Methylated Murder

by Methylated Murder (retail) (epub)

  “And I did not know what was going on,” said Mrs. Leffer. “Although you will bear me out,” here she looked at Henry, “that I had my suspicions. So when he came this morning I was ready. He seemed a bit queer and excited, as if he had been drinking, when I opened the door to him. He asked for Mrs. Cant, and I said he couldn’t see her. Then he shouted at me, so I waved the pistol you gave me at him. He laughed and said I needn’t try to bluff him. I said I wasn’t bluffing, and if he didn’t clear off at once I’d fire the thing and that would bring the police. He said nothing. Then he looked as if he was making up his mind, and walked back to a motor-car by the kerb, jumped in and drove straight off without another word. I had a council of war with Mrs. Cant and we thought it would be safest to come up here right away.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Bonnington, mopping his forehead, “I really can’t believe it.”

  “That’s nothing,” answered Harrison. “There’s a great deal more for you to believe yet, Mr. Bonnington.”

  Chapter XXIV

  The Criminal’s Handbook

  A week or so later a strange party assembled in a secluded room at the Fountain Club on the invitation of Walter Peary. It was obvious that the chambers would not accommodate the number wishing to hear Harrison’s explanation, and Peary had insisted that as the “methylated murder mystery”—a newspaper alliteration—had started at the club it would be fitting to finish it there. The club porter had been somewhat dubious at the presence of ladies, but his undisguised admiration at Harrison’s latest effort stilled his conscience.

  The women were Martha Packard, filled with remorse at the tragedy at Redford but showing no trace of her feelings; Dorice Locket, none the worse for her experience in the Hested caves, and cheerfully excited Miriam Cant, happier than she had been since her husband’s death and now under the genuinely benevolent protection of Mr. Bonnington; and, of course, Mrs. Leffer.

  The men were Tim Norton, still broken-hearted at the loss of his wife, Sybil, but somewhat comforted by the knowledge of Sleet’s arrest; Morris Hillyard, gazing all the time at Clay Harrison with a look of veneration which was decidedly disconcerting; Stephen Bonnington, chastened and certainly not truculent, in Henry’s words “eating out of Clay Harrison’s hand”; and Peary himself as master of the ceremonies. Two other names had been suggested, those of Sir Thomas Craig Fennel and Ben Castor. The latter was on tour and had, as a matter of fact, lost a certain amount of interest when his discovery of Percy Harringway had proved wide of the mark.

  After a long discussion with Peary, Harrison had decided that it was unnecessary to invite Fennel to be present. Whatever strange secret Sleet had unearthed in that direction was entirely a matter between husband and wife. It would be wrong to risk disturbing any mutual happiness they were enjoying in the South of France.

  “Quite a committee meeting,” said Henry to Eric, as they followed their master into the room.

  “Lucky for them to have the chance,” returned Eric, somewhat obscurely.

  “Where are your papers?” said Peary to Harrison.

  “I haven’t any,” was the reply. “Do I need some?”

  “Surely you can’t tell us all about it without any papers?”

  “I told you I was a poor barrister,” answered Harrison. “Now you know why. I haven’t even brought my brief into court.”

  “You know best,” said Peary, and then, turning to the company, “Ladies and gentlemen—”

  “Sorry, Peary,” interrupted Harrison, “I really can’t have any speeches. I just want to give all of you here some idea of the man we have been up against, one of the most interesting criminals I have ever tackled. I have waited till today to talk to you because I hoped to fill in my own gaps from what he himself could tell me. As I had expected, I was sent for yesterday. Sleet told the police he would let them know everything on one condition, that I was there to hear what he had to say. They didn’t like it, but he was quite firm, so I saw him yesterday with officers from Scotland Yard.”

  “Did he say why he was, so keen on having you?” asked Peary.

  “In a way, yes,” said Harrison. “He has a low opinion of police mentality, I am sorry to say, and he wanted to be certain I heard the complete story. A queer kind of vanity, really. Of course the man is a monument of vanity, I shall come to that again later. But it was quite fresh to me that, even after discovery, the man should want to gratify his self-esteem by making certain that his own version should be accurately recorded and appreciated.”

  “But you were not surprised?” asked Peary.

  “No, I wasn’t,” answered Harrison. “It was all consistent with his character. It appears that it all started with the appearance at Mr. Bonnington’s office of an unpleasant but very astute client who wanted a little legal respectability to cover a blackmailing transaction he had in hand. Sleet knew his employer would have nothing to do with it and told the man so. But the man was not so easily put off, and went into his business with a wealth of detail to impress Sleet. He even told him where he had been able to pick up incriminating letters and documents which had resulted from odd burglaries. Still Sleet declined to do business, stating that Mr. Bonnington wouldn’t touch it with a barge-pole.”

  “And quite right, too,” said Bonnington.

  “But the seed had been sown, and Sleet had something to think about. His first reaction was to the utter lack of method shown by his criminal visitor. Quite frankly, he said, it disgusted him. If only people like that had the brain to organise crime, what a lot more they could do. If one organised blackmail on the basis of this rather unusual method of collecting one’s material, the profits would be tremendous. He visited a place mentioned by the client where the proceeds of burglary were marketed, and was surprised at the ease with which such a scheme could be carried out, if only one were systematic. Even then, he had no thought of plunging into it himself, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought what perfect fools the ordinary criminals were, and so, having evolved what appeared to be a business-like system, he made a tentative start. By the way, it’s all in the card-index.”

  “Card-index?” asked Peary, with surprise.

  “Yes, when the police searched his room in the house where he lived with his very worthy parents, and incidentally be supported them, they found a beautifully kept card-index of every blackmailing effort he had ever made. He told me at Hested the police would have enough evidence against him. I was a bit puzzled that he was so certain, but I did not know about the card-index.”

  “I’m glad he was so methodical,” said Bonnington, bitterly.

  “He was successful at once,” Harrison went on. “Of course it was only in a small way. That card-index is the key to a great deal of the cruellest unhappiness in back streets and suburbs of London. Many a woman who does not know the name of Sleet will find herself relieved of a shadow which may have hung over her for nearly ten years, as a result of his enforced inactivity. Still these were small game. He soon flew higher. He paid good prices for stolen letters, and the regular thieves were encouraged to pay more attention to this rather neglected branch of pilfering. He even made suggestions from odd information he picked up in such spots as the Divorce Court. You see, Mr. Bonnington, his position with you was undoubtedly an asset.”

  “I suppose it was,” grumbled the solicitor.

  “But he found that the bigger game were not so easily blackmailed as the smaller. He even burned his fingers rather badly with his first effort.”

  “He admitted that?” asked Tim Norton. “I thought you said he was vain?”

  “He only admitted it to show how quickly he could plan to suit a new situation,” answered Harrison. “He decided, as I had already realised, that the old methods were not good enough, and, having made the acquaintance of Clem Tarrack during some of his prowlings in the country, possibly in search of likely material, he worked out his scheme of terrorism. He knew he had a gift for using his voice to unnerve women. You can testify to t
hat, Mrs. Packard?”

  “I certainly can,” was the reply.

  “And I too,” said Miriam Cant.

  “The card-index shows his first efforts in this direction,” Harrison went on. “He soon wormed out of Clem the story of his attack on the little village girl. That gave him a hold at once. Mr. Sleet liked having a hold over people.”

  “And don’t I know it,” commented Dorice Locket, vigorously.

  “Clem in his horrible ‘make up’ worked wonders at first,” said Harrison. “But a real reverse came with Mrs. Betty Craig going insane as a result of his efforts. Sleet had an idea that Clem was beginning to overdo things, but the game was too profitable to give up on that account. Then came Mrs. Norton.” He paused and looked at Tim Norton, the latter nodding in return to show that he had complete control of himself. “He had come into possession of some letters she had written as a young actress to a young actor. He bought them as a bargain long after they had been stolen. They may have been a little indiscreet, but nothing more. They were innocent as the day. Still he had a devilish power of persuasion. Mrs. Norton was not likely to remember the exact words, and I think we can assume he was able to make her believe they were very much worse than in actual fact. He bled her for a while, and then she turned on him and said she would tell her husband everything. So he threatened her with the punishment he had meted out to her friend, Mrs. Craig. I need not say more.”

  “The swine,” cried Morris Hillyard.

  Tim Norton stared in front of him for a moment and then said, quietly, “Thank you, Mr. Harrison, I am glad to know.”

  “This was followed by another case,” Harrison continued. “I do not propose to mention names. Here we see Clem getting even more difficult to deal with. The woman he was supposed to be frightening roused her husband, and Clem gave him a nasty knock on the head. Finally, there was the shocking happening at Redford.”

  “And what had he to say to that?” asked Peary, partly to help Mrs. Packard over a very difficult moment.

  “Unrepentant, I am afraid,” answered Harrison. “He said he realised that such a happening was inevitable. But here we come back to the overwhelming vanity of the man. Any disobedience to Sleet’s orders had to be punished. That was an absolute rule, in his mind. Mrs. Packard, Miss Locket, whatever else happened, they must have their desserts. Sleet must be obeyed, implicitly.”

  “And the vanity explains the oriental splendour, too, I suppose?” asked Peary.

  “Obviously,” was the reply. “He was rather interesting about that. He told me he had always envied Whittaker Wright and his billiard room under the lake, and all the luxury with which he had been able to surround himself. Sleet wanted luxury, too, but he knew his own limits. It was essential to keep up the appearance of respectability, working in Mr. Bonnington’s office by day and mainly spending his evenings at home with his parents, listening to the wireless and keeping his card-index up-to-date. The fantastic name of Frances Manners, the garish surroundings, the restaurant food, the good drink and cigars, all were of one piece in the luxury he coveted. And the two women acting almost as slaves, he liked that better than anything. Even then, he showed his common sense technique by using people whom he was able to terrorise by claiming a hold over them.”

  “That’s true enough,” said Dorice.

  “But, of course, he really sent for me because he wanted to know my side of the story,” said Harrison. “He was surprised that all my suspicions started with the telephone call to Mrs. Norton.”

  “To Mrs. Norton?” asked Bonnington.

  “Of course, I never had any doubt of that,” answered Harrison. “He put it through himself. He told you, I expect, that she was ringing you up, but that was an absurdly simple thing to do.”

  “Terrible,” said the solicitor.

  “I am afraid he smiled when I said that all my first inquiries led in one direction.”

  “What was that?” asked Bonnington.

  “I think Henry had better tell you,” replied Harrison.

  “Well, sir,” said Henry, in a little confusion, “everything seemed to point to Mr. Bonnington himself.”

  “To me?” echoed the solicitor, overwhelmed.

  “You see, Mr. Bonnington, you trusted him,” said Harrison. “And he made unscrupulous use of your trust.”

  “If I had only realised it,” said Bonnington, sadly.

  “Don’t forget that Sleet was clever beyond the average. If he wanted anything done himself, he advised you to do it for him. The evidence over the telephone call, for example, and the treatment of Mrs. Cant,” the solicitor looked in a broken-hearted way at the young woman, and received a reassuring smile. “He even suggested that I should admire the strategy by which he persuaded his more important victims to make their wills with you so as to keep him in easy touch with them.”

  “The scoundrel,” cried Bonnington.

  “There were, however, three clues which led away from you,” said Harrison. “Hested, the methylated spirit, and the suggestion that Lewis Cant was leading the very life which Sleet himself was leading. The last I was able to dispose of after very few inquiries about your method of spending your time in the middle of the day. You are extremely regular in your habit of lunching at your club, Mr. Bonnington.”

  “That is so,” said Bonnington.

  “But what of Lewis, Mr. Harrison?” said Miriam Cant. “This is the first time you have mentioned him.”

  “It is very painful, Mrs. Cant,” said Harrison. “Do you think you can stand it?”

  “I know I can,” was the reply.

  “Very well,” answered Harrison, gently. “As you know, the trouble started with the incident of the methylated spirit in the office. Sleet was annoyed that Cant should have taken him to task about it. But that might have died down if Cant had not taken that fatal Sunday walk which finished at Hested. I gather he was actually standing near the War Memorial when Sleet and Clem came out of the ground, and the recognition was mutual. Nothing much was said, but Sleet was certain Cant had his suspicions. At the office, next morning, Sleet felt still more certain, although Cant said nothing about it. Mr. Bonnington noticed that Cant was not looking his normal self and, after a day or two, complained of sleeplessness. So he himself gave him some tablets which he occasionally used and found beneficial.”

  “I’ll swear there was no harm in them,” said Bonnington.

  “Probably,” said Harrison. “But Sleet substituted others of a different type. There are some drugs which are often included in such tablets which weaken the will to such a point that one can take a fatal overdose without being aware one has done so. Several inquests recently have dealt with that very point. Not only did Sleet supply Cant with this kind of drug, but actually told him of the dangers of taking an overdose by mistake. I am afraid we must assume that he repeated it so often that Lewis Cant was eventually persuaded to do so. It was a devilish thing to do.”

  Miriam Cant was crying softly, while Bonnington was gently patting her hand.

  “I do not want to make you feel worse, Mrs. Cant,” went on Harrison, “but as we are going into the whole thing now, I may as well tell you the rest. Such was the vanity of the man that Sleet thought you were too good for your husband.”

  “Too good?” asked the young woman, with surprise.

  “He thought he himself far better suited,” said Harrison.

  “Impossible!” she cried.

  “So you see there was a strange touch of jealousy about the whole thing,” Harrison went on. “He was quite genuine when he wanted you to marry him—the only genuine thing about him.”

  “How terrible,” said Mrs. Cant. “But why had he to kill Lewis?”

  “He had that fixed idea over punishment,” answered Harrison. “Not only those who disobeyed him, but those who got in his way. You see, he intended to punish Eric as well.”

  “And you said it was providential, sir,” said Eric reproachfully.

  “Quite true,” returned Harrison.
“We should certainly have caught him, but if he had gone straight away after being repulsed by Mrs. Leffer it might have been much more difficult. He went to the chambers to finish off his final detail by punishing Eric. In doing so, he discovered that I was still alive when he thought that Clem had polished me off with the arsenic. With me alive he could not leave Clem about as a possible witness against him. He had to risk everything and go back to the caves at Hested to get rid of Clem.”

  “Then he meant to kill Clem all the time?” asked Dorice.

  “He said he didn’t know whether he would have had the nerve for it,” answered Harrison. “But poor Clem made it easy.”

  It was now Dorice’s turn to weep.

  “Only one thing more,” said Harrison. “A matter of my own personal curiosity. I was very anxious to know how it was that Clem was able to recognise me so easily. Sleet said airily that he had a good photograph of me.”

  “But you have taken so much care not to have your picture published, sir,” said Henry.

  “That is so, Henry,” answered Harrison. “So I asked for a little more enlightenment.”

  “And what was the explanation, sir?”

  “He referred me to the Criminal’s Handbook.”

  “That sounds promising,” said Peary.

  “It was his own name for a book of newspaper cuttings which he kept,” said Harrison. “He had been in the habit of snipping out paragraphs which had interested him and pasting them up. An invaluable idea, he said, when he started on his present activities. The police must have found it, he added; I ought to ask them to let me go through it. I should be most interested.”