Without another word he left the room. Alasdair followed. Along the corridor, up the stairs, along the top corridor. At uniform speed.
At the double doors of the meditation hall Mr Utamaro paused until Alasdair had caught up with him. Then with a single motion he pushed both doors open.
Flaveen was dead.
And there was no question of illness.
She lay sprawled on the floor about three yards from the door. The Muramasa wakizashi had been driven into her body up to the hilt. A little blood stained her white blouse.
Alasdair’s face slowly drained of its colour. Then he said:
‘I told you so. I warned you. I knew it was dangerous. And now look what’s happened. She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s been killed. Murdered. I told you something would happen. I told you. I told you.’
‘Mr Stuart,’ said Mr Utamaro.
The level voice.
‘Mr Stuart, I want you to telephone for the police. You know where the warden’s office is?’
‘Just past the common room, that door on the right,’ said Alasdair.
‘Yes. Go along there. The room is unlocked and the telephone is on the desk. Tell the police one of the students on the course has been killed. You are not to say any more. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Alasdair.
A murmur.
‘All right, then. Go.’
Alasdair went. Uneven steps along the corridor, going down the stairs in a series of rushes. Mr Utamaro walked slowly round the meditation hall looking from side to side.
In the big empty room no place of concealment. At the far end Mr Utamaro stood on tiptoe to get the best possible view of the little gallery above the double doors.
When he had satisfied himself that this too was deserted he left the room, carefully closing the doors behind him. Then he sat down on the floor outside and waited.
*
‘But what will my parents say?’
Tears in the dark girl’s eyes.
‘That is easy. They will say you are to come home at once.’
A toss of the flaxen plaits.
‘But if I go home, how can I perfect my English?’
A wail.
‘If you go home you won’t perfect your English. You won’t stand a chance in your exam. You are already behind in your work-programme.’
‘I know. I know. Oh, what am I to do?’
‘You should do what I am going to do.’
A prim little complacent smile.
‘What is that? Have you thought of a way of persuading your parents that in England murder is not very important?’
‘They already believe that it is a commonplace event and that young girls are the most usual victims. That would not help.’
‘But what are you going to do?’
‘It is very simple. I am not going to tell them about the murder.’
Bright blue eyes widely innocent under the blonde hair.
*
‘I’m Detective Superintendent Padbourne.’
A tubby man. Sparse gingerish hair, a uniformly pink complexion, small eyes, slight double chin, meticulously shaved. Wearing a dull green Harris tweed sports jacket, a striped shirt with a check cotton tie, and grey flannels. Brown shoes brightly polished.
He stood with his back to the empty fireplace in the common room, short legs apart, shoulders against the mantelshelf. Looking at them sitting uncomfortably round him with a detective sergeant inconspicuously behind them. Eyes missing nothing.
Detective Superintendent Padbourne. A shrewd little porker.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I dare say you all know by now: Miss Mills has been murdered. There can be little doubt about that, though we haven’t had the result of the post-mortem yet. But it s almost certain that no accident could have put that sword into her as deeply as it was, and it’s at such an angle that it’s equally unlikely that she could have done it herself.’
‘And this wretched lunatic, superintendent,’ said Mr Applecheek, ‘have you found him? No doubt a poor demented creature of that sort is to blame – otherwise it might be one of us.’
Superintendent Padbourne looked at him steadily. The skin puckering in concentration at the corners of his little pig eyes.
‘That’s what we have to face, if I take your point correctly,’ he said. ‘Miss Mills was killed with a Japanese sword, which, as I understand it, was – er abstracted from the room where it was kept. That seems to narrow the possibilities. It’s unlikely that a stranger both stole the sword and killed with it. Of course I’m not ignoring the chance that the weapon was found after it had been stolen by this wandering madman you’re so keen on, sir.’
He nodded briefly in Mr Applecheek’s direction.
‘But it’s only fair to tell you that to the best of our knowledge there are no homicidal maniacs at large.’
‘But there must be,’ said Miss Rohan.
A prayer.
‘There may be, madam, but it’s unlikely at the least,’ said the superintendent.
Matter-of-fact.
‘So,’ he went on, ‘I want to know all about this sword, and as soon as possible. First, let me ask straight out. Which of you took it?’
Flicking, darting to and fro, not a movement missed, the two piggy eyes.
Everybody watching him, holding themselves still. Avoiding any accusation.
Superintendent Padbourne said nothing. The silence allowed to grow.
And nerves to stretch.
The two restless pig eyes never stopping in their play over the faces, the hands, the feet of the people sitting round.
At last the superintendent said:
‘No? Well, I shall be asking you each that same question individually. That and a lot of others. Perhaps you may care to be more forthcoming in private.’
‘Superintendent,’ said Mr Utamaro.
The calm syllables.
‘Superintendent, there is one thing I think I ought to make clear now. Something which I had allowed to remain obscure hitherto.’
‘Yes?’ said the superintendent.
Still the restless eyes wandering.
‘The sword.’
‘Yes?’
‘The riddle of its disappearance from the thief-proof cabinet can easily be explained.’
‘I had a quick look at the cabinet,’ the superintendent said. ‘It’s a type I’m familiar with. You’re wrong in calling it thief-proof, you know. There are men about, not many but a few, who could open it. You had no real grounds to assume it was an inside job.’
‘I did have, superintendent,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘You see, the sword was not in the cabinet when it was stolen. Major Francis, the warden here, you know – he is on holiday – insisted on having the cabinet installed. But it seemed to me that its presence was inviting the attention of people who would have mastered its secret. So every evening I quietly removed the sword and hid it. I’m afraid Major Francis will not approve.’
‘The only thing wrong with your line of reasoning, sir, if I may say so,’ said the superintendent, ‘is that when anything is stolen from that particular type of cabinet we know one of three people stole it.’
‘Certainly I have been proved wrong,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘The sword was stolen. Stolen by somebody here who must have seen me move it. And its disappearance has had terrible consequences.’
‘That is as may be,’ said the superintendent. ‘It depends a good deal on where exactly you hid the weapon when you took it from the showcase.’
‘It was in my room,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘I have a little box, like most Zen monks, in which I keep my few personal possessions. The sword just fitted into it. It was there.’
‘I shall have to see the box of course,’ Superintendent Padbourne said. ‘But tell me, what is its general appearance? Is it heavily ornamented or plain? Is it equipped with a lock?’
‘It is a quite plain lacquered box,’ Mr Utamaro said. ‘And of coarse it has no lock.’
‘Not the sort of
thing to attract the casual prowler, then?’ said the superintendent.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Mr Utamaro.
‘But it must have been,’ Miss Rohan said. ‘That is the obvious explanation. This is a big house, anybody could wander into it quite easily, and when they saw this exotic box of Mr Utamaro’s what could be more natural than to look into it and take the sword?’
‘You’ve seen the box, madam?’ said the superintendent.
A ripple of impatience.
‘No, no, I haven’t seen it.’
‘Have you been into this room? Or seen into it through the open door?’
‘Oh, yes, of course, I have been into the room,’ Miss Rohan said. ‘Mr Utamaro conducted his sanzen there.’
‘And the box was in full view,’ said Mr Utamaro.
‘Mr Utamaro,’ said the superintendent, ‘when you transferred the sword from the cabinet to your room, did you take any special precautions to avoid observation?’
‘No,’ said Mr Utamaro. ‘There was, as far as I knew, no one about at that time. But I might have been observed walking along the corridor. It is a little distance.’
‘You didn’t conceal the sword as you walked?’
‘I held it with the blade running along my arm,’ Mr Utamaro said. ‘It would not have been particularly conspicuous, but it could have been seen.’
‘And you told nobody about the transfer?’
‘Nobody.’
‘At what time did it take place?’
‘It was shortly after tea,’ Mr Utamaro said. ‘That would be about 6 p.m., I suppose.’
‘And you discovered the theft when?’
‘Just before nine o’clock. I was to have made some announcements at nine, in accordance with Major Francis’s custom, and I went to my box to fetch a slip of paper with notes on it that Major Francis had given me. It was then I found the sword was missing.’
‘What was happening during the evening?’ said the superintendent. ‘What happened immediately after the tea meal?’
‘Most people went to their rooms, I think,’ Mr Utamaro said. ‘They were anxious to tidy themselves up.’
‘And the rooms are on the second floor?’
‘They are. All except mine.’
‘So it looks as if anybody could have seen you move the sword. Can you pinpoint the time you moved it more accurately?’
‘No, superintendent, I carry no watch. And I am not accustomed to thinking what particular time it is at any particular moment.’
‘Part of the religious habit, I dare say,’ said the superintendent.
A hint of scorn. A habit – there was no doubt – to be deplored.
‘And how was the rest of the evening spent?’ he asked.
‘There was no programme in particular. We talked together, we had dinner, and there was an informal sort of party.’
‘You didn’t all stay together for that?’
‘No, I think I am right in saying people wandered out every now and again for various reasons.’
‘Right,’ said the superintendent.
He stepped forward from the fireplace.
‘I can see no reason to change my views as a result of this conversation,’ he said. ‘Miss Mills was almost certainly murdered, and the chances that it was by an intruder are slight. I shall be wanting to see you one by one during the rest of the day. There is a constable on duty at each door of the house. They have orders not to let anybody past them.’
He stumped out, followed by his silent sergeant.
‘Insufferable little man,’ said Alasdair.
He spoke loudly. A voice intended to penetrate the door. But only just.
‘He’s doing his duty,’ Jim said.
Alasdair glared at him.
‘I think there is a good deal to be said for your view, Mr Stuart,’ said Miss Rohan. ‘He struck me as unnecessarily brusque.’
‘Of course he was,’ said Alasdair.
He stood up and went over to Miss Rohan, pulling a small tin box from his pocket.
‘Would you care for one of these?’ he said. ‘Only peppermints, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Miss Rohan said.
She took one of the tablets and put it in her mouth.
‘They’re very strong,’ she said.
‘Anyone else care for one?’ said Alasdair.
He passed the box round. When he got to Jim he ostentatiously snapped the lid of the box shut. Then he said:
‘No doubt we could all do with something a little stronger than a peppermint. But that doesn’t seem to be practical at the moment’
He walked across to the fireplace and took the same attitude as Superintendent Padbourne had done.
‘I think we ought to discuss the situation,’ he said.
‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ Jim said. ‘For some reason or other one of us killed that poor kid. Let’s hope the superintendent isn’t long finding who it was. I don’t think he will be.’
‘And what makes you say that,’ said Alasdair.
‘He strikes me as pretty efficient,’ Jim said.
‘Does he?’ said Alasdair. ‘Mrs Manvers, you’ve probably had more experience of this sort of thing than any of us, would you say that that little man was efficient?’
‘I really don’t know,’ said Honor.
Abstracted. Distant.
‘Oy, oy,’ said Gerry. ‘Making out my wife hobnobs with the police. You be careful. That could be libel.’
‘Slander,’ said Honor.
‘All the same thing,’ Gerry said.
‘But seriously, Mrs Manvers,’ said Alasdair. ‘Hasn’t your journalistic experience brought you into contact with the top-notchers in the police, the Scotland Yard men? Aren’t they rather different from our friend?’
‘I’ve met one or two,’ Honor said.
Rousing herself.
‘To tell you the truth I wasn’t very greatly impressed with them. I did a series on the crime wave. “What’s wrong with Scotland Yard?” I found quite a bit of material. The trouble is they’re completely unimaginative. They’ve attempted to reduce all forms of crime to stereotyped situations that can all be dealt with in the same way, according to the same formula. They try to reduce the human mind to a series of formulas. And I don’t suppose this chap will be any better. He probably won’t know quite as many formulas. I don’t know. Anyhow, take it or leave it, that was my story at the time.’
‘And she’s sticking to it,’ said Gerry.
‘Yes,’ said Honor, ‘my professional reputation depends on it. Honor Brentt has exposed the police force. They’d better stay exposed.’
‘I don’t think all that was true of the older type of officer,’ Miss Rohan said. ‘But you may well be right about the present product. If you can’t get people who know about things, you have to try and find a system for them to learn. And of course it can’t work. It’s the same all over.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ said Jim Henderson.
The harsh voice from between the clenched teeth.
‘Aren’t you forgetting that someone has been killed?’
He looked round at them. A scowl.
‘Well, of course one isn’t forgetting,’ said Mr Applecheek. ‘It is indeed a sign of how acutely we are remembering that we are attempting to steer the conversation into other waters.’
‘All the same,’ said Alasdair, ‘there’s something to be said for Henderson’s view. I’ve certainly been having a quiet think about the situation, and I don’t see any point in waiting to see if that complacent little policeman begins to find out the truth. I want to know sooner than he’s likely to be able to tell me. I don’t want to hobnob with a murderer longer than I have to.’
‘That wasn’t exactly what I meant,’ said Jim.
‘Wasn’t it? I’m not surprised to find we differ. But I venture to think that what I’ve just been suggesting is something we ought to consider before everything else. Do we know who killed Flaveen?’
Gerry Manvers got up and leant against the mantelshelf beside Alasdair. A sufficient parody.
‘You want to watch out,’ he said. ‘This is where we begin the third degree stuff.’
‘Don’t be a fool, man,’ Alasdair said. ‘I’m not saying I know, or anything like that. What I am suggesting is that between us we have all the facts necessary to show who stole the sword. We could find out in a few minutes. And that’s just what I propose to do.’
Gerry looked at him and strolled back to his chair.
‘Go ahead, if you’re so clever,’ he said.
‘I’m not all sure that you should,’ said Miss Rohan,
An obstacle interposed.
‘I can’t see why not,’ said Alasdair.
‘Because such things should be left to the police,’ Miss Rohan said. ‘The superintendent is to interview us each quite soon. He will find out whatever facts we know. We should leave it to him.’
‘And hang about perhaps all the rest of the day while he pieces his facts together,’ said Alasdair. ‘No thank you. We can find out in five minutes ourselves.’
‘And I don’t think we ought to,’ Miss Rohan said.
The others looked away from her. Embarrassing obstinacy.
Alasdair, shoulders square against the mantelshelf, did not look away.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘just why you are so anxious for this conversation not to take place?’
‘Because the result is bound to be unpleasant,’ Miss Rohan said.
A quaver of unsuppressed emotion.
‘Why can’t you leave things alone?’ she said. ‘Why go asking for unpleasantness? Do you never think of the consequences of anything you do? If you find out who took the sword, what happens next? Have you thought of that? Are you ready to frog-march the culprit in to the superintendent? Or what do you intend to do?’
‘I’ve no doubt the person in question, whoever it proves to be, will act sensibly,’ said Alasdair.
Gerry laughed.
‘Very well then, we’ll see,’ said Alasdair.
Cheeks flushing heavy red.
‘There’s one quite simple fact that appears to have escaped our policeman friend,’ he said. ‘It’s true enough that at the time Mr Utamaro moved the sword we were all more or less on our own and that anybody could have seen what had happened to it. But later on that evening we were all together for most of the time. People did go out every now and again but not for long and often not alone. And that’s when the sword must have been stolen: when the thief could be fairly certain Mr Utamaro was occupied. So all we have to do is to account for our absences during dinner and the party afterwards.’
Zen there was Murder Page 12