“Were you around Saturday?” Rex inquired.
“No, I had to take my lady up to Hampstead,” the man replied. “Filthy night it was, too.”
Rex nodded. “And you haven’t seen an elderly man, my friend that is, snooping round here, last night or the night before?”
“No.” The chauffeur was quite certain that he had seen no one, although on both evenings he had let his dog out for a run at round about ten o’clock.
“O.K.,” said Rex crisply. “I think I’ll move on and talk to the guy who’s busy with that car. It wasn’t a big bet, but I’d like to win it, all the same.”
“Well, good luck to you,” the chauffeur nodded, “but I doubt you’ll get much change out of old George.”
Rex sauntered up the mews in the direction of “Old George,” and then stood smoking for some moments within a few feet of the ancient Daimler, hoping that the elderly man would look up and address him. Instead, the man took absolutely no notice; he went on hosing down his car to the accompaniment of his curious breathless whistle.
“Evening!” said Rex at last.
The elderly man threw down the end of the hose and seizing a sponge attacked the long flat bonnet of the Daimler whistling more breathlessly than ever.
“Evening,” said Rex again more loudly.
The man looked up vaguely. “Ah!” he said, pausing in his work.
“Evening,” said Rex once more, and still more loudly. “I’m looking for a friend.”
“George,” declared the old man promptly. “George Wend, chauffeur to Lady Lancastle, the Dowager lady as is now.”
“Great!” Rex bawled in his ear, getting very close. “I reckon you’d rather be looking after horses though?”
“‘Orses,” the elderly man gave an appreciative grin. “Ah, ’osses was creatures,” he said brightly.
“I’m looking for a friend,” Rex tried again.
“Friend, that’s right. Friend of Man, that’s what ‘osses were,” replied the ancient enthusiastically.
Rex took him gently by the arm and spoke slowly but distinctly into his ear: “I’ve made a bet.”
“What on?” Old George asked with interest.
Rex tried a different angle. “Were you around on Saturday, here in the mews, at round about this hour?”
“Me—no.” The old man shook his head. “We were in the country staying with the young lord. ‘E ain’t like the old lord, ain’t got no heye for ’orse flesh, but a nice enough young chap.”
“Well,” thought Rex, “that’ll be that. Thank you,” he yelled. “Thank you, I’ll get along now, so long.”
The last garage but one had lights above and from it came the strains of the wireless which Rex had heard when standing at the entrance of the mews. He decided that this should be his next objective, and moved towards it, thinking how strange it was that the law of England should still allow such as old George to drive a car, when he felt a touch upon his sleeve, and whirling on his heel, found the old man had followed him.
“If you’re a gentleman what likes ‘osses,” the ancient said, “you put a little bit on Tea Cup for the Lincoln.”
Rex smiled. “That’s mighty decent of you,” but his thanks fell upon deaf ears, old George was already stumping back upon his bandy legs to the ancient Daimler. Rex rang the bell beside the tall, narrow door, and waited.
Heavy feet sounded upon the wooden stairs and an untidy female opened the door six inches or so to peer at him.
“Excuse me,” he began.
“My ‘usband’s out,” she said quickly, “and won’t be back till I don’t know wot hour.”
“All the same,” Rex smiled amiably, “if you don’t mind I’d like to have a little talk with you.”
She regarded him with evident distrust, closing the door another inch as she demanded suspiciously: “Wot for?”
“I’ve got a wager,” Rex explained. “May seem fool nonsense to you, but you’ll have heard of this murder in the flats here?”
She became interested at once, quite unconsciously allowing the door to swing freely open, as she regarded him with small, wide-open, greedy eyes. “You mean the young man wot killed ‘is mother in the barth. I should say we ‘ave, with us livin’ opposite ‘ere and all.”
“Well,” Rex went on, “friend of mine thinks the guy that did it made a get-away down the fire ladders.”
“Corse not,” the woman sneered. “‘E walked out of the front door large as life, ‘e bein’ ‘er son, and why shouldn’t ‘e?”
“But just supposing,” Rex suggested. “D’you figure anybody in this mews would have seen him if he had?”
“There’s no saying,” the woman declared. “Maybe yes, maybe no.” Then suddenly her eyes hardened. “An’ ‘oo are you?” she inquired, bringing the door nearly to again with a quick jerk. “We’ve ‘ad the police round, or are you another of ’em?”
“Well, I’m making a kind of inquiry,” Rex submitted.
“Ho! You are, are you,” said the woman viciously. “Well, you go inquiring helsewhere, young man, or I’ll ‘ave the police on you.” Upon which she closed the door entirely with a sharp bang.
Rex smiled ruefully to himself and considered the situation. No. 8 was in total darkness, No. 7 was the thin-faced suspicious woman whom he had already interviewed; No. 6, Old George; Nos. 5 and 4 had Jones Brothers, Builders, painted in large, white letters across the double doors, and were evidently a store used only in the day-time; No. 3 had a large board “To Let,” and No. 2 was the man with the dog. There only remained No. 1, and he walked slowly back towards it.
Yes, No. 1 was occupied; a dim light penetrated the green curtains of the upper floor, and the narrow door had recently been painted a bright green, while the number-plate and letterbox were of polished brass. “Here goes,” said Rex, and pressed the bell.
A moment later a clicking noise led Rex to guess that the latch was being released by a spring from above. He pushed the green door and it swung open. Squeezing past into the narrow space beyond, he looked up the steep, ladder-like stairs to see a fair, boyish face peering down at him.
“Oh, come up, do,” called the owner of the flat in a quick, high, affected voice.
Rex accepted the invitation. He paused for a moment on the landing then followed the young man into the room which overlooked the mews.
It was a curious room, artistic, but in some way unpleasant; the colour scheme was green, the decorations ultramodern, there was a divan with piles of cushions, and a small table littered with books. Apart from two reproductions of drawings by Aubrey Beardsley, the walls were bare. Upon the mantelpiece were a number of photographs—but unlike the portrait collections of most young men, amongst them there was not a single woman. The light was dim, the atmosphere close and heavy—about it there lingered the faintest suggestion of stale scent.
Rex gave the young man a sharp glance and thought him one of the most unpleasant people whom he had ever seen. He was extraordinarily good-looking in the classic style, but he was not really young at all, and had he been a woman, one would have said he was thirty, made up to look eighteen. It was his boyish figure and his wavy golden hair that gave him the appearance of youth, on first sight. His bright, hard eyes were full of knowledge and cunning, his thin-lipped mouth a line of determined viciousness.
Suddenly the thin mouth flashed into a bright smile. “How nice of you to come, do sit down. Will you smoke?” He proffered an elaborate platinum and gold cigarette-case.
Rex took one. “Thanks,” he said and added, for want of something to say: “That’s a marvellous case you’ve got there.”
“Isn’t it,” the old-young man gushed in his quick, high-pitched voice. “I saw it in Asprey’s window one day. I was with Victor Maradick, d’you know him, he’s a perfect dear, and I said at once, ‘Victor, isn’t that case too divine,’ and d’you know, next day he sent it to me. Of course, Victor’s just lousy with money, but I do think it was sweet of him all the same. I do lo
ve getting presents, don’t you?”
“I certainly do,” Rex agreed.
The owner of the flat preened himself in front of the looking-glass, tilting his chin from side to side as if he were acutely worried by a high stiff collar, although actually his well-shaped neck was bare above his principal garment, a brightly coloured silk dressing-gown.
He suddenly started off again. “I should adore to be rich, wouldn’t you? It must be such fun giving presents to one’s friends. I had an awfully rich friend who took me to the South of France last year. We went to a tiny place near St. Maxime, I wonder if you know it, Cavalaire it’s called. Look,” he added, picking up a photograph of himself from among the group on the mantelpiece. “Don’t you think my swimming-suit is too divine. I designed it specially to wear out there.”
Rex regarded the portrait amusedly. The Greek God profile of the young man showed clear cut, turned at an angle over one shoulder, but the picture had been taken to commemorate the costume—it was some dark material, but differed from the usual pattern in that it was cut away in a sharp V from the shoulder to the waist-line, as was the fashion at that time for women’s evening dress, thereby exposing as large a portion as possible of the wearer’s back.
“It’s a mighty swell costume,” Rex agreed, handing the photograph back.
“Isn’t it,” the owner replaced it on the mantelpiece with a little wriggle of his shoulders. “Poor Owen took it. I hardly ever see him now, although I’m glad in a way. He became rather a nuisance after he’d lost all his money—don’t you find that—of course, one’s awfully sorry for people—but they might try to be amusing when they take one out. As I told Owen, it wasn’t my fault if he’d made a silly mess of his business, but it’s this filthy slump really, I suppose; nobody seems to have any money now.”
Rex restrained an intense desire to pick up this extremely unpleasant young man and kick him down his own stairs. The conversation languished until the young man flashed his bright, insincere smile again.
“You’re an American, aren’t you? I’ve got lots of American friends. I say—I mean—would you think it too frightfully rude of me if I asked you who sent you along—don’t tell me if you’d rather not, but I suppose we’ve got friends in common, haven’t we?” He gave an unpleasant leer, and added: “Can’t be too careful, you know.”
“Well, as it happens, I was looking for a friend,” said Rex.
“Oh, of course,” the young man wriggled his shoulders again. “I’d simply love to go round with you while you’re in London. I took to you frightfully, directly I saw you.”
“I’m afraid you’ve got me wrong,” Rex admitted. “I mean I was looking for a fellow who comes round here sometimes, old friend of mine.”
“Oh, I see, I’m sorry,” said the other with an offended air, turning for consolation to the looking-glass. “What’s your friend like, and what’s his name?”
“He’s a big elderly chap, pale, heavy sort of face, looks like a churchwarden.”
“Can’t say I know him.” The owner of the flat stroked a long eyebrow meditatively while he regarded his reflection. “Are you sure? I mean, that he’s ever been to see me?”
“No, but I’ve got an idea he might have,” Rex lied, deciding to try a shot in the dark. “Friend of mine thought he saw him walk out of this mews Saturday night, round about ten o’clock.”
“Now that is too strange,” the young man stopped plucking his eyebrows and turned to Rex. “I wonder if it could have been your friend I spoke to, a nasty, rude old man.”
Rex leant forward eagerly. “Maybe,” he said encouragingly. “He’s a difficult chap, sort of nervous he’d be.”
“Well I was just coming home. It must have been after ten, though, about five past perhaps, and I saw somebody who might have been your friend just outside my door. I think he must have been waiting for a car to pass that was backing into the mews, but I thought he might have come to see me, so I went up to him, ever so nicely, you know, and I said: ‘Are you looking for No. 1?’ and he was frightfully huffy, just turned his back on me, and scuttled out of the mews. I do think he might have been civil.”
“That’s him,” said Rex excitedly. “Can you recollect how he was turned out?”
“Oh, evening dress, and a sort of a very thin mackintosh with the collar turned up, one of those silky things that do up into nothing at all. I remember thinking at the time what an odd sort of get-up it was. I should positively have died of cold on a night like that, but I’m sure he was in evening clothes because I could see his white tie at the neck.”
Rex stood up. “That’s great,” he said. “I’m tremendously obliged to you, Mr.—er—”
“Oh, not a bit, pleased, I’m sure. Carrington Smythe’s my name, Cedric Carrington Smythe; but why you’re so keen about that old brute, I just can’t think, positively rude, he was.”
“I’m obliged, all the same.” Rex took up his hat.
“Oh, I say, you’re not going, are you?” Carrington Smythe protested. “That would be too unfair. I wish I hadn’t told you now.”
“’Fraid I must.” Rex moved quickly to the door, ignoring the limp hand that Carrington Smythe held out to him. “But I’ll be back,” he added over his shoulder.
“Oh, rather, do come any time.” Carrington Smythe’s treacherous, unnatural smile flashed out. “I should love you to. I do hope you don’t find your horrid old friend.”
24
How Advantage May Be Taken of A Most Unpleasant Situation
An hour later they sat round a big fire in the Duke’s flat, Simon, Rex, Superintendent Marrofat, Inspector Gartside, and De Richleau himself.
It had been agreed by the Duke, Simon and Rex that after they had made as many inquiries as possible, they should rendezvous at Errol House, and when De Richleau had returned with Simon, whom he had picked up on the way, they had found Rex already arrived, and in a fever of impatience.
After a short conference it had been decided that they should place the evidence they now had against Sir Gideon Shoesmith before the Superintendent without delay, and if he accepted the validity of their case, to press for Richard Eaton’s immediate release. They had endeavoured to get in touch with Mr. Granville Schatz, but here they had failed; with the Superintendent they had proved more fortunate, and at the Duke’s urgent request he had come round at once.
The broad-shouldered police chief proved to be in a more genial humour than when they had last seen him, and not only had he consented to take off his great woolly overcoat and make himself comfortable, but he had accepted a whisky and soda and one of the Duke’s long Hoyo de Monterrey Anillo d’Oro cigars.
It was the Duke who stated the case against Lady Shoesmith’s husband, detailing clearly and lucidly the links in the chain of evidence which had gradually been built up against him.
The discovery that the pearls were false, that Sir Gideon had had them copied apparently without Lady Shoesmith’s knowledge, and the financial difficulties with which he had been faced for some considerable time, proved a motive at least as strong against the husband as against the son. The Duke had then gone on to give details of his interview with Christopher Deacon, and the partial confirmation which James Ritherdon would supply; followed in turn by the various statements which had been collected by Jacoby from members of the staff of the Park Lane Hotel; and finally the all-important fact that Mr. Carrington Smythe had seen and spoken to an elderly man—whose description agreed with that of Sir Gideon—in the mews at the back of Errol House upon the night of the murder, within the time that his absence from the Park Lane had been recorded and at about the time that the murder was proved to have been committed.
As he ceased, it seemed to Rex and Simon that there could be no shadow of doubt that between them they had probed to the bottom of this affair, just as surely as if they had actually seen Sir Gideon Shoesmith upon that fatal night. First, carefully releasing the switch within his flat that controlled the fire escape, then going out to his
banquet, but only to slip away directly the King’s health had been drunk, collect his little parcel from the cloakroom—undoubtedly the thin silk waterproof—slip it on quickly in some quiet corner, to hide his evening clothes, leaving the hotel and hurry through the foggy streets, slip into the mews and up the fire escape, through the window of his study—carefully left unlatched—listen for a moment in the silent flat, then cross the passage and commit the murder, answer the telephone promptly, and with great presence of mind before the servants were disturbed, leave the front door ajar—in order that suspicion might be thrown upon the stranger—then slip out of the window, down the escape into the foggy night once more; the one unfortunate nerve-racking encounter in the mews, and then the hurried walk back to the hotel to complete his alibi. From first to last the whole thing could have been done in under twenty minutes and not a soul the wiser.
The Superintendent ran his hand through his mop of ginger curls and looked round thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said, at last, “you’ve made a case all right; whether you’re right or wrong, it was first-class work, gentlemen, and I congratulate you.”
De Richleau smiled. “That’s very kind of you, Superintendent. I wonder if you’d mind telling us if any fresh evidence has come to light in support of your case against Richard Eaton?”
“No. We’ve questioned the maids again, and the porter, and Miss Eaton, but there’s nothing fresh. We know all about his money troubles, of course, and that, together with his having had the pearls in his possession and having been the last person to see his mother alive—motive and opportunity, you know—made a pretty strong case, to my mind; but now we shall certainly have to readjust our ideas.”
‘That’s great,” said Rex. “And you’ll let young Eaton out?”
“It all depends,” Marrofat said cautiously. “Certainly, if I can substantiate all you say.”
“I was hoping—er—that you might have let him out tonight.” Simon suggested. “Like to go down to Brixton—bring him home, you know.”
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