for luncheon. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Deacon, and if I can be of any service to you at any time, pray command me.”

  “Oh—er—thanks awfully—not at all.” Mr. Deacon rescued the Duke’s stick from the floor, colliding with him in his nervous endeavour both to show him the way out and allow him to go first, and finally escorted him to his car.

  De Richleau drove to the Belgian Embassy, where he was engaged to lunch. On the way he was deep in thought, and even at luncheon it was remarked that he was a little distrait.

  Once back in his flat, he waited impatiently for Jacoby to arrive, and when at length the wine waiter from the Park Lane had kept his appointment and delivered his report which occupied more than half an hour, the Duke himself let him out. He then went to the telephone.

  After some minutes he got through to James Ritherdon. “Is th
at you, Ritherdon?” he inquired sharply. “This is De Richleau. You know that stock I asked you to sell this morning? Yes? Well, sell up to twenty thousand.”

  22

  “Malice and Pain Coming From a Fair Woman”

  When De Richleau had finished his conversation with James Ritherdon he rang up Rex at his little house in Trevor Square.

  Rex was officially out, but actually at home. He had, however, given instructions to Mrs. Bottom that should the Duke or Simon Aron ring up they were to be put through.

  The bell in the sitting-room tinkled and Rex stretched one long arm towards the receiver, with the other he shifted the slight but delicious weight of Felicia Standish to a more central position on his knees.

  “Damn!” said Felicity.

  “Hallo!” said Rex.

  “I have news,” said the Duke at the other end of the line. “You don’t say! That’s great!”

  “It’s a long story, my friend, but interesting. I should like to see you. Moreover, I think we shall have need of your assistance.”

  “That’s fine! I’ll be right over—at least—” Rex suddenly remembered Felicity. “Wait a moment. Now, could you step round to me, in say half an hour, I’ll be pretty occupied till then. You can? That’s swell! In half an hour then. O.K.” He rang off.

  “Dar-ling,” purred Felicity.

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Do you know what I really think about you?”

  “I’ll fall for it.” Rex grinned doubtfully.

  Felicity removed her slender form from his encircling arm. She stood up and smoothed her neat golden head, emitting the faintest wave of her Chanel perfume as she did so.

  “I think,” she said slowly, regarding him steadfastly with her very blue eyes, “that persons who wear lemon-coloured boots and dickies are gentlemen, and that Eskimos who live upon the immoral earnings of blind women are desirable companions—compared to you. In fact, that you are the one original authentic, undeniable and utter Cad!”

  “Dar-ling!” protested Rex.

  “Don’t seek to deny it, my sweet. Bounder is your middle name. How else could you seduce a young and innocent girl like myself and then abandon her heartlessly for days? I shall sue this Duke man and your little Jew friend for alienation of affection, and get thousands by way of damages. At least I could do if we were in America. As it is I shall sell myself to a prince—then what will you do?”