Methylated Murder

by Methylated Murder (retail) (epub)

  “OK,” he said, pushing them into his till. Another twitch of the eyebrow and the gentleman lingering by the door disappeared from sight.

  “Gone to fetch the Pancake,” explained Solomon. “Tony’s not keen on the limelight at present and I’m not so keen myself on having him seen in here. I’ve told Fred, that was Fred, to keep watch while we’re talking. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”

  Almost without their realising it, there was standing beside the counter a thin, pointed-nosed young man with that air of furtive alertness by which the police can always recognise the experienced thief. He smiled in an almost fawning manner at Solomon and then said, “Has he paid?”

  “Yes, he has, Tony,” was the reply. “You can hand it over.”

  Tony very carefully produced one sheet of paper from an inner pocket.

  The man’s face fell as he saw it, and he exclaimed, “A lot of money for one letter.”

  “It’s better than a letter, you see if it isn’t,” answered the one known as the Pancake.

  The man took the paper and opened it. He read the following in a woman’s scrawling handwriting:

  “I hereby confess that I have continually cheated at bridge, and give my solemn promise that I will never play cards for money in the future.

  Martha Packard.”

  “That’s fine, isn’t it?” asked the Pancake, his voice betraying a little anxiety at the lack of enthusiasm of the other.

  “Where did you get it?” asked the man.

  “I was doing a job of work round near Redford the other night,” was the reply. “The houses I struck were pretty well bolted, so, not to waste my time, I decided to have a go at the parson’s house. They’re not much trouble to get into, but always a gamble. Never know whether you’ll pick up anything. Still I had a go. Found a bit of silver, just worth taking. One drawer of a desk locked. No money in it. Nothing much at all except this paper. And remembering that you bought papers, I thought I’d better bring it along.”

  “Redford?”

  “Yes, the parson’s house.”

  “Very well,” said the man, putting the paper in his wallet. “I can’t see what good it will be to me. But a bargain’s a bargain. I never go back on my word.” He turned to the keeper of the snack bar. “Thanks for the trouble you’ve taken, Solomon, don’t forget, I’m still open to buy letters.”

  Solomon himself grinned at Tony the Pancake as the man disappeared. “A bargain’s a bargain, eh?” he said. “Did you see his face, Tony, when he put that bit of paper away?”

  “Not that you’d notice,” was Tony’s general comment.

  “If I know anything about men, and I can see through most of them quickly enough, he was as pleased as old Nick to get hold of it. You bet he’ll make a fortune out of it.”

  “A fortune?” asked Tony, covetously.

  “Well, a pretty penny, at any rate,” said Solomon. “I could have stung him for much more if I had guessed it. I could have got at least ten quid out of him, and I only dared ask eight.”

  “That’s all right, Sol, old man,” said Tony, cheerfully. “You’re only guessing, after all. And eight quids is eight quids.”

  While this transaction was being completed, two young women were sitting drinking a friendly cup of tea in a room where the curtains had been drawn wide apart and the windows opened to let some air into the place. The heavy hangings and bizarre cushionings looked tawdry and out of place in the sunlight which now flooded around them.

  “Did you get the paper, Rose?” said the blonde maiden, in a business-like tone.

  “He left it in his room,” answered Rose. “Here it is.”

  Dorice searched through the newspaper methodically, and finally stopped at the small paragraph in the stop press column.

  “This must be it,” she said, “Mrs. Sybil Norton. He talked about suicide. That must be it. I wonder what he’s been up to.”

  “Better not play with fire, my girl,” was Rose’s practical comment.

  “He talked about the police to me again, Rose,” said Dorice. “And about that filthy brute, too.”

  “Manners is all right if you treat him properly,” said the other, fingering a note in the pocket of her smart apron.

  “You’re a nice, sympathetic sort of sister, aren’t you, Rose?” said Dorice, in an aggrieved tone.

  “Don’t you worry about me,” answered Rose, sharply. “I play the maid and you play the mistress. What have you to worry about? You get more out of him than I do.”

  “I’m frightened,” answered Dorice. “I’m terribly frightened, Rose.”

  “You always were one to panic,” said her sister. “What have you got to be frightened about?”

  “Do you think he’s straight?”

  “Of course he is. Don’t be a fool.”

  “Still, I’m scared. I’m not as certain as you are.”

  “Pull yourself together, my girl,” said Rose, drinking her tea contentedly. “We’re in a soft place, and we should be poor fools if we let it go.”

  “At any rate, this is what upset him,” said Dorice; whereupon she cut the paragraph out of the newspaper and placed it for safety among her own collection of personal treasures.

  Chapter III

  Mr. Bonnington’s Explanation

  Henry sat in the chambers in the Temple on the next evening waiting the return of his master. Although a devoted slave to Dickens, he had now grown tired of Great Expectations. He decided that to-night he was not in a suitable mood. The day had been a ruffling one. Harrison had gone off early in the morning with Hillyard and Henry had found it unusually difficult to look after things in his absence. The Home Office had been the main trouble. They had consulted Harrison regarding the advisability of letting a certain alien land in this country, and had spent most of the day telephoning for news. Other clients had been hardly less importunate, and most of the points raised had needed answers which Harrison alone could give.

  When the outside world had ceased its troubling, more or less, Henry had sent home his assistant, Eric, with an injunction to call on his mother on the way and explain that Henry was likely to be pretty late. Eric was somewhat disappointed at being dismissed in this way, for the young red-headed enthusiast was still in the first heaven of being in Clay Harrison’s employment, and hated the idea of missing anything. But one did not argue with Henry, even his short experience of the chambers had made that clear, and off he went.

  Henry cleared up his work and then took up his book. He read for a little while and then put the kettle on a low gas ready for Harrison’s inevitable cup of tea. Thereupon he tried to read again, but found his thoughts straying. Had he done right to persuade his master to join the Fountain Club? He had certainly seemed all the better for it, but the club was to have been a relaxation, and here it was making more work. There was work enough in hand, in all conscience. Almost too much of it—waiting in a queue down the stairs out into the court itself.

  Henry smiled. Fancy complaining of overwork. In his early days with Harrison, he had placed his desk close to the door so as to catch the sound of approaching footsteps. If they seemed to hesitate, instead of following their usual habit of going to the floor above, he had darted out like a flash, hoping for the best. Henry enjoyed the recollection. Those were good days. The days of Jeanne de Marplay and the “Baron.” Things were quite different now. Harrison had a practice in his own line which must be quite unprecedented—and no questions asked about the fees.

  The problem was how to get everything in. Harrison hated refusing work. Still he should have thought twice about taking on this Norton affair. He had enough on hand already. Besides, from what Harrison had said, any cheap little investigator could earn an honest guinea or two and do what was wanted. Of course it might turn out to be something bigger than one expected. Harrison’s cases nearly always did. Indeed, he seemed to have an instinct for choosing simple-looking cases which were eventually found to be a network of the most amazing complications. But
that was most unlikely in this case. Harrison had practically said so himself. More than that, he had admitted that he had been influenced by sentiment. He had always enjoyed Sybil Norton’s acting, and he had liked the straightforward manner in which Hillyard had approached him. The one great flaw in his character, thought Henry, no business sense. I wish I had been with him.

  The hour was quite late before he heard the familiar sound of a key being pushed home into the lock of the front-door, and a somewhat tired-looking Clay Harrison greeted him. The detective went immediately to his own room and was sitting, puffing a newly-lit cigar and looking into space, when Henry appeared with the tea tray.

  “Not a word, Henry,” exclaimed Harrison, “until after the first cup.”

  Henry was obediently silent and waited for his master’s next remark.

  “Well, Henry,” it came at last, “how’s the world?”

  “All right, sir.”

  “I know that tone, Henry,” was the comment; “very much wrong, I suppose. Clay Harrison deserted the ship at the critical moment. Important cases in every corner and he goes off on a wild goose chase. No thought for his faithful Henry. That’s it, isn’t it? Question after question for him to answer and he not there to do it. And, on top of it all, the Home Office ringing up every minute and making a complete nuisance of themselves.”

  “How on earth did you know that, sir?”

  “It’s about time they did, that’s all. The boat’s due the day after tomorrow. Still, Henry, there’s no need to worry, I’ve got answers for them all. I wish I had one for Norton.”

  “How did it go, sir?”

  “How do you feel, Henry?”

  Henry showed that he had brought the familiar note-book and pencil in with him.

  “But it’s time you went home,” protested Harrison, rather weakly.

  “I can’t go home until I’ve done what I waited for,” said Henry.

  “Henry, you’re a marvel,” was the affectionate reply. “I know it’s monstrous of me to keep you here, especially after your difficult day, but I would like to get a few notes down while things are still fresh.”

  “That has always been your method, sir,” answered Henry. Harrison looked at him quickly, but no movement of Henry’s features betrayed whether the remark had been made with perfect solemnity or not.

  “Thank you, Henry,” said Harrison, with even greater gravity. “I went to the inquest. Accidental death, Henry.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “Very merciful but, to my mind, quite unjustified. The coroner was a nice old thing and put up quite a good case for it. It did not last long, not nearly long enough for the newspaper men. There were crowds of them there. And it wasn’t very sensational. At one point I think they rather expected it. Sybil Norton’s maid had given evidence about finding her after hearing the shot. The coroner asked questions as to what happened before, and the maid said her mistress had answered the telephone. ‘Answered it?’ the coroner repeated, ‘You are sure of that?’ At this he nodded to a benevolent-looking person in the court whose whole presence radiated the atmosphere of his profession of solicitor.”

  “And all the reporters’ pencils were jumping about with excitement, sir?”

  “You can be sure of that, Henry. A mysterious telephone call. They were already beginning to think in headlines. The maid answered that she was quite sure. She heard the bell ring once or twice before her mistress answered. ‘You did not know to whom she spoke?’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘Or what she said?’ At this the maid was somewhat indignant. The telephone was in her mistress’s room and she wasn’t the sort of girl who listened to things that didn’t concern her. Unfortunately for the Press, Henry, the mystery vanished as quickly as it appeared. The coroner merely asked the girl if that was the only telephone call that morning, and the girl said it was. Then he nodded to the benevolent-looking solicitor, whose name happened to be Bonnington.”

  “Bonnington, Cardew and Bonnington, sir?” asked Henry.

  “That’s the firm, Henry,” answered Harrison; “this was Mr. Stephen Bonnington. Must have started young to have evolved into such a perfect type in middle age. He said that he thought he could clear up the little matter of the telephone call. Mrs. Norton was a client of his and had herself rung him up at the time mentioned to discuss a matter of legal business. Would Mr. Bonnington mind, having due regard to professional decorum, asked the coroner, mentioning what that business might be, for one never knew in cases of this distressing kind whether a clue might be gained therefrom. Of course he did not press Mr. Bonnington. Fortunately, Mr. Bonnington did not mind and did not need to be pressed; he explained at once that Mrs. Norton telephoned in connection with her will. Again the journalistic pencils grew feverish, and again Mr. Bonnington allayed the panic.”

  “A bit of a cold-water merchant, sir,” said Henry.

  “I must say he looked the opposite of sensational. Mrs. Norton had come to him recently and had been rather particular about the precise wording of her will. There was nothing mysterious about it, just a short document with some personal tributes to her husband, and she was continually worried as to the choice of appropriate words. Very natural, too, said the coroner, with a sympathetic glance at Norton himself, and that was the whole conversation? Precisely, came the formal answer. And did Mrs. Norton seem at all strange in her tone? Was she any different from her normal manner? Mr. Bonnington paused, it might almost have been for effect, and then said that she had seemed even more charming than usual.”

  “And the maid’s evidence about the telephone call, sir?”

  “You’re as impatient as the Press were, Henry. Of course the coroner hadn’t forgotten that. He asked Bonnington if he was certain it was Mrs. Norton who rang him up and not another Mrs. Norton. Bonnington was certain. The call had been put through to him by his clerk who was equally certain. But you heard what Mrs. Norton’s maid said, asked the coroner. Again the solicitor paused. I think he enjoyed doing it. Then he said that the coroner would realise as well as himself that they might both appear to be right. If Mrs. Norton wished to telephone to London in the busy hours of the morning she would tell the exchange the number she wanted and then wait until they rang her bell to show they had obtained it for her.”

  “Very obvious, I must say, sir,” said Henry.

  “Disappointingly so,” answered Harrison. “The worthy reporters looked daggers at the kindly solicitor. Only one more question, said the coroner, are you the Norton family solicitor? Bonnington shook his head. He had already explained that Mrs. Norton had only recently come to him. He had an extensive theatrical practice and he assumed that Mrs. Norton’s earlier connection with the stage was the logical link.”

  “An answer for everything.”

  “Yes, Henry,” said Harrison, in the tone of voice which Henry knew of old meant that he attached an importance of his own to Mr. Bonnington. “Have you got all of that down?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. The next witness was the husband. We shan’t need all of this. A good-looking young man, military bearing; I liked the look of him. I agreed with Hillyard that he was unnaturally calm, keeping a terribly tight rein on his feelings. His answers might almost have struck one as a bit off-hand if one had not realised what he was going through. He answered all the ordinary questions in the briefest possible manner and only showed any sign of feeling at all, and that was precious little, when he was asked about how his wife had seemed that morning. He was positive she was at her happiest. And the week or so before, had he had any reason to think she was worried or that she was suffering from nervous strain or anything similar? No, he was quite certain she wasn’t. So, said the coroner impressively, in your opinion there was no reason whatever why your wife should contemplate taking her own life? In the same firm voice Norton said that there was none whatever.”

  “Marvellous control, sir.”

  “It was, Henry,” answered Harrison. “I felt deeply sorry for him. The poor fellow will pay for it
later on. Then the coroner asked about the pistol. It was the usual story of a wife who is occasionally left in a lonely house, more to make her feel secure than that she might use it on any intruder. Suppose Mrs. Norton had been examining it rather carelessly, was it likely that she could have fired it by accident? More than likely, answered Norton; she had expressed her fright at even possessing such a thing. She had not even liked them being used on the stage. Once when she had been looking at it in his presence she had held it in the most dangerous fashion so that he himself had told her to be more careful.”

  “And that settled it, sir?”

  “Definitely. The coroner dismissed Norton with a kindly word and then settled down to expound his own ideas of suicide. Where he got them, I don’t quite know, but he asked one and all, with a particular look at the Press, to recall the position of the wound. Suicide by a firearm was mainly through the head. He would not say invariably but in his experience he had never known it otherwise. If he might put it crudely, that was the one way of making quite sure. There were always risks in any other part of the body. Another point of interest was that an impulsive suicide—here he gave a child’s guide account of premeditation—would certainly take no risks.”

  “Something for the papers at last, sir.”

  “A headline, at any rate, Henry,” answered Harrison. “So, taking that into account, as well as to the evidence regarding Mrs. Norton’s demeanour, her attitude over firearms and the lack of motive, he had no hesitation in recording a verdict of accidental death. He said a few well-chosen words of sympathy with Norton and that ended the inquest.”

  “Very satisfactory, I should say, sir.”

  “That’s rather what I felt myself,” said Harrison. “I went out of the court with Hillyard and said as much. There was no more need for me, and I was glad of it. I would have done anything in my power, of course, but I could now go back to London quite contentedly. Hillyard seemed quite contented, too, but he said I couldn’t slide away like that. Norton particularly wanted to meet me. If I could spare the time, he would be very grateful if I went back to Limewood Hall with Hillyard. So, of course, I had to go.”