Methylated Murder

by Methylated Murder (retail) (epub)

  “You came here voluntarily, Mr. Harringway?” asked Harrison.

  “Certainly,” said the man, seeming to take a renewed interest in the proceedings.

  “You have heard what Mr. Castor has said and you are willing to explain? You are not doing so under any threat from him?”

  “No, Mr. Harrison, I want to explain.”

  “Very well,” said Harrison; “but you realise what Mr. Castor’s remarks imply?”

  “Of course I do,” replied the man. “He’s told the truth—up to a point. I admit all that. I did get what I could out of the lady, but that’s all past. You may be surprised and I hope he is too, but after that brute came and threatened me I should have been too frightened to try again—even if I had had the letters, which I hadn’t.”

  “Bunkum,” shouted Castor.

  “Please, Mr. Castor,” said Harrison, sternly.

  A muttered apology followed and Harringway went on, “I did lose the letters, really I did. That night when he threatened me I went to the cupboard in the hotel fully intending to give him the letters.” Here came a snort from Castor. “I was horrified that they were not in the place in which I had left them. I had to think quickly, and so I picked all the letters I had out of my own pocket and invented the idea of burning them.”

  “Pretty quick, I’ll be bound,” said Castor.

  “What else was I to do? I knew you wouldn’t believe that I had lost them.”

  “As I don’t now.”

  “There you are, Mr. Harrison,” said Harringway. “But it’s Gospel truth, and I’ve never seen those letters from that day to this.”

  “Did you make any inquiries at the hotel?”

  “Of course, but I didn’t get much satisfaction. They said there had been quite a lot of pilfering going on on the floor where my room was. There had been a number of complaints. They had questioned the staff but had no reason to suspect anybody. Indeed they were certain it was either someone who had managed to get in without being seen or a visitor who had picked up what he could find.”

  “A pretty story,” snorted Castor.

  “A very queer story,” was Harrison’s comment.

  “With the merit of being true,” said Harringway quietly, in a tone of such cynical conviction that even Castor looked inquiringly at him.

  “You realise, Mr. Harringway,” said Harrison, “that your story is difficult to believe, especially after what Mr. Castor has told me about yourself?”

  “You also realise that one of the most obvious reasons for Mrs. Norton to take her own life would be the fear of some kind of disclosure of what she might have considered an unpleasant episode in her early career? Indeed, the very type of indiscretion of which you yourself admit you made use?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You realise also that Mr. Norton has asked me to make every effort to trace the cause of her death, and that I propose to leave no stone unturned, whatever the consequences to the person responsible?”

  “Quite.”

  “Very well,” said Harrison, “realising all that, do you still persist in the story you have just told me?”

  “I have told you the truth,” was the reply made in a quiet tone with perfect conviction.

  “What do you say, Mr. Castor?” asked Harrison.

  “The devil only knows,” was the reply.

  “A further question, Mr. Harringway,” Harrison went on. “Assuming your story to be true, do you think that those letters could still exist, and could have been used, and therefore caused Mrs. Norton’s death, in the way Mr. Castor suggests that you might have done yourself?”

  “Quite honestly, I don’t,” was the reply. “It’s too long after. If they were stolen in the Manchester hotel I cannot imagine their being used now. The coincidence is too strong altogether. Mr. Castor has made a beautiful case and it would be all right if I still had the letters. But I haven’t, so down it falls.”

  “Well, Mr. Castor?” asked Harrison.

  “You believe him, I can see,” was the somewhat truculent reply.

  “I have no alternative,” said Harrison. “I must agree that your theory was excellent, if it fitted.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” answered Castor; “I suppose I should also tender my profound apologies.”

  “No need,” said Harringway, tranquilly. “A very natural mistake. That’s why I was perfectly willing to come and interview Mr. Harrison.”

  “And what have I left,” said Castor, grandly. “My offer of help, Mr. Harrison, a poor thing, but it is yours to command.”

  “And mine, too,” chimed in the other.

  “It is possible you have both helped me already,” answered Harrison. “At any rate, you have confirmed the theory that the past might have had its influence on poor Mrs. Norton’s death.”

  “You’re not suggesting—” started Castor.

  “I never suggest, Mr. Castor,” replied Harrison. “Facts and what they mean are all that matter to me. By the way, I should like your address.”

  Castor explained that he was not likely to be absent for some weeks from the address he had already given on his card, while Mr. Harringway looked blank.

  “If you wish it, Mr. Harrison,” said Castor, “I am willing to keep an eye on our friend here.”

  “I shall be most grateful,” was Harrison’s answer. “By the way, I should very much like you to meet my assistant. Some of my friends say that he solves all the mysteries and I get all the credit.”

  Henry appeared with astonishing speed in answer to the bell.

  “Henry,” said Harrison, “I particularly want to introduce you to the famous actor, Mr. Ben Castor.” He paused and added, “And of course to Mr. Harringway. He is also an actor.”

  Castor, highly gratified, was amazingly dignified and condescending, while Mr. Harringway was somewhat perfunctory in his embarrassment.

  The door closed upon the visitors Harrison turned to Henry and asked, “What do you make of them?”

  “The Castor man, open as the day,” answered Henry. “But I assume you didn’t call me in to look over him. I took a good look at the dusty-looking person.”

  “That’s right, Henry. Well?”

  “Of course, one wouldn’t trust him beyond one’s nose.”

  “Quite. But we must go a bit further. Do you think, on first impressions, he has the makings of a great criminal?”

  Henry laughed. “Great, sir?” he echoed. “Good heavens, no. He would have to be a criminal of some kind, of course. But great—little, mean and dirty, I should say.”

  “Good. And would such a character be likely to drive Mrs. Norton to commit suicide through his persecutions?”

  “You never know, sir. But, to my mind, he wouldn’t be capable of it. He would be much more likely to get a horse-whipping from her husband for his efforts.”

  “I think we can agree on that, Henry,” said Harrison.

  “And then, sir?” asked Henry, noticing the tone in his master’s voice which, from long experience he knew betokened the stirring of important events.

  “Henry,” said Harrison, impressively, “whatever doubts either of us may have had up to the present moment, I feel bound to inform you we seem to be on a very big thing indeed.”

  Chapter VIII

  Visitors For Dorice

  The midday meal was being removed next day in the dimly-lit flat in Bloomsbury by the trimly-dressed maid. The air seemed even heavier, with stuffy heat and liberally distributed scent. Dorice Locket lay on the divan in her scanty garments while her admirer of the high-sounding name of Frances Manners was sitting beside her in his elaborate silk dressing gown, smoking an excellent cigar.

  “Francie feels better today?” she asked, endearingly.

  “Francie certainly does, my pet,” was the satisfactory answer. “How lucky is any man to have a nest like this as a refuge from his worries.”

  “And how lucky is a Dorice to share it and be here to welcome him,” chimed in the young lady.
/>   “Many a man would envy me all this,” he said, waving his cigar round the room.

  “You bet,” commented Dorice enthusiastically.

  The man frowned.

  “Girl’s so sorry, Francie,” she said, pouting in what she thought a singularly attractive manner. “It slipped out. And any girl would envy me too. You’re a man in a million, Francie, my dearest.”

  The man glowed with righteous approval of himself and, in his generosity, bestowed a kiss on the damsel.

  “Play to me,” he commanded, gently.

  From behind one of the multitude of cushions the young woman produced a ukulele and began to strum. She was very proud of this accomplishment, for, having no ear for music or comprehension of its meaning, she had spent many bitter and exasperating hours with a gentleman who claimed to teach the instrument, learning by heart the movement of the fingers for four complete melodies. These she was able to reproduce conscientiously, if a little mechanically, for the delectation of Mr. Manners, and had been grateful to a providence which had arranged that, up to the present, this number had amply fulfilled all requirements.

  Mr. Manners lay back in what appeared to be an ecstasy of sensuous enjoyment. His eyes were closed and his foot tapped gently to the beat of the tune. The entrance of the second sister with a tray of coffee, however, restored him to consciousness. He watched her intently through half-open lids and approvingly noted her trim figure. The maid’s dress suits her, he thought, and she knows how to wear it. A neat ankle, too, in those shiny black silk stockings. With no movement of his head, he appraised the girl by his side also.

  There was really no need for caution in the way he made this comparison, for Miss Dorice Locket was so intent on her task of music production that she was oblivious of all but the most obvious movement. Yes, thought Manners to himself, Dorice is certainly by far the prettier of the two, daintier and more of a tribute to a man’s choice for his companion in pleasure in a room like this. Very feminine, and appeals to the man in one and all that sort of thing. Still there was something about Rose. She had an air, a style about her which could not be overlooked. An independent sort of girl, but no doubt of her loyalty. You could talk things over with Rose—if you wanted to. Mr. Manners was not in the habit of talking things over, and had as yet made no experiment in this direction. But, lying there, he felt a human need of someone about him to whom he could turn, with implicit trust, if he wanted to. He was certain that was a part Dorice could never play. Kittens were pleasant playthings but that was all.

  He took his coffee silently. The first melody finished. Dorice looked for a signal to continue but none was forthcoming. Rose stood attentively near them, but Mr. Manners sipped his coffee without a word. He rather prided himself on this kind of discipline. Of course, a man could not be an oriental despot in all its details nowadays, but he felt he had brought his two womenfolk to a state of implicit obedience which fitted in with his conception of lord and master without using those violent means he had seen portrayed by American gangsters in lurid films. Those Americans were painfully lacking in culture, or even subtlety.

  “That will do, Dorice,” he said, in a lordly manner, “I am more than grateful for such admirable entertainment.”

  Dorice looked enquiringly at Rose.

  “No, we will dispense with a song,” he said, understanding her meaning; “a pure stream of music was sufficient.”

  Dorice put her ukulele back in its resting-place.

  “I wonder, Dorice,” went on Mr. Manners, in a reflective tone, “whether I really am as remarkable a man as you might suppose?”

  “Girl never met a remarkabler,” was the cooing answer.

  “And what does Rose think?” he said, with great gratification.

  “I should be an idiot if I thought anything else,” was the downright answer.

  “A pair of flatterers,” was the modest answer; “why should I complain? You are both paid to do so. All the same, there may be some truth in it.”

  “Why should girl flatter her wonderful Francie?” came the ingenuous twitter.

  The gentleman took another sip of coffee and a long pull at his cigar. This desire to talk on his part was most unusual. Possibly it was the result of the events of the past few days. He had never wanted to talk. Working on his own, as he did, it was far better not to. He had been very wary, especially with people like Solomon. Solomon might suspect things, that was inevitable, but he didn’t know anything, hint as he might till his face was blue.

  Still this sort of monastic life had its drawbacks. That was why he had just thought it would be pleasant to talk things over with someone like Rose. These were dangers, he realised that, but now he felt an almost irresistible desire to talk. He could wrap it all up, and he needn’t go so far that they would see the real drift of his remarks. It might be rather fun to see what you could do in that way, a new kind of exercise for the brain.

  “One meets all sorts of people when one mixes in the world as I do,” he started.

  “I should think so,” said Dorice emphatically, as if refuting a whole chorus of doubters.

  “Some of them are clever,” he went on. “Very few, I may say.”

  “Girl’s Francie is clever,” chimed Dorice.

  “And some of them think themselves clever, mighty clever. A lot of these are about, you may take my word for it. Ever heard the name of Clay Harrison, my pet?”

  “Sounds fine.”

  “Not as fine as it sounds,” answered Manners, with a shade of annoyance. “And I didn’t ask for your opinion of how it sounded. Have you ever heard it?”

  “Never.”

  “And you, Rose?”

  “Never goes for me, too.”

  “That would be a fine shock for him,” said the man, with a smile. “He wouldn’t believe there were two people in the whole wide world who didn’t know his name.”

  “Is he as important as all that?” asked Dorice.

  “He thinks he is,” was the reply; “and that’s quite a different matter.”

  “Do you know him?” asked Rose.

  “Francie knows everybody,” came Dorice’s reproof.

  “Well, not quite everybody,” was the happy reply. “But I did chance to meet this man recently.”

  “And what is there so remarkable about him?” asked Rose.

  “Nothing remarkable,” said Manners. “But he has a great name in the world as a private detective. He has solved one or two big crimes, and there has been a lot of talk about him. You know how the papers look for sensations and butter a man up to the public if they think it will sell a few more copies. If I were asked, I should say it was more luck than anything else. A criminal with a bit of brain would get away with it every time.”

  He looked at the girls and wondered whether he was being a little too definite.

  “Not that crime’s worth the candle, anyhow,” he went on. “The police know their job pretty well nowadays. But it annoys me when these amateurs give themselves airs. I talked to him just to see how much of a fool he really was. I let him try his mighty powers of deduction on my poor little self. Lord, I laugh out loud when I think of it now. I gave him every chance—”

  “Pretty sporting,” said Rose.

  Manners looked at her curiously. Was she trying to be clever? She’d better not try any tricks with him. But she smiled back at him with almost impudent admiration. A girl of spirit, Rose. Ten times the brain of Dorice, too. And he’d got her under his thumb all right.

  “Girl’s man is a match for them all,” piped Dorice.

  Curious. He almost resented Dorice’s remark, although made in a genuine enough spirit, while he had rather liked Rose’s impertinence. It might be a bit dangerous, all the same. He must be careful.

  “Of course,” he explained, “this Clay Harrison isn’t the perfect idiot. He must have had a little intelligence to get where he is. But he’s not the only clever fellow in the world. He never had an idea of Frances Manners, you can be certain of that. Of
course, I expect he put down a little character sketch of me in his card-index. He’s supposed to keep a note like that of every single person he meets.”

  “How horrible,” murmured Dorice, looking frightened.

  “But what’s the good if the card’s all wrong?” asked Manners, rhetorically. “And that’s what he’d find if he really got to know me. Which, by the way, is the most unlikely thing on earth.”

  A ring at the front door bell disturbed them.

  “Callers?” asked Manners, with a threatening look at Dorice.

  “Somebody selling something, I expect,” was the reply. “Go and see, Rose.”

  Rose departed, carefully closing the door behind her. Manners gripped Dorice’s arm so viciously that she gave a little cry and said, “Been up to your monkey tricks again?”

  “I swear I haven’t, Francie,” was the terrified reply.

  “I hope, for your own sake, you haven’t,” said the man, releasing her so roughly that she fell back on the divan. “But if you have, you can start in now and say your prayers. Goliath won’t make any mistake this time, I can promise you.”

  Rose came back with a puzzled look on her face and announced that the caller was Clay Harrison himself.

  “What the devil?” cried Manners, jumping up with an oath. “Did he ask for me?”

  “No, he wanted Dorice.”

  “Why?”

  “I asked him, and he said he was making inquiries about Lewis Cant and would be very grateful for a few minutes.”

  “Interfering swine,” announced Manners.

  “But I thought you knew him, Francie?” asked Dorice, suspiciously.

  “Don’t be a fool,” was his answer. “What did you do with him?”

  “Left him on the doorstep—”

  “With the door closed, I hope?” demanded Manners.

  “Of course,” said Rose. “Both of them, because he had another man with him. And what do we do now?”

  The man thought for a moment and then said, “You had better see him. He might think it queer if you didn’t. Just give me time to get to my room, Rose, then show them in here and close the door.”