Who Is Simon Warwick

by Patricia Moyes

  “I don’t just think it. I know it. Damn near succeeded, too.” With shaking fingers, Benson pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Okay if I smoke?”

  “Of course.”

  There was a moment of silence as Benson, with some difficulty, got his cigarette lit. The he said, “In broad daylight. In the middle of Piccadilly. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “What happened, Mr. Benson?”

  Benson gave a small, nervous laugh. “It sounds crazy,” he said, “but somebody tried to push me under a bus.”

  Henry raised his eyebrows very slightly, and Benson’s pale face flushed angrily. “I suppose you don’t believe me, but it’s true. I left the hotel around ten o’clock this morning to do some shopping— things my wife wants me to bring back from England. Anyone could have followed me. I took a bus to Piccadilly, and I was waiting with a whole crowd of people to cross the street to Fortnum and Mason’s when it happened. The lights had just turned green for the traffic, and those huge buses were coming down the bus lane at a good rate. I was on the edge of the curb, and somebody pushed me from behind. Hard. I stumbled off the curb, and how I kept my footing, I don’t know. That bus driver was some guy. He jammed on his breaks and missed me by inches. Stuck his head out of the cab and called me a few rude names, too. By that time, the lights had changed and all the other people were across the street.”

  “You didn’t recognize anybody in the crowd?”

  “How could I? Anyway, who do I know in London apart from Quince and his secretary? I certainly didn’t see either of them.”

  “Look here, Mr. Benson,” Henry said, reasonably, “don’t you think you may be taking this too seriously? I know I warned you yesterday to look after yourself, but the sort of accident you’ve just described is not so rare, you know. People in crowds jostle each other and get impatient and—”

  “I’m telling you, I was pushed, Chief Superintendent. But you’re right, in a way. I might have thought it was an accident, except for this.” He reached into his breast pocket and brought out a small piece of paper. A‘ When I got home, I found this in my overcoat pocket.”

  Henry took the paper and studied it. It was a page torn from a small, cheap notebook, and the penciled message was printed in shaky block capitals by an apparently uneducated hand. It read: SIMON WARWICK WONT EVER INHERIT SIMON WARWICK WILL DIE.

  Henry looked at Harold Benson. He said, “Are you sure you didn’t write this yourself, Mr. Benson?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  With a small sigh, Henry said, “Very well. We’ll assume you didn’t. In that case, I don’t think what happened this morning was a serious murder attempt. It sounds to me more like a warning.”

  “I know it,” said Benson. “I know it. And that’s why I’m bowing out and going home. I’m withdrawing my claim. There’s no inheritance that’s worth a human life.”

  Henry said, “So you admit you are not Simon Warwick?”

  “I’m admitting nothing. I’m just telling you that Simon Warwick does not exist—at least as far as that will is concerned.”

  “Are you trying to say that you are Simon Warwick, but you are waiving the right to your inheritance, just because of a cheap threat?”

  Benson said again, “Simon Warwick does not exist.”

  “Does Simon Finch exist, Mr. Benson?”

  “He—no. Simon Finch does not exist.”

  “You mean, he’s dead.”

  “I mean what I say.”

  “But you knew him once, didn’t you? You got that passport from him.”

  Benson’s agitation was distressing. He said, “I refuse to discuss the matter.”

  ‘Tm afraid you can’t do that, Mr. Benson. You seem to have forgotten that you are an important witness in a murder investigation. Where did you get that passport?”

  Benson stood up. “I refuse to answer any more questions without my attorney being present.”

  “Very well.” Henry pressed the buzzer on his desk, and Sergeant Hawthorn appeared at the door, round-faced and smiling. “Sergeant, please take Mr. Benson to a telephone so that he can call his lawyer. Then stay with him in the waiting room until the solicitor arrives. After that, we can go on.”

  When Benson and Hawthorn had gone, Inspector Reynolds, who had been standing quietly at the back of the room throughout the interview, said, “He’s lying, sir.”

  “Lying about what?” said Henry. “About the attempt on his life? About being Simon Warwick? About not being Simon Warwick?”

  Reynolds scratched his head. “Blowed if I know, sir. On the face of it, I’d say he wrote that note himself, and made up the whole story, just to try to prove that he is Warwick.”

  “And then denies that he is? Pretty convoluted reasoning.”

  “I admit it’s hard to make head or tail of it, sir, but I just know he’s lying.”

  Henry said, slowly, “I wouldn’t have expected him to give up so easily. With Goodman exposed as a fraud, and his documents forged, Benson has produced the only solid piece of evidence there is—the passport. Quince and Hamstone will have to give his claim serious consideration, whatever they may say, before any court will agree to presume that Warwick is dead. Suppose somebody did try to push Benson under a bus, and slipped that note into his pocket? Would you have believed that that young man would have been so intimidated that he’s not only prepared to give up his claim, but to lay himself open to very serious charges of misrepresentation as well?”

  “You never can tell what will scare people, sir.”

  “A murder charge,” said Henry, “scares most people.”

  “You’re going to arrest him, sir?”

  “Well,” Henry said, “just consider. He had the motive and the opportunity. He was in that room with Goodman for quite long enough to kill him, and Miss Benedict remembers that Goodman had a copy of the Times with him, so that the presence of the newspaper doesn’t mean that a third person must have been involved—although that’s what Benson will obviously claim.” Henry paused. “I may be wrong, Reynolds, but the way I see it now is this. Harold Benson was born Simon Warwick, became Simon Finch and is now calling himself Harold Benson. He dare not admit his identity as Finch for some reason. What reason? Maybe he killed the real Harold Benson and took his identity. When he realized that there was a fortune waiting for Simon Finch-Warwick, he couldn’t resist at least having a try at claiming it. He must have been badly rattled by Goodman. He knew he was a fraud, but didn’t know how to prove it, since Goodman was impersonating him—that is, Simon Finch. If he had, in fact, killed Harold Benson, his impulse to solve matters by murdering Goodman would be more understandable. How does that strike you, Reynolds?”

  “Strikes me as pretty likely, sir. Very good reasoning.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Henry, irritably. “It’s nearly right, but not quite. Meanwhile, we can’t run the risk of Benson—or whatever his name really is—slipping out of the country.”

  The evening papers announced that a man was at police headquarters helping the CID with their inquiries into the murder of the supposed Simon Finch, now known to have been Ronald Goodman. The following day they carried the story that Harold Benson, Jr., a citizen of the United States, had been arrested and charged with the murder.

  Ambrose Quince telephoned Henry Tibbett at his home that evening to congratulate him on solving the case and bringing the murderer to justice.

  “Not so fast, Mr. Quince,” Henry said. “The man’s innocent until he’s proved guilty, you know.”

  “Of course, of course. But the thing’s a foregone conclusion, I should imagine. Fellow must be slightly crazy, of course. How he imagined that killing Goodman could possibly help his claim to stand up—”

  Henry said, “Harold Benson now wishes to withdraw his claim to the estate.”

  “He . . . what?”

  “Apparently somebody tried to push him under a bus and slipped a threatening note into his pocket. He’s decided that to be Simon
Warwick is altogether too dangerous.”

  “That’s rubbish,” said Ambrose promptly.

  “Well, Goodman got himself murdered—”

  “Ah, yes, but he wasn’t married.”

  “What on earth has that got to do with it?” Henry asked.

  “Oh, I forgot. You haven’t actually read the new will, have you? Well, if Simon Warwick turns out to be dead, or dies before his claim has been substantiated, the estate goes to his eldest legitimate child. Benson is married and has a son. So killing him wouldn’t change matters—if he does turn out to be Simon Warwick after all.”

  “He now admits that he isn’t,” said Henry. “He says Simon Warwick doesn’t exist.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Ambrose. “Benson has made a formal claim, and it’s going to be investigated whether he likes it or not.”

  “This is rather an abrupt change of attitude, isn’t it?” Henry said. “I thought you were all set to get Simon Warwick declared dead.”

  “So I was,” said Ambrose. “But Benson’s arrest has changed all that. Between ourselves, Tibbett, Cecily and Crumble and Westbury would be delighted if Harold Benson could be proved to be Simon Warwick.”

  “They would?”

  “Of course. Didn’t I tell you that there was a clause in the will disinheriting Warwick if for any reason he did not take his seat on the board of directors and take an active part in running the company within three years of Lord Charlton’s death? Well, a man serving a life sentence isn’t going to take a seat on any board. So the matter would be most conveniently disposed of. Diana Crumble said so in as many words to Rosalie this afternoon when they met at the hairdresser’s. It’s not going to be a simple matter to get a court of law to presume Warwick’s death, and meantime in the next three years more claimants may turn up and the estate will in any case be frozen. No, the sooner the old will comes back into force, the better. I hear Denton’s already paid his tailor’s bill, and Cecily is talking about having her apartment redecorated. So I thought congratulations were in order. Remember me to Mrs. Tibbett, won’t you? And Rosalie sends her regards. Goodnight, Tibbett.”

  The note found in Harold Benson’s pocket was turned over to the police laboratory and a handwriting expert, but proved predictably fruitless. The paper came from the cheapest sort of jotting pad and provided no clues. There were no fingerprints except Benson’s own. With Ambrose Quince’s cooperation, Henry again visited Lord Charlton’s library, where he found and took away specimens of the handwriting of Cecily Smeed, Sir Percy Crumble, and Bertram Hamstone. Inspector Reynolds visited Denton Westbury in the guise of a conservation enthusiast collecting signatures for a petition to preserve Battersea Power Station for posterity, and was embarrassed to be offered a subscription as well as a signature. The handwriting expert concluded sadly that the printing on the note could not be positively identified with any of these specimens, although he gave Henry, unofficially, his own idea of which one it might be. Neither did the writing of the note resemble Harold Benson’s own writing.

  Benson himself, on the advice of his lawyer—a somewhat pompous young man called Reginald Colby, recommended by Ambrose Quince—refused to add or subtract anything to or from his original statement concerning the death of Ronald Goodman. He refused to discuss the matter of his own identity or that of Simon Finch, beyond the bland statement that the latter did not exist. The police prosecutors prepared their case. And Henry Tibbett worried.

  The reason for Henry’s worrying was very simple. For one of the very few times in his career, he had arrested a man on a charge of murder without being one hundred percent certain in his own mind that the defendant was guilty. The prosecutors were more than satisfied with the evidence. Susan Benedict was to be their star witness, and she was sticking to her story with admirable fidelity. Inquiries in the United States had unearthed the fact that Harold Benson had taken a course in karate while at college, which gave him one more qualification for conviction. As to the question “Who is Simon Warwick?” the legal experts showed little interest. It really was not germane to the case. Ronald Goodman had been killed because his rival claimant had believed him to be Simon Warwick. The fact that Benson now wished to withdraw his claim was seen as a last-minute attempt to remove his motive for murder when he realized that his arrest was imminent. So long as there was sufficient evidence to convince a jury that Harold Benson had killed Ronald Goodman, the question of Simon Warwick’s actual identity was neither here nor there.

  Knowing all this to be true, Henry Tibbett continued to ponder the question. He arranged unofficial meetings with several of the key figures in the case. With Ambrose Quince; with Lady Diana Crumble, whom he had never met, owing to her prolonged stay in Scotland; with Cecily Smeed. It was on the morning of his appointment with Ambrose Quince that Inspector Reynolds came into Henry’s office, looking harassed.

  “It’s about Benson, sir.”

  “What about Benson?”

  “He’s in a fair old state, sir. Really upset. It’s about his wife.”

  “His wife?”

  “Mrs. Sally Benson, sir.”

  “What about her? Has she decided to leave him or something?”

  “No, sir. Quite the reverse. She’s apparently decided to fly over here to be with him during the trial.”

  Henry raised his eyebrows. “Very natural and commendable, I should have thought.”

  “Well, Benson doesn’t seem to agree with you, sir. He’s demanding to see you, and . . . well, I think it might be a good idea if you had a talk with him.”

  “Okay, Reynolds. If you say so.”

  Harold Benson was being held in custody at a remand center in southern England—an establishment that was in no way punitive, seeming to figure somewhere between a public school and a convalescent home, except that the doors were locked to prevent the inmates from leaving. Harold Benson greeted Henry with reassurances that he had no complaints whatsoever about his treatment or his legal representation, and then launched into the topic of his wife’s projected visit.

  “You’ve got to stop her, Chief Superintendent. You must. You can do it. She’s not to come to England.”

  Henry said, “Mr. Benson, your wife is of age and a free person. So long as she has a valid passport, I can’t possibly stop her from coming here.”

  “Don’t you understand the danger?”

  “Danger?”

  “Somebody tried to kill me,” said Benson. “They can’t get at me now, but they can get at her.”

  Henry smiled, “I know you’ve got plenty on your mind, Mr. Benson,” he said, “but you must keep a sense of proportion. It seems to me that your wife is doing absolutely the right thing in coming over here to be with you. When you see her—”

  “I won’t see her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve told you,” said Harold Benson. “I won’t have her coming to this place. If she turns up, she’ll be told that I refuse to talk to her.”

  Henry shrugged. “That’s entirely your affair. But I certainly can’t stop her from coming.”

  Angrily, Benson said, “Then you can at least give her police protection.”

  “Against what, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Against whoever is trying to kill us.”

  Henry stood up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t prevent your wife from visiting you, nor can I give her police protection against a figment of your imagination. If I were you, I should be thankful that she’s coming, and enjoy her visit. When is she expected?”

  Benson pushed a piece of paper across the table to Henry. It was a section torn from an aerogram letter, written in a confident, sloping hand. It read: “. . . shall arrive at London Airport at 11:15 a.m. on Tuesday 18th, via Pan Am from Washington. I’m sure you can arrange for me to be met (what are attorneys for??). So that they can identify me, I shall wear my navy-blue suit (so discreet), with a big yellow artificial flower in the lapel, and that yellow and navy silk Hermes scarf that
you brought me from Paris last year. Oh, Harry, I can’t tell you how much I . . .”

  Benson said, “There’ll be nobody there to meet her, unless you do it.”

  Henry replied, “I’m sorry, Mr. Benson, this is quite outside my—”

  And Benson said, “Go to hell.” Which concluded the interview, leaving Henry holding the scrap of blue airmail paper in his hand.

  Henry’s detour to the remand center caused him to arrive ten minutes late at Ambrose Quince’s office, thus unwittingly throwing the system out of gear. However, Ambrose—who had another appointment later on—contrived to emerge one-up in his own estimation by finding time to make Henry wait a further three minutes, which he judged to be the minimum for satisfying honor without giving the impression of inefficiency. It would have upset him had he realized how few of the people he received were aware of these niceties of timing.

  He greeted Henry warmly, asked to what he owed the honor of this visit, and added, “How is our friend Benson these days?” Henry said, “Fit and well, when I saw him half an hour ago. He’s bothered about his wife’s visit, but otherwise he seems fine.”

  “His wife?”

  “She’s flying over next Tuesday to stand by him during the trial. Very decent of her, I’d have thought, but for some reason he doesn’t want to see her. However, that’s not what I came to talk about. I’m still interested in Simon Warwick.”

  “I know you are, old man,” said Quince, “but I really don’t see how I can help you.”

  “Your father was the last person I’ve been able to trace who saw him after he went to America.”

  “But my father’s been dead for years, Tibbett.”

  “I know that. But did he never mention—?”

  Ambrose shook his head. “Old Charlton thought I might have heard something from my father,” he said, “but Dad was the proverbial soul of discretion.”

  Henry said, “That trip that your father took to the United States in 1949—would you have any record of it here in the office?”

  “What trip?”

  “Didn’t you know? Your father saw young Simon Warwick at the age of five, and wrote Lord Charlton a letter about him.”