by Molly Thynne
CHAPTER NINE
Monsieur Karamiev had gone back, considerably shaken, to his hotel.
“So much sorrow in her life and at the end, this,” he had muttered, wiping the tears unashamedly from his eyes.
Constantine watched the obese figure and queer, rolling gait of the Russian as he hurried on his way, blowing his nose sonorously on a gaudy check handkerchief.
“That is a good little man,” was his comment.
Arkwright, his hands deep in his overcoat pockets, was staring at the pavement at his feet.
“It takes a lot to stir my imagination nowadays,” he said slowly, “but that woman in there has got me thinking. It’s a queer story, isn’t it? God knows what her father was, but the chances are that she was brought up in a respectable, middle-class home. Semi-detached villa in the suburbs; chapel-going parents; Monday’s washing hanging out in the back garden, and all that sort of thing. Could anything be duller and safer? Probably went on the stage in search of a bit of excitement, met this Russian chap, married him and found herself playing the great lady among the richest and gayest people in the world. I don’t suppose she’d ever even imagined anything like it. And then the crash. Karamiev said she was at breaking point when he met her. And then, just at the moment when she must have felt safest, this vile business! I’d like to get my hands on the beast that did it!”
Constantine’s eyes hardened.
“Do you know,” he said, “this is about the first time I have found myself envying you your job. I wish I could see a light anywhere in this puzzle!”
Arkwright kicked a piece of orange peel savagely into the gutter.
“It’s all too damned geographical for my taste,” he growled. “This Chinese knife business, then Cattistock, with his Chinese connection; Miller, with a past that covers South Africa, Switzerland and, for all we know, Germany. And now this woman and her Russian antecedents, as if things weren’t complicated enough already! We’ve got enough to choose from!”
“And Miller’s the link,” insisted Constantine doggedly. “Don’t forget that. His wife was the first victim and this woman was on her way to stay with him when she was killed.”
Arkwright grunted.
“I’m beginning to think kindly of the American third degree,” he said morosely. “I’d give a good deal to make him talk. He’s got to produce a satisfactory reason why he kept back the fact that he had never met this Abramoff woman and I’m off to get it!”
He found Miller out. Bloomfield, the secretary, received him. His manner was courteous, but he gave the impression of having detached himself with difficulty from his work to deal with the detective and, on the arrival of his employer, ten minutes later, vanished with unflattering celerity. Bloomfield had been discretion itself when Arkwright turned the conversation to Madame Abramoff. Mrs. Miller had mentioned her once or twice and he understood that she had invited her to stay in the house during the run of the performance at the Parthenon, with a view to saving her expense, as she had lost all her money in the Russian revolution. Asked whether Mr. Miller had ever met her, he said he could not say, but that, unless she had been in England lately, it was unlikely, as, with the exception of an occasional business visit to Amsterdam and Paris, he had not left this country since his marriage in nineteen twenty-seven.
Miller, when he came in, was palpably ill at ease though he tried to hide his discomfiture with an assumption of annoyance that crumbled slowly before Arkwright’s curt officialdom.
“I can give you ten minutes, Inspector,” he snapped, with a glance at his watch. “Unfortunately, my time is not my own.”
Arkwright sat down uninvited, his feet planted firmly, his huge hands on his knees, policeman written all over him.
“We have identified the murdered woman, Mr. Miller,” he announced briskly.
Miller ceased drumming impatiently with his fingers on the table and stared at him.
“Ah, the unfortunate creature in the mortuary,” he said vaguely. “I had forgotten for the moment. My poor wife...”
“Your wife’s friend was a Madame Abramoff, I think,” continued Arkwright inexorably.
Miller bowed.
“That is so,” he admitted.
Arkwright leaned forward.
“Mr. Miller,” he said. There was a new ring in his voice now. “Why didn’t you tell me when we were at the mortuary that you had never met Madame Abramoff?”
Miller’s face exhibited blank amazement.
“But surely you knew that. I thought I had given you to understand that I had never seen my wife’s friend. I merely told you at the mortuary I could not identify the murdered woman.”
“You gave me to understand that you had never seen her, but I’ve reason to think that you deliberately withheld the fact that Madame Abramoff was unknown to you. Had you any reason to suspect that this woman might be Madame Abramoff?”
A mottled flush crept under Miller’s thick skin.
“Aren’t you taking a good deal for granted, Inspector?” he retorted acidly. “A woman is found murdered in the streets of London and, by pure chance, I happen to be expecting a lady from Paris on the same evening. Can you suggest any reason why I should have jumped to the conclusion that these two people were identical? If I omitted to tell you that I had never actually met Madame Abramoff, I can assure you that it was only because the fact did not strike me as relevant.”
“You had no reason to fear that any ill might have befallen this lady?”
“What possible reason could I have for suspecting such a thing? Does it not strike you as possible, Inspector, that my mind may have been too full of other things to give this friend of my wife’s much thought? I went to meet her at the station as a courtesy which I felt was due to her, but, when she did not arrive, I must confess that I was, if anything, rather relieved. It was not unreasonable to suppose that she had changed her plans.”
“You said, I think, that she had written a letter to you saying that she intended to travel by the ten fifty-two train?” pursued Arkwright steadily.
“She had written to my wife,” corrected Miller. “I have the letter here, if you wish to see it.”
He pressed a button, picked up a speaking tube from his desk and spoke down it.
“Bloomfield, get me the package of letters on Mrs. Miller’s writing table. The one in her sitting room.”
With the efficiency that, Arkwright suspected, characterised all his movements, Bloomfield materialised, almost immediately, placed the package at his employer’s elbow and vanished. Miller slipped the top letter from under the elastic band and, as Arkwright watched him, he reflected that it looked uncommonly as though it had been placed there in readiness for his visit.
He took it from Miller, but, before reading it, he examined the envelope. It bore the Paris post-mark and was dated two days before Mrs. Miller’s death. The letter was short and to the point. It was written on flimsy foreign paper in the characterless, rather ornate hand-writing one would have expected from such a correspondent. In it Vera Abramoff said that she was coming to England with the rest of the Company on November the fourteenth and would arrive at Victoria at ten fifty-two. She expressed her delight at renewing her acquaintance with her old friend and the hope that she might find work that would keep her in “dear old England.” On the face of it there seemed no reason to doubt that Miller actually had been expecting her by that train.
Arkwright handed the letter back in silence. Miller eyed him truculently, but Arkwright, seeing his tongue pass swiftly over his thick lips and watching his fingers fumbling nervously with his watch chain, knew the man was nervous.
“Well?” demanded Miller, as the silence grew oppressive. “Are you satisfied? I do not know what you are driving at, Inspector, but if you are trying to suggest that I had any knowledge ...”
He pulled himself up sharply, but Arkwright could have sworn that he had been about to say “Vera Abramoff’s death.” As it was, he wriggled clumsily enough out of the trap in
to which he had fallen.
“Are you trying to connect me with this unfortunate person’s murder, Inspector?” he demanded.
“I have made no such suggestion,” answered Arkwright. “My object is to find out why you deliberately misled the police. You have heard nothing further from this Madame Abramoff?”
Miller shrugged his shoulders.
“Nothing, though I have been expecting a telegram every day. It is possible that, if she decided to remain another day or so in Paris she may have seen the news of my poor wife’s death in the papers. In which case she would hardly expect to come here.”
Arkwright looked him squarely in the eyes.
“Madame Abramoff is dead,” he said bluntly.
Miller stumbled to his feet and stood leaning heavily on the table.
“Dead!” he repeated. “When did she die? And where? If she is in Paris ...”
“She died in England, Mr. Miller. You saw her yourself when you failed to identify her on Tuesday.”
Miller’s grip on the edge of the table tightened. He stared at Arkwright as though he could not believe his ears.
“That woman? But this is appalling, Inspector! Are you sure there is no mistake?”
“None. The body has been identified by the manager of the Company in which she was playing.”
Miller groped for his chair and sank into it. His truculence had collapsed like a pricked bladder. He looked utterly shaken.
“But this is awful,” he muttered. “First my wife and then this poor woman. And for no reason! What is the meaning of it? My wife had not seen this woman for years. There could not be any connection between them. No one’s life is safe now ...”
He was almost incoherent with sheer terror and would have babbled on interminably if Arkwright had not cut him short.
“What reason have you to think that there is any connection between the two crimes? After all, it’s by mere chance that Madame Abramoff happened to be putting up at this house rather than at a hotel.”
Miller wrung his hands together.
“I wish I could think there is none, but Lottie was my wife and Madame Abramoff her friend. Isn’t that enough? And, according to the papers, Vera Abramoff died in the same way as my poor Lottie!”
He paused, staring at Arkwright with dilated eyes.
“That second knife you showed me ...”
Arkwright nodded.
“I told you at the time where we had found it,” he said.
“I knew then that some influence was at work against me,” groaned Miller. “Are the police doing nothing? Do you propose to allow these crimes to continue?”
“If you wish to lay hands on the murderer, Mr. Miller,” answered Arkwright bluntly, “it is up to you to tell us anything that may have any bearing on the case. It is to your own advantage to be frank with us. Is there nothing, no matter how trivial, that you can think of that might establish a connection between these two cases?”
“There is nothing, nothing, I tell you! I have already given you all the information I possess. You cannot expect me to do your work for you. If the police are incompetent, I am not to blame, but I demand to know what you are doing. Have you made any progress whatever, Inspector? After all, my wife has been brutally murdered and I have a right to ask.”
“I am afraid I cannot discuss the case, even with you,” said Arkwright, as he rose to go. “But I suggest that you think it over, Mr. Miller. If there is anything you have to tell me, you know where to find me.”
He left the house more firmly convinced than ever that Miller was concealing something that he was either afraid or unwilling to tell the police. That the information he had brought him was no news to him he was certain and yet he could have sworn that Miller, when he saw the body at the mortuary, had been under the impression that it was not that of Vera Abramoff and that he was speaking the truth when he insisted that he had expected her by a later train. Had he merely put two and two together after reading the newspaper reports of the second murder or had something happened in the interval to convince him that the victim was Madame Abramoff? Then there was the question of the letter, which he had been more than ready to produce. That it was genuine seemed indisputable, and yet Karamiev had assured him that there had never been any suggestion that the troupe should travel by a later train. Owing to the fact that they were burdened with scenery and various theatrical properties their arrangements had been made well in advance and there had never been any intention of altering the time-table. Madame Abramoff had never expressed a desire to travel alone, and, he was sure, had not intended to do so. And yet she had written from Paris announcing her intention of coming by the later train.
Arkwright called at Karamiev’s hotel on his way back to the Yard and interviewed him once more. The Russian was able to produce several specimens of Madame Abramoff’s signature and had often seen her handwriting. After inspecting the letter to Mrs. Miller he gave his opinion that it was genuine, but again expressed his conviction that she had never intended to travel by the later train. He was able, however, to clear up the mystery of her luggage. A large theatrical dress basket had gone through the Customs with the rest of the baggage of the troupe and was at present in one of the dressing rooms at the Parthenon. At Arkwright’s request he accompanied him to the picture theatre and pointed out the dress basket to him. Presumably Madame Abramoff’s keys had been in the missing hand bag, but Arkwright had little difficulty in forcing the lock and getting the basket open.
He examined the contents and, at the bottom of the trunk, found a large accumulation of old letters, programmes, photographs, etc. These he took back to the Yard with him.
He went through them carefully, only to find that there was little to be gleaned from them. Mrs. Miller’s letters to her she had evidently destroyed and there was no mention of her or of any of Mrs. Abramoff’s English connections among her papers. It looked as if she had lost sight of her people during the years she had lived abroad and, without the help of her passport, it would be difficult to get in touch with them, even if anything were to be gained in that direction. Arkwright compared her handwriting with that of the Miller letter and was forced to the conclusion that the latter was genuine.
Constantine, meanwhile, had gone straight back to his flat on leaving the mortuary. He was met by Manners with the news that a lady had called during the afternoon. She had left no name, but had expressed herself as very anxious to see him and announced her intention of coming again later in the day.
“Very worried she seemed, sir, at finding you out,” volunteered Manners. “She wouldn’t leave a name, but said she’d take her chance of finding you.”
“What kind of lady, Manners?” demanded Constantine, knowing from experience that Manners’ judgment was to be relied on.
“Very nice, sir. Very nice indeed. Not at all the kind of lady to be collecting subscriptions. You’ll be having your bath now, sir?”
Constantine intimated that he would and undressed slowly to the sound of running water. He had barely got into the bath, however, before Manners knocked at the door with the information that the lady had returned. Constantine, more mystified than annoyed, sacrificed his usual quiet hour with a book and dressed hurriedly.
He was astonished to find Mrs. Vallon waiting for him.
“But this is delightful,” he exclaimed, with perfect truth. “You will let Manners mix you a cocktail?”
“I’m full of apologies,” she declared. “I have just realised that I must have interrupted the one quiet moment of your day. I ought to have telephoned.”
“And spoiled a most pleasant surprise! I’m glad you didn’t!”
Her smile was very charming.
“You’re making it too easy for me,” she said, “but, all the same, you are wondering why I have come. The truth is, I had an impulse this afternoon and then, when I found you out, I felt I must see you. Now I’m here, I feel a little foolish.”
“My feeling, on the contrary, is entirely one of grat
itude,” Constantine assured her. “At this hour of the day I know myself to be an old man. If it were not for you, I should be dropping off to sleep over a book, a delightful sensation when one is young, but humiliating and ominous at my age.”
He was interrupted by Manners with the cocktails. When he had gone Constantine cast a whimsical glance at his unexpected guest.
“That was a more subtle compliment than you realise,” he said. “I was just about to order these. When Manners brings them of his own accord it means that he thoroughly approves of my visitors. And Manners is a potent factor in this household, let me tell you. He said, by the way, that you were not at all the kind of lady to be collecting subscriptions! He has all the well trained servant’s snobbish dislike for charitable enterprise!”
Mrs. Vallon laughed, but her eyes were distrait. Constantine knew that she was aching to broach the reason for her visit and was finding it difficult.
“It is curious that we do not know each other better,” he went on, more to give her time than for the sake of conversation. “We must have nearly met so often in the past.”
She leaned forward impulsively.
“You are a good friend of Richard’s, aren’t you, Dr. Constantine?” she demanded.
“And of yours, I hope,” he added quietly.
She flashed a grateful glance at him.
“Thank you,” she said. “I mean that, you know. I have an idea that soon Richard and I may need all the support our friends can give us. Dr. Constantine, they say that you have some influence at Scotland Yard. Is that true?”
“I’m afraid it is a gross exaggeration. I know the Assistant Commissioner rather well and I have several good friends among the police, but that is all.”
“But you hear things, don’t you? Is it true that Richard is under suspicion?”
Constantine did not try to evade the question.
“In connection with the Miller murder, you mean?” he said. “I think perhaps that is putting it too strongly. I suppose I ought not to give away official secrets, but, as a matter of fact, the police have another, very definite suspect in view. I will say this, though. I could wish that Richard had not chosen just that particular moment to leave Davenport’s waiting room.”