“Was Jill awake?”
“I don’t know,” Letty Ransome answered sullenly. “I had left my bag in the sitting-room on a chair by the door. I snatched it up and ran down again.”
But she had been ten minutes away. Three would have sufficed for all that she had done; even if she had not hurried. Letty was lying.
“Had the maid who let you in called her?”
“Nobody let me in,” Letty replied. “The outer door was on the latch. Jill told the maid to leave it like that and asked us to see to it, when we left her this morning. The waiters don’t have keys. Jill said that she might need something and didn’t want to get out of bed to unfasten the door. I fixed the bolt back myself.”
Letty was on surer ground here. She spoke with a growing confidence. It was eight o’clock, or near to it, before Jill’s friends had left her. She was very likely, at that hour of the morning when the servants would be about the corridors, to leave her door so that she should not be disturbed to open it if she wanted anything. Letty was speaking the truth now. We were all certain of it — and all the more certain, therefore, that we had been right in believing that she had lied before. Suddenly Letty began to babble in a low, quick voice:
“I want you to do something for me. I shall have to go in a minute. I have a matinée this morning — and I think something of importance is coming along. Someone is coming to see my show and I want a little time alone before I appear. If it comes off it’s going to make a great difference to me. And I want to keep myself up, if you understand.” She was fairly babbling now. “If people hear that you’re running about all night and get home at eight in the morning, you lose it again. You lose their respect. They won’t take you seriously. That’s what I mean. They won’t believe you’re a serious actress.”
She was asking us to believe her now. I had no idea of what was coming but she was speaking or rather pleading very earnestly. It was clear that something was at stake for her — something important; just as it was clear that something terrible had happened during her ten minutes’ absence from the lounge.
“What do you want us to do?” I asked.
“I want you not to mention to anyone that I left my bag up in Jill’s flat this morning,” she said.
The prayer sounded rather an anticlimax to the careful preparation for it. None of us was likely to go about advertising that the brilliant young actress, Letty Ransome, had left her handbag behind her in a girl-friend’s flat at eight o’clock in the morning after a ball. Nor could I see that it would have done her all the damage she feared if we had. I told her that she was exaggerating but she would not have it.
“No,” she argued. “The suburbs for one thing and the managements for another, would say at once: ‘Oh, she’s just like the rest. Anything for a good time.’ I should lose caste. It would do me actual harm if it was known that I had left my bag behind me in Jill’s flat at eight o’clock this morning.”
I disbelieved every word she was saying. She had not been at all disturbed by any such fears as those which she was now expressing when she had announced in the lounge her intention of running up to Jill’s flat. It was only since she had come down from it that we had been showered under with these excuses. It seemed to me better to be clear about it all.
“What you want is that we shouldn’t say you had run up for it at a quarter to two this afternoon,” I suggested.
Letty Ransome got suddenly very red. She shrugged her shoulders impatiently and turned a pair of dark eyes on me which were hard as steel and as angry as a wild-cat’s.
“Of course,” she said pettishly. “It’s the same thing. If I hadn’t left my bag upstairs this morning I couldn’t have run up to fetch it this afternoon, could I? I should have thought anyone might have seen that.”
She got up as she spoke. She was holding her bag in her hand. She composed her face to a semblance of civility as she turned to me.
“I thank you for my very good lunch,” she said.
“But you have had no coffee,” said I.
“I can’t wait. I daren’t.”
She was now in a hurry to be off.
“Good-bye!” And as she moved she turned again towards us.
“You’ll remember what I asked — won’t you? It’s nothing, of course, but still — you’ll remember.”
Fear and an effort to make light of her fear — a not very successful effort — then she was gone. The waiter brought coffee for the three of us who were left and we sat wondering what we should do. I was uneasy and inclined to go up at once to Jill Leslie’s flat. On the other hand, Michael’s appointment was for half-past three and it was only a quarter past now. If he went up before his time he might very well seem a trifle too importunate and receive in consequence a blank “No” to his petition. On the other hand — there was Letty Ransome’s face as she came back into the lounge and again as she appeared towards the end of our luncheon. I think we were all of us in a quandary. Meanwhile the minutes passed. I called the waiter and ordered the bill and paid it — and meanwhile the minutes passed. I turned to Imogen.
“We might go up now,” I suggested. “Michael and I?”
Imogen looked at the clock on the wall. There were still eight minutes to the half-hour.
“Yes,” she said, “but wait outside the door until the exact time.”
Neither Michael nor I had thought of that most excellent device. Michael, indeed, was thinking of nothing but his petition. All through luncheon he had been framing sentences and selecting words. I had seen his lips moving at other moments than when he was eating and drinking.
“Very well.”
I got up and touched Michael on the shoulder.
“Let us go!”
We went through the lounge into the hall. I said to the porter:
“Mrs. Legatt’s car, please.”
He ordered a chasseur to fetch it and Imogen bade us go upon our errand.
“But I’d like to see you afterwards,” she added. “I shall expect you, Michael. You’ll bring him along, Martin.”
“Right!” said I.
Michael and I turned to the lift in the corner.
“The third floor, please,” said I.
The liftman looked sharply at each of us in turn. But he said nothing. He ran us up to the third floor and we walked along the corridor.
At the door of Jill’s flat stood a policeman.
Chapter 24 The Fourth Theft
THE POLICEMAN BARRED the way.
“I am sorry, gentlemen.”
We were utterly taken aback. Of all the possibilities which had crept in and out of my mind during the last hour and three-quarters, that we should be stopped by a policeman was certainly not one.
“We have an appointment with Miss Leslie,” I said.
The policeman looked at us for a moment or two without speaking. He was slow rather than suspicious and it was impossible to infer from his expression whether the reason for his presence at the door was trifling or serious.
“Will you give me your names?”
We gave them and he continued:
“If I take them in I must rely upon you to see that no one enters while I am away.”
“We promise,” I said.
“Thank you.”
Beyond the door a narrow passage stretched to another door. An electric light burned in the passage. The policeman passed in and closed the outer door upon us. He was away for five minutes at the least. Then he opened the door again, admitted us, and himself went out, once more to stand on guard. In the sitting-room a man in a black frock-coat with a white edge to the opening of his waistcoat was looking out of the window. He turned as we entered and bowed to us.
“I am the manager of the hotel,” he said. But the explanation was hardly necessary. His dress declared him.
“Mr. Walmer,” said I.
“Yes.”
He was a young man, distressed but not flurried.
“This is a dreadful business,” he said quietly. “If you wo
uldn’t mind waiting for a minute, the inspector would like to speak to you.”
“Inspector?” I cried in dismay.
“Yes.”
It was clear that he meant to answer no questions. So I put none. I looked at Michael. He, too, was completely at a loss. But I think that he was harassed by a doubt whether after all he would be able to make his carefully rehearsed petition. We remained thus in the greatest uneasiness for the space of five minutes, and then the inner door, which I presumed gave on to the bedroom, was opened just wide enough to allow a complete stranger to pass through. He was a thick-set, middle-aged man with a rugged face, dressed in a double-breasted blue suit, and he spoke with a note of culture in his voice which I had hardly expected from his appearance.
“Mr. Legatt?” he asked looking from Michael to me.
“Yes,” said I.
“Mr. Crowther?”
“Yes,” said Crowther.
“I am Inspector Carruthers.”
We bowed and waited.
“I understand that you gentlemen had an appointment here with Miss Leslie.”
“At half-past three,” said I.
“Will you tell me when the appointment was made?”
“Last night at the Albert Hall.”
“Can you give me any idea of the nature of the appointment?”
“It was of a private nature.”
The inspector nodded his head as if he found that statement quite sufficient.
“I am afraid that the appointment cannot be kept,” he said gravely.
Michael made a startled movement.
“But it was of the greatest importance,” he protested.
“Death cancels even appointments of the greatest importance,” said the inspector.
“Death!”
It was Michael who repeated the word. I must do him the credit of stating that though his cry had the very note of despair, the selfish fear that he had thereby lost his sapphire had nothing to do with inspiring it. It was too deep and true. And just because it was deep and true it astonished me. For I seemed to hear the very abnegation of his creed. Here was the man who, by the annulment of his own life, had proclaimed louder than words could do that existence was misery and death release, now bewailing death as the immitigable ill. But I was wrong. I looked more closely into that tortuous mind. Grief at the elimination of a life young and bright and generous accounted for not the smallest element in his distress. But that she should not have done the good deed of repairing a great sacrilege before she died — that, indeed, was matter for tears. By your good deeds you cease to live.
For my part, I was thinking of Jill as we had seen her last night, a gay and sparkling little figure. Then another picture rose in front of me, one rather sinister and not to be obliterated — the picture of Letty Ransome’s haggard face when she had joined us in the lounge below after running up to these rooms.
“When did Jill die?” I asked.
“Half an hour ago, perhaps. Not more,” the inspector answered. “Miss Leslie gave orders that she should be called at half-past two. The maid found the door ajar at that hour and went into the bedroom. She was alarmed, and telephoned to the manager here, Mr. Walmer. Miss Leslie was still alive when the doctor arrived. You would not wish to make any statement about the nature of your appointment?” Inspector Carruthers repeated his question almost casually.
“I don’t think so,” I answered.
“No, I suppose not,” Carruthers agreed.
“Of what did Jill Leslie die?” I asked.
“The doctors will tell us. There is a police-surgeon in with the hotel doctor. Meanwhile, do you know who are her relations?”
“No,” I said.
“She will have friends who might know, I suppose.”
“I rather doubt it,” I replied. “Her nearest friend is Mr. Robin Calhoun.”
The inspector held a pencil poised above a little note-book for an appreciable time. Then he wrote the name down.
“Thank you! I think we know that name, don’t we?”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I.
“His address?”
I looked towards Michael, for I had not an idea where Robin Calhoun lodged now that Savile Row knew him no more. Crowther, however, knew and he gave the number of a house in a street of Bloomsbury.
“A friend of his?” Carruthers asked.
“An acquaintance,” answered Michael.
Carruthers turned to the manager.
“Perhaps, Mr. Walmer, you would telephone and see if you can get hold of him.”
“I’ll see to it at once,” and Mr. Walmer went out into the corridor. Inspector Carruthers took his place at the window and drummed with his knuckles on the window-pane. “Curious that the maid found the front door open, isn’t it?” he asked of the world in general. “Curious, and one would have thought a little dangerous, eh? A big hotel. All sorts of people staying in it. Asking for trouble, what?”
I made a tiny movement with my hand to check any impulse to reply which Michael might be feeling. For if ever I had seen the net spread in the sight of the bird, it was now. Let one of us answer: “The door was left open at eight this morning by Jill’s own wish,” and round the inspector would swing. “Yes, I know that, because I asked the maid who attended to Jill Leslie when she got back to the Semiramis at seven o’clock this morning. But how did you know?” and out must come the story of Letty Ransome’s handbag and all the complications which that might involve. I was not prepared to tell that story yet. I was not sure that it would ever be necessary to tell it. I wanted to know a little more as to how poor Jill Leslie died, before it was told; so I made my little signal to Michael Crowther to walk delicately.
The indolent inspector at the window noticed it, however. He strolled across the room and planted himself in front of Michael, legs apart and hands behind his back.
“Could you explain that to me?” the quiet, cultured voice pleaded. “It would be so helpful if you could. A girl in a big hotel or apartment-house going to bed and leaving her front door open all night — yes, all night, mark you, Mr. Crowther. Odd, eh? Yes, and risky?”
He lifted himself on to his toes and let himself down again. His eyes rested upon Michael’s face hopefully. He was asking for help from a friend. Every moment I expected Michael to answer eagerly and helpfully: “Yes, but Inspector, the door wasn’t open all night. Jill Leslie didn’t get back until seven, when the servants were about.” But Michael was not such an innocent as I was assuming him to be. Imogen and I had fallen into the habit of construing Michael as a child. But we were wrong. He had moments, such as this one, when he was once more the Captain of the Dagonet. He looked quite stolidly at Inspector Carruthers.
“Young people, Inspector! They don’t take the precautions which we elders do. They don’t expect danger.”
“No, I suppose not,” Inspector Carruthers agreed.
If he was disappointed he betrayed not a sign of it.
“We shall be clearer about the position when the doctors have finished,” he added.
The doctors nearly had finished. We heard the water running into the wash-basin in the bathroom a minute or two afterwards, and after a minute or two more they came into the room — the hotel doctor, a small dapper fellow, the police-surgeon, a tall loose-limbed man with a grey moustache and a powerful, clean-cut face.
“Dr. Williams,” Carruthers introduced to us the hotel doctor, “and our surgeon, Mr. Notch.”
I was very interested to see Mr. Notch. He was one of my heroes, a pioneer in the early days of Alpine exploration, to whom one of the great Aiguilles of the Mont Blanc range had fallen on his nineteenth attempt.
“We shall have to make a post-mortem,” said Mr. Notch. “But we have very little doubt as to the cause of death.”
“Very little,” Dr. Williams agreed.
“Yes?” said Carruthers.
“It seems to be a clear case of cocaine poisoning,” said Mr. Notch.
Carruthers no
dded his head.
“In that case the question of the open door ceases to be of importance, doesn’t it?” he remarked, his eyes sliding carelessly from my face to Michael’s. Did he look for a sign of relief? He certainly did not get it.
“There will have to be an inquest, of course,” Mr. Notch continued. “And it may as well be held as soon as possible, if you agree, Inspector.”
“Certainly.”
“The day after to-morrow, then. I’ll arrange with the Coroner and send for an ambulance at once. If you don’t want me any more I’ll go down and tell the manager now.”
He was already at the door. As he opened it I repeated a question which I had already put to Inspector Carruthers.
“At what hour did Jill Leslie die, Mr. Notch?”
“She was dead before I arrived,” and he looked at Dr. Williams.
“About a quarter past three,” Dr. Williams declared.
“And up to what hour could she have been saved?”
The surgeon and the doctor both shook their heads.
“That’s too difficult for us,” Mr. Notch replied. “There are no fixed rules, you know. It depends on a number of things. I have known some who were certainly dying three or four hours before they died. Some, on the other hand, have been brought back to life certainly within an hour and a half of the moment when they would have died if they had not been attended to.” He stood for a moment or two. “Poor little girl! What a waste, eh? I saw her the other night in her comic opera. She was so pretty in it, so engaging!”
He nodded to the inspector and went out into the passage. I was disappointed. It was ridiculous to be disappointed, especially at this moment. But the ridiculous, unsuitable idea always does seem to occur at moments made for tears. I certainly did not expect Mr. Notch to open a window and climb down a rain-pipe. None the less, for him, a hero of the high Alps, just to go out by the door like all the rest of us earth-clinging people, seemed to me an insufficient exit. I was roused from this foolish reflection by Inspector Carruthers.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 657