The Round Table Murders

by Peter Baron

  Like Keating, most of his best work was done in the small hours, but there the similarity ended. Keating was taller than his friend by a few inches, and while Keating was stocky Kaye inclined to portliness, yet it was in their faces that the difference became most marked. Keating’s solid matter-of-fact expression found no counterpart in the rather dreamy look that sat so comically on his superior’s round and cherubic face, and Kaye’s skin was as smooth as a girl’s in contrast to Keating’s blue cheeks and chin.

  “Ever seen the Poacher, Kaye?” Keating asked abruptly, and the Superintendent looked up.

  “Speech is the gift of all but the thought of few,’” he replied. “Cato knew his world when he said that. You’re tired or you wouldn’t ask fool questions.”

  Keating scowled. “I met him tonight.”

  “And Pythagoras,” Kaye continued, “said that we ought either to be silent or speak things that are better than silence.’ That, to the best of my knowledge, rules out pathological lying.”

  “Very funny,” Keating commented. Kaye’s quotations were the Inspector’s cross, but sometimes he bore it less easily. “I’m telling you I met him, and it’s gospel. At least when I say I met—well, there were no introductions. He stuck me up against the business end of a gat.”

  “He was the fellow who worked Birmingham when I was up there for the congress,” Kaye said thoughtfully. “Boasted that the Birmingham police would never make him serve a sentence, and got away with the proceeds of several robberies that the local gentlemen-of-leisure had arranged. You say he held you up with a gun. What did you do while he did it?”

  “What you would have done. Saved the Insurance Company’s money!”

  Keating stared out across the dark river and filled his pipe. Lighting it, he extinguished the match and carried it deliberately to the waste-paper basket before he threw his bombshell.

  “I suppose you know that the Colonel’s back?”

  It was a masterpiece of nonchalance, but he erred in supposing that the ensuing silence was one of awed amazement.

  It was due to the fact that the other was casting a long column.

  “Stick to Anno Domini,” Kaye said briefly, and began his cast again.

  “As stale as that, eh? Well, we don’t all have second sight. I called in at Piegatti’s for Clem Wade—who is beginning to learn sense and shunning dens of infamy—and Chorley tipped me off that George was back. We had a real friendly chat about nothing, and I’m as wise now about his next move as I was before I met him.”

  “Eighty-three, eighty-nine, ninety-seven—eight and a penny,” replied Superintendent Kaye. “You mean you’re no wiser. There is a difference, but you wouldn’t see it. Did you see either of his brothers? I’ve had a man trailing each of them ever since New York wired that he was on his way to Southampton.”

  Keating’s eyes bulged. “Is there anything you don’t know?” he asked with ponderous sarcasm, and Kaye put down his pen.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, we are human? What is it?”

  “How you ever became an Inspector and what the Colonel is after. Now will you get out or must I throw you out?” Inspector Keating regarded his friend morosely and walked to the door.

  “I’ll tell you one thing, Kaye—“ he began.

  “Thirty-four, thirty-six, carry three,” Kaye intoned relentlessly, and Inspector Keating retired casting unpleasant and entirely unfounded aspersions on the intellect of his friend.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mr. J. Benton Hesse (of Boston, Mass.) was a large man with even larger ideas. Among other things he was a millionaire, and was not disposed to allow other people to forget it. He seldom missed the opportunity of telling new acquaintances that he was born without shoes on his feet, without realizing that he had that fact in common with most babies. But there the similarity ended, and he had risen until there were no more steps to the ladder. Then he had paused to rest. During the pause he bartered his rest for a wife.

  At the end of three years of married life Mr. Hesse had bought everything that money could buy except the thing he wanted most, immunity from the tongue of Mrs. J. Benton Hesse (née Goddard, of Philadelphia, Pa.). In fact it was Mrs. Hesse’s tongue that convinced her spouse that to purchase a part of the Morcovian Crown jewels, then on offer, would be little short of an inspiration.

  A momentary lull in the daily nagging could occasionally be bought if the price offered was high enough, and although this particular piece of silence was going to deplete the Hesse bankroll to the tune of forty thousand pounds, Mr. Hesse felt that it was the sweetest music that had ever beguiled his ears.

  At that time Mrs. Hesse was slowly but surely buying her entree to London’s most select houses and, although a few aristocratic strongholds still defied her, the most impregnable was giving signs of lowering the portcullis. At any moment the Dowager Countess of Raith might invite Mrs. Hesse to help organize her forthcoming bazaar for charity, and the soul of Mrs. Hesse was overflowing with joy. It reduced her to awed silence.

  Dumb, “as a nun breathless with anticipation,” was how Mr. Hesse described it, cynically, distorting his favorite poet. But he realized that the acquisition of the emerald pendant had something to do with his lady’s excitement. It was a good omen, he reflected, and his glance as he watched her walking backwards and forwards through their suite was almost tolerant. It was not, however, appraising. Not even a Worth or a Paquin gown could eliminate Mrs. Hesse’s angular appearance.

  Today that did not worry Mr. Hesse. He was awaiting the telephone call that would announce the arrival of the gentleman from Morcovia, and was disposed to beam on the shortcomings of his spouse. Fortunately when the telephone did ring, Mrs. Hesse misconstrued the sigh of relief that escaped her lord and master.

  She almost snatched the telephone away from him and cooed a plaintive “Hello,” into the mouthpiece. Mr. Hesse waited patiently while she listened, and in turn misconstrued her expression of gratitude as relating to the arrival of the Morcovian emissary. He was disillusioned almost at once.

  “Certainly, I will be there in ten minutes,” lisped Mrs. Hesse. “Er...goodbye, till we meet.”

  She replaced the receiver and turned suddenly on Mr. Hesse.

  “That was the Raith dame. She’s come-to at last. Will I go round and help her? There’s so much organizing to do—she hates to trouble me—but in the interests of charity—! Will I go round? Ask yourself.”

  Having delivered herself crisply, Mrs. Hesse vanished suddenly into the bedroom to decide which of her recently purchased Parisian atrocities became her the least and, having done so, proceeded to array herself in it for her debut in the Raith household, oblivious of her husband’s pained regard.

  “But, sweetie—“ pleaded Mr. Hesse and stopped. He had been about to suggest that as he was spending forty thousand pounds on a present for her, her presence would not be out of place when the gift arrived. Fortunately it occurred to him just in time that with his wife absent there were several old haunts open to him at which he might snatch a little relaxation and something more sustaining. It was an opportunity not to be missed. Mrs. Hesse was a total abstainer, and so was her husband, on principle. His wife’s.

  Feeling like a man who has just been dragged away from the edge of a yawning abyss, he watched his wife depart and then strolled out on to the balcony of the suite and gazed down into Piccadilly, not because he liked it but because he wanted to see his wife leave the hotel. The thought that she might be involved in a fatal accident on her way to the Raiths, he dismissed as unworthy—of serious consideration.

  It was as he watched his car disappearing that he suddenly recalled a remark made earlier in the day by .M. Sachs, the jewel expert. Something apart from the little Pole’s verdict on the Crown jewels and something that had not been far away from the millionaire’s thoughts all day.

  The Pole’s exact words had been: “Mr. Hesse, you take the beeg reesk. Does it mean so little to you that the Colonel is returned and th
at he makes his living by stealing precious stones?” A curious warning, and as far as Mr. Hesse was concerned, wasted. None the less, he was interested.

  Mr. Hesse lighted a cigarette and endeavored to drop the dead match into the rear seat of a passing car. He succeeded. In fact he always succeeded. With which comforting reflection he squared his shoulders and allowed his thoughts to dwell pleasantly on what he would do to the Colonel or any other dirty crook who crossed his path.

  During his life he had known many crooks. In some cases their interests had been identical with, and in others inimical to, his own, but the difference had not affected the result.

  Mr. Hesse used crooks as he used corn cures, not because he was fond of them but because they were necessary. The thought amused him for some moments, but waiting was not one of the things that Mr. Hesse did best, and after ten minutes he sat down suddenly and took up the telephone. Giving a number, he waited for a few seconds and then removed his cigarette, preparatory to speaking.

  “Hello, Berkeley’s Bank? Put me through to the manager. J. Benton Hesse speaking. Thanks.” The last word was a concession, but Mr. Hesse felt light hearted, and his manner when the manager eventually answered was almost breezy.

  “Hello, the manager? Great. Hesse here. See here, there’s going to be no hitch about that deal this afternoon is there? No? Good. Yes, I know it’s a tall order, but the grief’s mine. I’m doing the unbelting. Sure, pay him in tenners and don’t give him one short.” Mr. Hesse chuckled at his own joke. “Yes, he sure is in one big hurry...got to get back to Morcovia by four-thirty to start another war or something. I may come down to the bank with him, just to see there’s no snag. He’s doing me a good turn and I want him paid out prompt. That’s my motto. Pay and collect debts quick. It’s made me what I am. All joking aside, are you married?”

  The manager was. He admitted it gloomily and Hesse made sympathetic noises.

  “Too bad. Reckon our womenfolk are twins. My bit of heaven’s out organizing this afternoon, and I’m taking the day off. I’ve earned it and I’m paying for it. Sure, I’ll be down as soon as d’Essinger drifts in. Bye.”

  He replaced the receiver and turned as someone rapped sharply on the outer door of the suite. Opening the door he was confronted by the tall, rather lean waiter, who invariably served their meals, but this time the man brought a telegram instead of food.

  “This just arrived for you, sir,” the man said. “The manager sent me up with it.”

  Mr. Hesse took the envelope and, slitting it open, read the message it contained. It startled him considerably. Apparently unaware of the existence of the waiter, he walked back into the room and, seating himself at his table, propped the telegram up in front of him and stared at it.

  Half an hour later when M. Sachs was ushered into the Hesse suite Mr. Hesse was still glaring at the telegram. It appeared to interest him to the exclusion of all else, and he was apparently unaware of the smiling little Pole’3 voluble apologies. Not that that deterred M. Sachs. His dapper little figure literally quivered with the excess of regret to which he was reduced, and he positively radiated self-abasement.

  “You pardon that I am so previous?” he asked anxiously. “It will not, I trust, incommode you? I have hoped that we might conclude this little business with—yes, that is the word—promptitude, providing, of course, that I do not give myself the pain of inconveniencing you. I wish to see the Polish Players this afternoon. They perform ‘La Cygne.’ You have seen that one, no? It is magnificent. You like perhaps the Polish Players, yes? But who does not? Pardon, I do not intrude on private meditations?”

  Mr. Hesse grunted and stuck the telegram beneath the small nose of his visitor.

  “Read that,” he invited tersely.

  M. Sachs took the proffered telegram and read aloud in pained tones: “If you can keep that bracelet one day, it’s yours. The Colonel.”

  He read it again and collapsed, with admirable foresight, on an adjacent chair. “But this is monstrous, m’sieu. C’est incroyable. You realize that this is what I have warned you might happen?”

  “We’ll see,” snarled Mr. Hesse. “And if the Colonel gets that bracelet, well—we’ll still see. Park your chassis and wait.”

  Mr. Sachs was not confident. “They tell strange tales of this man. He is a genius at the art of making different the face—disguise is the barbarous English word, I think. A language of unpleasing sounds, and sons. This man is an Englishman and dangerous. Be warned, Mr. Hesse—this telegram should be brought to the attention of the not over brilliant, but tenacious, gentlemen at Scotland Yard.”

  “See here, I don’t have to call the Yard in. The crook who tries to make soft jack outer J. B. H. gets the air quick. No, sir, the guy who gets away with any crooked stuff while I’ve got me health and strength ain’t been breeched yet.”

  M. Sachs regarded a pair of elegantly shod feet, his own, dubiously.

  “I do not for one moment impugn—atrocious word—the well-known intelligence of yourself—but I enjoin caution.” He glanced at his watch. “I trust that the Baron will not offer us the discourtesy of a belated arrival. I have much desired to see the Polish Players again. You perhaps know their work?” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “But they are magnifique. Marveilleuse. Such fire—such passion—”

  Mr. Hesse decided that the best method of attack was defence, and adopted it. He began to talk. By the time that the Baron was scheduled to arrive, and Mr. Hesse was concluding the third recital of his life story, Mr. Sachs had lapsed into comatose resignation.

  The arrival of the portly envoy from Morcovia came as a relief to the men who awaited him. Aware that he created something of a sensation, the Baron politely edged himself in front of the manager, who had announced him, and bowed as low as his prominent waistline would permit.

  “Pretty punctual, Baron,” Mr. Hesse said genially, ushering his guest to a chair, and the envoy trailed a plump white hand through his oily hair.

  “As always, sir,” he rambled. “Always punctual.”

  He placed a black portfolio case on the table and nodded distantly to M. Sachs. The Baron was a little uncertain of the Pole’s social status, and having himself been elevated from the gutter was disposed to think that the majority of his fellow creatures had not been so fortunate.

  “In this instance,” he continued, speaking with a queer clipped accent, but in fluent English, “it is essential that I observe all speed. I have had the misfortune to be recalled by my Imperial Master.”

  He spoke the name with reverence, but there was little reverence in his host’s reply.

  “Michael beginning to feel the draught, eh? What that boy ought to do, Baron, is to hoof the Archduke Boris outer the country, or else soak him one with a sandbag. Boris has been itching to use that throne as an armchair for years.”

  “His Highness mobilizes,” d’Essinger replied, “and I believe he has some such intentions as you have mentioned. As a result, I am here today to sell the last item of the almost unrivaled Royal Collection, the bracelet presented by Prince Michael’s father to his sainted wife.”

  The Baron sighed. The selling of the Crown jewels was almost a personal loss, and in fact that was how he regarded the transaction. The Baron had a habit of acquiring various trifles during his tenure of office, and then shooting half a dozen political adversaries on the charge of having stolen them.

  He sighed again and opened the portfolio. From its interior he drew forth a black morocco case, with corners of beaten silver. Opening it he proffered it for Mr. Hesse’s inspection.

  Lying on a velvet setting were four oblong shaped emeralds, each surrounded by a tiny setting of diamonds and linked to its fellow by two slender golden chains.

  Mr. Hesse lifted out the gleaming thing gingerly and passed it to M. Sachs.

  “The way to a woman’s heart lies through a man’s pocket, Sachs,” he said grimly. “Drink, Baron?”

  The terms were synonymous. The envoy observed the produc
tion of a flask from his host’s hip pocket and Mr. Hesse’s subsequent economy with the soda and smiled approvingly. He became expansive.

  “The position in my country is tense, very tense. The Archduke, a younger brother, has designs of his own which can best be served by the removal of His Hereditary Highness, the Prince Michael. He has a large following in the hills and is at any moment liable to descend on the capital. Under the circumstances, His Highness is mobilizing with all speed, but armaments cost money and the armament firm will not supply rifles and other weapons until they see the money. Always the accursed Americans—pardon, I forgot that m’sieu has the honor to be an American, a great nation—as I say always the Americans need money to convince them of integrity. It is so, is it not?”

  “Money talks,” agreed Mr. Hesse, draining his glass, not without a spasm of amusement. The “accursed American” firm who were to supply the Prince with arms traded under the name of Benton & Sons. It was not for Mr. Benton Hesse to point out the connection, but it existed nevertheless, and the millionaire stood to retrieve a goodly portion of the forty thousand pounds he was expending.

  The Baron sat there for some moments discussing the affairs of Central Europe, and Hesse and M. Sachs listened patiently, both intent on an early escape. Their first kind thought of the Baron came simultaneously with his announcement that he must leave for the bank if he was to make his connection at the station in fifty minutes’ time.

  Mr. Hesse rose cheerfully. “I’ll trail round with you to the bank, Baron,” he offered, picking up his hat and gloves. “Pity you’re going back to Europe. We might have brightened this one horse village considerably, together. Still, you’ve got Paris before you. Don’t flash your pay-roll there or the ladies won’t let up on you till you’re skinned. Coming, Sachs?”