by Q. Patrick
“But,” he spluttered, “you have no idea who these, these people are?”
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Bernard-Moss spoke slowly and distinctly. “We know more or less who they are. There has been an investigation, and as far as the detective bureau can make out, the letters were all written by a certain Heller family. Bruno Heller was the man whom my husband condemned to death, and it is his brother and sister who are trying to avenge him. At least, that’s what we believe. Unfortunately there seem to be no photographs of them, but it has come out that they both left their jobs just after the conviction of their brother. The man was supposed to have been seen around our house at the time of the kidnapping. Afterwards they were trailed to New York, where they completely disappeared. The latest report is that one or possibly the two of them are here in England.”
“So you suppose one of these—er—Hellers wrote the letter you received from Saltmarsh?”
Mrs. Bernard-Moss nodded.
“And that means they may be hanging around here?” The Chief Constable’s tone hinted that he would have short shrift with these bounders. “You are sure no one has a photograph of them?”
“There’s no particular reason why anyone should.” Mrs. Bernard-Moss’s voice was trembling slightly, and it was obvious that she was under great mental strain. “They all happened to be mixed up with this secret society, but the other members of the family have no criminal records. We have their names, of course, and a rough description. The brother is called Franz. The sister, Anna. They are between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. They are young and quite well educated.”
“Humph.” Sir Wilfrid stroked his military moustache reflectively. Then he turned to the headmaster. “Bad business, eh, Dodd?”
The headmaster glanced up wearily and threw out his hands. “If only I’d known something of this. It is so sudden, so unexpected. If only I had been told!”
“It would have made no difference,” put in Mrs. Bernard-Moss quietly. “We did all that was possible. I can only say how sorry I am that this should have happened here—of all places. You see, until we got that letter, we thought the boys were absolutely safe.” Her face had an almost ethereal quality as she spoke, and there was something about her which impelled the men to listen with respect. “Please do not think me heartless for sitting here discussing these matters with you when my stepson has just been murdered. I think you know what a shock it has been to me. Not so much for the boy whom after all I hardly knew, but for my husband. But I feel that if we don’t work as quickly as possible, we may endanger the life of the other boy. Whatever happens, we must keep Irving safe.”
“Naturally, naturally,” murmured the Chief Constable. He picked up his monocle and squeezed it into his eye. “Now we have something to go on, at any rate. If—er—if, as you suspect, there really has been foul play, it’s practically bound to be the work of an American.” He regarded Mr. Dodd shrewdly. “Have you any Americans on the staff, Dodd?”
The headmaster had but partially recovered from the shock of Mrs. Bernard-Moss’s revelations. “Why, n-no,” he faltered. “None that I know of.”
“Well, are there any masters or servants who have been engaged recently—that is, at any time during the last year?”
Mr. Dodd rapped his knuckles on the desk. “Let me see now. There is Mr. Nettleton, of course. He has only been with us half a term. He is just down from Oxford, but, as I told you, he was highly recommended by the master of All Saints, and I’m sure that he—”
“Oh, no,” broke in Mrs. Bernard-Moss with surprising swiftness, “I don’t think that he—But isn’t there someone else? Don’t forget that it’s as likely to be a woman as a man. There’s Franz—and Anna.”
“Mr. Heath has been with us several years. There is Mlle. Santais, but then she is from Paris. She could not possibly have anything to do with this—this incredible affair.”
“What about that porter of yours, Dodd?” asked Sir Wilfrid suddenly. “Strikes me he’s been acting pretty queerly.”
“Yes, the porter.” Myra Bernard-Moss had risen and there was an enigmatic expression on her face. “Do you say ‘sure’ in this country when you mean ‘of course’?”
“Sure?” echoed Sir Wilfrid. “Why, no—I never head the expression.”
“I thought so.” The American lady turned to the headmaster. “Yesterday, when you asked McFee to look for Eric, he answered: ‘Sure.’ I thought it odd at the time. What do you know about him? He would fit the description of Franz.”
Mr. Dodd looked surprised. “McFee? He came here at the beginning of the term. He took the place of Kettering, his old uncle, who used to be porter here and who had to retire because of some rheumatic trouble.”
“Uncle, indeed,” snapped the Chief Constable. “Get the fellow in, Dodd. I want to talk to him.”
Mr. Dodd pressed the bell and, while they waited, the atmosphere was charged with suppressed excitement. The Bishop, whose unsophisticated nature had been shocked into silence by Mrs. Bernard-Moss’s story, moved uneasily in his chair. St. John Lucas’s pulse increased. Sir Wilfrid sucked his mustache as though he were working out a plan of action.
At length the door opened and McFee stood on the threshold, his tall, loosely knit body stooping to avoid the lintel.
“You want something, sir?” he inquired of Mr. Dodd, pushing the untidy black hair from his eyes.
Sir Wilfrid stepped forward. “We want you to tell us whether you have ever been in America.”
A slight smile spread across the porter’s dark face. “So you found out at last! I was wondering whether it would be a case of my coming to you or your coming to me.”
“This is no time for riddles, sir,” barked the Chief Constable. “What do you know about the death of Eric Bernard-Moss?”
“Just that they’re a bit cleverer than we thought they were. Our friends, the Hellers, chose the one and only time—”
“Hellers!” exclaimed Mrs. Bernard-Moss, the sudden pallor of her cheeks contrasting vividly with the glossy blackness of her hair. “So—so you’re the private detective my husband spoke of! He didn’t—he hadn’t told me you were actually employed at the school.”
McFee pushed a large hand into his breast pocket and produced a bundle of papers. “My credentials, Sir Wilfrid, from the Drummond Detective Bureau in America. I’m working here for Judge Moss.” He turned to the American lady. “I didn’t introduce myself yesterday on the cricket-field as it was rather public and I had strict instructions to tell no one who I was.”
“So you’re not old Kettering’s nephew,” exclaimed Mr. Dodd, who had been reading the papers over the Chief Constable’s shoulder.
“No. I’m afraid that rheumatism of his was brought on by a little financial persuasion. I figured the porter job was the only way of keeping near the boys without being suspected. I was a little scared about my English accent, but I managed to get by. You see, my job was to be a sort of bodyguard—to keep an eye on the twins as much as possible.”
“But even so you didn’t prevent this—tragedy,” remarked Sir Wilfrid sternly, as he handed the papers back to the porter. “Well, your references seem in order. I know the Drummond Bureau. They are good people. But one can’t take chances at a time like this. I’d better get in touch with your London branch.” He turned to the headmaster. “I may use your telephone, Dodd?”
“Certainly.” The headmaster waved towards his desk.
For the next few minutes Sir Wilfrid fired questions down the wire. The answers came back from London with equal precision. Yes, Stephen McFee was a member of the Drummond Detective Bureau. He had reported to the London office on his arrival two months previously. He had kept them informed as to the developments of the situation. Yes, they had heard of the tragedy. McFee had telegraphed them. Might they express their sincere sympathy with the bereaved parties?
Sir Wilfrid banged down the receiver, and as he did so a timid housemaid appeared with a cablegram on a silver tray. She threw a nerv
ous glance at Mr. Dodd.
“Cable for Mrs. Moss, please, sir. Any answer, please sir?”
Mr. Dodd took the message, handed it to Mrs. Bernard-Moss, and dismissed the maid. The American woman slit the crinkly paper and read the cable through without visible emotion. Then she passed it to Sir Wilfrid. It read:
Deeply regret tragedy stop afraid cannot possibly come at moment as Langhorne case will continue for at least month stop advise your staying at Craiglea till end of term stop don’t remove Irving he is safest there stop they are less likely to make second attempt in same place stop get in touch with my agent Stephen McFee from Drummond Detective Bureau stop rely on your discretion and his affectionately Joseph Bernard-Moss.
Sir Wilfrid grunted. “So this Heller story really might be true!” He gazed at McFee through his monocle. “During the course of your stay here, have you discovered anything at all suspicious?”
McFee shook his dark, tousled head. His eyes were somber and reflective. “Nothing you could lay your finger on. You see, Sir Wilfrid, the boys were smuggled over here secretly, and the Judge thought he’d switched the Hellers off the track. None of us imagined there’d be any danger. As it happens, I’ve been doing a little investigation on the side, but I wasn’t really over here as a detective. The death was as much of a shock to me as it was to you.”
The Chief Constable snorted. “Well, what’s to be done?”
“That depends on Mrs. Bernard-Moss,” put in Mr. Dodd weakly. “If she decides to abide by her husband’s wishes and leave Irving with us, we will naturally be willing to keep him here. After all that has happened, it is the least we can do.” He turned to Mrs. Bernard-Moss, his face drawn and pale. “You would like police protection for Irving? I gather these—these people are liable to make another attack.”
“Police protection? Oh, no.” Mrs. Bernard-Moss threw out her hands in a nervous gesture. “I realize what a lot of policemen around would mean to your school. If it is in accordance with the law, I suggest that McFee is left in charge. My husband says he has complete confidence in him. He can work hand in glove with the authorities, and he is not so conspicuous. I myself shall stay on at the village inn.”
The Chief Constable stroked a fiery cheek reflectively. At length he turned to McFee. “You would be willing to remain in that capacity? The police do not often collaborate with private agencies, but under the circumstances I am prepared to have you stay on here rather than one of my men. If there is any—er—danger, we may suppose that it is directed against Irving Moss alone. The other boys will not be in any way affected. As Mrs. Bernard-Moss points out, we do not want to do unnecessary damage to the school by frightening parents with police officers and plainclothes men.”
The detective stood a moment without speaking. He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s a big responsibility, Sir Wilfrid. I couldn’t accept it unless you give me your word that the police will back me up. Of course, it’s my job to be a detective, but even so, I shall have to go on acting the porter, and I can’t do much more than keep my eyes wide open around here.”
“Naturally the police will be behind you,” exclaimed Sir Wilfrid tartly. “Do you suppose we’d throw the whole matter off on to a civilian—and a foreigner at that!” He paused as though slightly ashamed of this typical outburst of Anglomania, and when he spoke again his voice was softer. “All the routine procedure will be carried out by my men. You’ll do as much as you can, but your main job is to guard that boy.”
“Very well, then.”
McFee nodded his head. No one seemed to find it surprising that the hitherto unobtrusive porter should now be the pivotal figure in the morning’s amazing events. There was something about him that commanded respect. Even Mr. Dodd seemed somehow comforted as his tired gaze fell upon the detective’s large, powerful form. He leant forward in his chair, nodding his approval as Sir Wilfrid instructed McFee to come into Saltmarsh to meet Inspector Saunders, and explained how he had decided to speak to the coroner about keeping the more sinister of the day’s discoveries out of the inquest.
“It’s a bit irregular,” concluded the Chief Constable doubtfully, “but then, the whole affair seems very irregular to me.”
VI
AMERICAN RHAPSODY
Soon after this, Mrs. Bernard-Moss and the Bishop took their leave. With their departure, Sir Wilfrid’s tone changed perceptibly.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said crisply, “in the light of what we’ve just heard, let us—for the moment, at least—accept the hypothesis of murder. Dr. Woodhouse tells us the boy could have walked in his sleep and smothered himself under the sheets in that cupboard. My private opinion is that it’s quite impossible, and that Woodhouse is a fool.”
Mr. Dodd leant over the desk. “I hope you don’t think one of the boys could have had anything to do with it. There may have been some innocent ragging, even bullying, but they would never have gone so far as to shut one of their school-fellows up in a dark cupboard in the middle of the night.”
“Of course not.” Sir Wilfrid thrust his thumbs into the arm-holes of his tweed waistcoat. “If—if anything criminal has occurred, I don’t expect to find the culprit on the premises. You say the dormitory windows were open. Anyone could have climbed in, smothered the boy in his bed and carried him to the cupboard.”
“So you think this was an outside job!” McFee was eyeing him calmly. “I’m afraid I don’t agree with you. I’m practically certain the murderer is right here in the school—that he slept at Craiglea last night.”
“What in the blazes—?”
“Well, think of that linen-closet. Why did the murderer bother to carry the boy away from the cubicle to the closet after he’d killed him? Simply because he didn’t want the crime discovered until morning. He wanted time. Now an outsider wouldn’t give a damn whether the body was found ten minutes or ten hours afterwards.”
Sir Wilfrid’s brows contracted. “Why?”
“Because, if the crime isn’t discovered until after breakfast, and if there’s been no disturbance during the night, everyone will have been asleep, and one person’s story’s as good as another’s.”
“Perhaps there’s something in that,” murmured the Chief Constable grudgingly.
Mr. Dodd’s eyes were wide. “Surely you don’t suppose that one of the inmates of the house—”
The Chief Constable produced from his pocket a large fountain pen and a piece of paper. Within a few minutes a list was compiled of all those who had slept at the school the night before. Sir Wilfrid read it.
“Mr. Dodd
Mrs. Dodd
Miss Dodd
The Bishop of Saltmarsh
Sir Wilfrid Pemberly
Mrs. Bernard-Moss
Mr. Nettleton
Mr. Heath
Mlle. Santais
Stephen McFee
Mrs. Blouser
Four housemaids
One cook
Sixty-eight boys.”
“Quite a mixed bag,” remarked McFee.
Sir Wilfrid grunted. “I feel we can narrow it down considerably. It is unlikely that Mr. Dodd, Mrs. Dodd, Miss Dodd, the Lord Bishop, McFee or myself had anything to do with it. And, as I said before, I feel we can eliminate the boys.”
“And the stepmother, Mrs. Bernard-Moss,” put in Mr. Dodd with agitation. “And Mrs. Blouser and the cook, too. They have both been with us for many years. It is inconceivable that they should want to kill the boy. The same applies to the maids. They are all country girls, born and bred in the village.”
McFee glanced down the list with some amusement. “Why not rule out Mlle. Santais, too? She is a Frenchwoman—straight from Paris. And Mr. Heath, the dependable mathematics master who has been with you for years. And Mr. Nettleton, the young man with the first-class references from the master of All Saints.”
“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Mr. Dodd hopefully.
McFee threw down the piece of paper. “We have now excluded all the names on the list. No, gentle
men, I’m afraid we’ll have to be a little less trusting. Everyone’s under suspicion. If there is a Heller or any other murderer among us, I think he’ll give himself away in time.”
“While we sit around and wait!” barked the Chief Constable. “Is that your idea of an investigation, sir? We’ll interview all these people immediately.”
“I’d go a bit slow if I were you.” McFee’s voice was quiet. “Whoever did this murder tried to make us believe it was an accident. Why not let him think he’s succeeded? Mr. Dodd’s anxious to keep the affair quiet for the school’s sake. Well, keep it quiet for your own sake, too. The other boys aren’t in any danger. Interview anyone as much as you like, but don’t let them know you suspect murder. If they think we’re off our guard, they’ll be off their guard, too. Of course, I’ve no right to interfere but. …”
“Certainly, certainly. That is just what I intended to do.” Realizing the sense of this suggestion, Sir Wilfrid adopted it as his own. He rose, indicating that the session was at a close. “I shall start the police machinery going, tactfully. It’s up to you, McFee, to see that nothing—er—further happens.”
“I’ll do all I can, but it’s going to be difficult.”
“Dammit. You admit defeat?”
“No, I don’t admit defeat.” The detective’s rugged face was serious. “But I happen to know you’re up against a very clever, very dangerous person. It’s always easier to do something than to stop someone else doing it. Remember, Eric was killed under my very nose. In fact, under both our very noses.”
Sir Wilfrid’s face reddened before what seemed to him an unnecessarily dramatic remark. He turned to the headmaster.
“Dodd, you and I will start questioning the staff immediately.” His gaze switched back to McFee, who had moved to the door. “You know your job, sir. Keep your eyes skinned, and, remember—you’re still a porter.”