Warrant for X

by Philip MacDonald

  He was at it in two strides. A hand on the jamb, he swung into the room.

  He saw the sergeant kneeling beside an inert, prostrate bundle which he saw, as he took a step forward, to be that of a woman.

  She was lying on her back. She was fully dressed for the street in clothes of cheap but tidy black. A round blob of a face, the eyes closed, was pallidly upturned to the ceiling. The arms were flung wide. One leg was twisted underneath the body. Behind the head, still somehow attached to a mass of untidy but incongruously beautiful brown hair, was a hat of grey-black felt. From the right ear a thin chain dangled, at its end a pair of pince-nez from which broken glass had fallen to the floor and lay in small glittering stars upon the carpet.

  The sergeant turned his head and looked up at Anthony. He said:

  “She’s alive, all right, sir. Had a bad crack on the head though.” He pointed to a place on the forehead where a blue bruise lay like a shadow.

  From outside came the creaking of the front door again; footsteps; a murmur of male voice; then Garrett’s, which shouted:

  “Gethryn! Gethryn!”

  “Here!” called Anthony.

  The sergeant, still on his knees, turned and pointed to the corner of the room farthest from the door. He said:

  “Look there, sir!”

  But Anthony was already looking. Pulled out from the corner, its lid gaping, was a tin trunk and all around it, in appalling disarray, lay what had obviously been its contents. The sergeant said:

  “Someone in a hurry, sir?”

  Anthony turned back to the door. He said over his shoulder:

  “Put her on the bed. Then go through the rest of the house and come back to her.”

  He went through the door and swung to the left and was brought into collision with a large blue-clad man in the gaiters and gauntlets and flatcap of the motor police.

  “’Ere!” said a bass rumble. “What’s your business?” A gloved hand which seemed in itself to weigh a stone damped itself upon Anthony’s shirt-clad left shoulder.

  Anthony’s feet did not move; nor did his body. But his right arm came up and across, and its open, rigid hand brought its edge down in a short snapping blow upon blue- covered biceps. . . .

  “Urch!” The rumble was, almost comically, now more baritone than bass.

  “Out of my way!” said Anthony and thrust with a shoulder and was past.

  The narrow corridor and the slightly widening rectangle which formed the little entrance hall seemed full of men. Under the amber light stood another motorcyclist constable. His thumbs were hooked into his belt and his feet planted wide apart and beneath the visor of his cap his long, boyish face showed blank and gaping and bewildered. Beside him, just entered, was a man in shirt and trousers; hair tousled from sleep. He, too, was gaping. From the doorway of the first room into which the sergeant had looked came Sheldon Garrett. He saw Anthony and stopped. He swayed and leant against the doorjamb. He said:

  “Avis! She there?” His voice was harsh and laboured. He made a gesture towards the farther part of the corridor.

  Anthony shook his head. “Hold on!” he said and stepped past Garrett into the room. A woman’s bedroom, delightful as its owner.

  But its owner was not there.

  The room bore signs of recent occupancy. There was no conterpane upon the bed. Upon its left-hand side was a pillow which still bore the impression of a head, and blankets and sheets were thrown back. It was a bed which recently had been inhabited.

  Anthony took Garrett’s arm and drew him into the room and thrust him gently backwards into a chair. The edge of the seat took the man behind the knees and he sat. Anthony said:

  “Answer my questions.”

  “Yes,” said Garrett. His voice was flat and dead and seemed to come from somewhere deep within him. He looked at Anthony with eyes which seemed to be set inches back in his skull.

  Anthony said: “She told you she was going to bed early. When was that?”

  The flat voice said: “Around eight-thirty. She said she was going to bed right away.”

  Anthony said: “There’s a woman knocked out along there—in the maid’s room. Short. Fat. Middle thirties. Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. Lots of brown hair. Glasses. That the skivvy?”

  “Yes. Name’s Parfitt.” Garrett stared unwinkingly.

  Anthony said: “One more question. Is this Parfitt’s usual evening off?”

  Garrett put a hand up to his head, passing it in a squeezing movement across his forehead. Then, suddenly, he jumped to his feet. He said:

  “What the hell am I doing, sitting here like a dummy!” He turned and took a quick step towards the door.

  Anthony caught him by the shoulder and swung him round. “Damn you! Do as I say! This Parfitt’s usual day off?”

  “Yes,” said Garrett. “And now, damn you, let me go!” He wrenched his shoulder free.

  Anthony became aware that the murmur of voices from the passage had suddenly ceased. Now one voice spoke, a crisp, authoritative voice which he knew.

  Pike was in the passage. Behind him were the gaping motorcyclist and the man in shirt and trousers. Before him were the other motorcyclist, still rubbing ruefully at his right arm and, in the doorway of the servant’s room, the sergeant. Pike was holding in his hands the thin morocco pocketbook which Anthony had thrown at Garrett’s feet outside the building. Pike was saying:

  “Lot of dunderheads! You saw this!” He waved the pocketbook at the arm-rubbing giant. “Inside it are Colonel Gethryn’s own card and his special card from the commissioner! . . . Now get busy/’ He pointed at the arm-rubber. “Go get a doctor for the woman, quick!” He turned to the man in shirt and trousers. “What ‘re you? Caretaker? Yes. . . . Get out into the corridor and wait. Don’t go away.” He turned on the gaping motorcyclist; then on the sergeant. Definite, brief orders came from him in a steady stream. . . .

  Garrett came out of the bedroom, turned to his right and, pushing past the staring sergeant, blundered down the passage.

  Anthony came out of the bedroom. He looked at Pike. “Good man!” he said.

  And that was at twelve forty-five.

  CHAPTER XIX

  BY FIFTEEN MINUTES past one much information had been brought to Pike in Avis Bellingham’s dining room. He collated it—and found himself possessed of nothing. No one had seen Mrs Bellingham since seven in the evening, when she had come in. No one had seen or heard any visitor to Mrs Bellingham’s flat. The caretaker, communicating over the telephone with Sergeant Stubbs, the day commissionaire, had discovered that Rose Parfitt had been seen to leave Lords’ Mansions at half-past four in the afternoon but beyond this no one knew anything about Miss Parfitt, who still lay unconscious upon her bed, though now with a doctor tending her.

  And no one of the dozen or more friends of Mrs Bellingham to whom Garrett had telephoned had seen or heard of Mrs Bellingham since the morning.

  Pike, frowning, sent subordinates upon yet more errands of investigation, in none of which he had an instant’s faith. In the servant’s bedroom Dr Harold Porteous bent over the inanimate person of Rose Parfitt, while behind him, in the corner by Ada Brent’s open trunk, Anthony Gethryn knelt and probed ceaselessly into its past and present contents.

  In the drawing room Sheldon Garrett, a white-faced automaton, sat with a telephone list before him and steadily called number after number. . . .

  2

  At precisely twenty minutes past one Avis Bellingham drove her car into the garage of Lords’ Mansions, backed it neatly into place, left it and entered the building by the basement door. She had, indeed, gone to bed before eight o’clock. But by eight-thirty she had realized that she was wrong in assuming that bed was the place in which to think. She had, accordingly, risen at eight thirty-five and gone, in lone innocence, to a cinematograph theatre and thence, with an acquaintance encountered in the lobby after the show, for a drink at the Berkeley.

  At twenty-two minutes past one she halted to face the front door of
her flat and saw the broken pane of glass by its lock. The fingers which had been fumbling in her bag for a key withdrew themselves, for she saw that the door was not latched. Bewilderment making her eyes even larger than was their habit, she pushed at the door with a tentative little thrust. It gave. She became conscious of a murmur of male voices from the direction of her dining room. She frowned. She squared her slim shoulders beneath their covering of soft grey fur and marched into her little hallway. The voices from her left were clearer now. Her ear seemed to detect a familiar tone but before her mind could dwell upon this familiarity and name its owner she heard, through the halfopen door of her drawing room, the rattle of a telephone dial and then the voice of Sheldon Garrett. It said:

  “Mrs Marshall? I’m sorry to disturb you but it’s imperative that I should know whether Avis Bellingham . .

  Avis Bellingham stared at the drawing-room door. The voice droned on. She did not hear all its words but the flat, deliberately emotionless tone made clear to her puzzled mind the fact that Tom thought that something had happened to her. . . .

  She hurried to the drawing-room door and through it. Garrett sat with his back to her at the little table which bore the telephone. He was saying:

  “You’re certain! You see——”

  Avis put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Tom!” she said.

  Garrett turned. As he turned he got to his feet. The light chair upon which he had been sitting fell to the carpet with a soft crash. In his hand the telephone cackled in agitation. His eyes, dark rimmed in an ashen face, widened in a stare of unbelief. The blood suddenly rushed darkly to his face; only to drain from it as quickly as it had come.

  “Tom!” said Avis Bellingham again and took a step towards him and put a hand upon his arm.

  There came an odd, constricted feeling into Garrett’s throbbing and so recently maltreated head; his ears were filled with a roaring sound and everything in the sight of his staring eyes began to whirl about him.

  He took a step towards the vision which had spoken to him. The telephone, cackling no longer, somehow slipped from his hand. It hit the leg of the table with a crash. He took another step forward and felt himself falling. . . .

  3

  He felt something wet and cold on his forehead and something wet and burning on his tongue. He opened his eyes but the light sent a stab of pain through his eyeballs into his head and he closed the lids again. There was a confused rumbling of voices all about him. He lay still and fought with his mind and steadied it until his hearing cleared. He heard, first, a man’s voice which he did not know: a deep, slow voice with precise enunciation. It was saying:

  “. . . not to be wondered at. If the concussion, as you say, was serious, then all this excitement and agitation would be bound to leave——”

  And then Avis’ voice. “But, Doctor, there’s no real damage, is there? I mean this won’t——” Her voice broke off.

  Then the deep, precise voice again. “Madam, there is nothing which cannot be rectified by that best of all specifics, a day in bed.”

  Then Avis again, only this time with a slightly different sound, as if her head were turned in another direction: “Anthony ! Why did you let him——”

  Then another well-known voice. “What was I to do, throw him out of the car? If I hadn’t brought him he’d either have gone off his head waiting or——”

  Garrett said without opening his eyes:

  “Or done something equally damn silly. I’m—I’m all right now.”

  Cautiously he raised his eyelids, veiling sight with their lashes so that the light did not send that stabbing pain back into his head. He looked up into Avis’ face, now as white as his own, and saw eyes which were blue pools of pity and perhaps something else.

  He closed his own eyes and felt soft hands on his forehead.

  4

  At twenty-five minutes to two the doctor pronounced Rose Parfitt as able to answer questions—“as few as possible, you understand, gentlemen, please/”

  Rose Parfitt was luxurious in her mistress’s bed, but shaken and nervous and filled with a feeling of pity for Rose Parfitt. Pike and Anthony surveyed her with compassion and friendliness and determination.

  “Now, Rose,” said Anthony, “we want your help.

  “Y-yes sir.” Brown eyes looked up at him from beneath snowy bandaging.

  “And we don’t want to bother you”—Anthony’s tone was nicely blent of sympathy and command—“but we must know whether you saw the person who struck you.”

  “O-oh, sir!” The voice trembled and the sore head moved a little. “O-oh, sir!” Words ceased and a whimpering began.

  Anthony sat upon the edge of the bed and picked up a pudgy, work-roughened hand and patted it. He jerked his head in an infinitesimal gesture and Pike withdrew softly from the Parfitt field of sight.

  “Now, now,” said Anthony. “We know how you feel, Rose. But you’ve got to be a brave girl and help us.”

  The eyes fixed themselves upon his with almost canine worship. She said:

  “Y-yes sir. I—I did see ’im. For a flick of a second like. I—I come in all unexpectin’ like an’ goes along to my room an’ opens the door an’—an’—o-oh!” Once more she began to whimper.

  Anthony patted the fat hand again. “That’s a good girl, Rose. That’s a brave girl. Now take your time and tell us and we’ll go away and the doctor’ll give you something to give you a good sleep.”

  “Y-yes sir. Well, I opened me door an’ thinks, ’ow did the light come to be on? An’ then I ’ears a movement and out from behind the door comes a man an’ ’e ’as something in ’is ’and an’ ups with it an’ ’its me.” The voice began to falter; then grew stronger again as Anthony resumed the patting. “An’ that’s all, sir.”

  Anthony said: “Thank you, Rose. Thank you very much. We’ll soon be out of here now. Just tell us what this man looked like. Just anything that you remember, however little it is. Anything.”

  The head moved a little. “There—there wasn’t anything, sir. An’ it was only the flick of a second before—before——”

  Anthony patted. “I know. I know. Tell you what, Rose, I’ll ask some questions. Then you won’t have so much talking to do. Good idea, that, isn’t it? . . . Now, was he a tall man?”

  “No sir.”

  “Was he short?”

  “No sir.”

  ‘I see—medium. Was he heavily built?”

  “N-no sir. About—about medium, sir.”

  “I see. Did he have light clothes or dark?”

  “Dark, sir. Oh, an’ I remember ’e ’ad an overcoat on.”

  “Hat on, too, Rose?”

  Her eyes flickered shut while she thought. “N-o sir. No, ’e didn’t.”

  “Good girl, Rose. What colour was his hair?”

  “No special colour, sir. Sort of—sort of—medium ”

  “I see. Now I’m nearly finished, Rose, so think hard for this one. Do you remember anything particular about his face? Anything at all, Rose?”

  The eyes regarded him pitifully; then once more were closed in a not undramatic struggle for thought. She said at last:

  “No sir. Not anything at all, sir.”

  “Did he wear glasses?”

  “No sir. ’Is face was—was—sort of medium, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but it doesn’t seem like there was anything about ’im to remember, sir. I—I don’t even know as I should know ’im again if I was to see ’im, sir. I——”

  “It’s all right, Rose. It’s all right.” Anthony patted the hand again and stood up. He looked at the hovering doctor and nodded and bade Rose good night and went out with Pike at his heels.

  In the passage they looked at each other.

  “Nothing there, sir.” Pike drew down the corners of his mouth.

  “Medium!” said Anthony. “Well—back to the luggage.” He led the way to Parfitt’s own room and once more stood over the open trunk which had been Ada Brent’s and looked down at it and th
e surrounding litter. Pike said:

  “It’s all very well, sir, but we aren’t getting anywhere.” He pointed to the trunk. “You’ve been through it already.

  “Very perfunctory search,” said Anthony and knelt. “If at first you don’t succeed, Pike, pry, pry, pry again!” His head and shoulders were now so deep in the great box of tin that his voice came hollow and booming.

  Pike said: “Can’t see how we’ll get anywhere this way, sir. We know this man—this Evans—came here to look for something. But we don’t know what he came to look for—and either he found it and took it away with him or he didn’t find it. But in any case we’re none the wiser.”

  “Wait!” said Anthony and got to his feet, holding in his right hand a little collection of papers clasped together at their corner by a fastener of bent wire. He said:

  “Taffy was a Welshman: Evans is a thief. Evans came to this house and stole . . . Let’s see whether we can’t find out what he did steal!” His long fingers turned over the papers, disclosing a cheap dressmaker’s bill for fourteen and elevenpence; a receipt from the KJB Agency for nine shillings; a printed notice from the Hammersmith branch of the Carnegie Library to the effect that the return of a work apparently entitled Lady Wickmansworth’s Folly was much to be desired; a picture post card, with no message on it, of a particularly dreary stretch of the front of Torquay and an advertisement of bathing suits torn from a Sunday paper.

  Pike frowned. Had his companion been any other person than Anthony Gethryn he would have sniffed. But he went on looking. Anthony had ceased to flick the papers over and now something was visible that had been hidden before—a small, jagged-edged piece of paper, wedged under the clip.

  “Ah!” said Pike and made a movement with his hand.

  “Yes,” said Anthony. He slipped the clip sideways and delicately picked out the scrap. It was of cheap, coarse paper; the sort of paper which will take only printer’s ink or pencil. It was about an inch along its top, half an inch wide at its broadest and tapered down to a point where the tear ended. At the right-hand edge of the top was a mark in print—possibly the downstroke of a capital letter.