The Round Table Murders

by Peter Baron

  “If m’sieu permits, as far as the street. After that I go to see the Polish Players. You know their work perhaps, Baron?”

  “Sure, he knows it,” Hesse interrupted hastily, and almost pushed the Pole out of the door. “I guess the little hotel tin box is the best place for the bracelet, Sachs?”

  M. Sachs nodded and they descended the stairs together. Mr. Hesse excused himself for a moment and, having deposited the morocco case with the manager, rejoined them and walked down the wide steps of the hotel entrance to where the Baron’s car awaited them.

  It was a two seater and the newest model from a firm of experts who, although the Baron suppressed the fact, had lent it to the Morcovian until the time of his departure, for advertisement purposes.

  “Well, good hunting, Sachs,” said Mr. Hesse, following the Baron into the car. “I’m hoping my own won’t be so dusty—if the Baron doesn’t get us all mixed up with some other dirt track ace. Regular devil at the wheel is the Baron.”

  M. Sachs smiled politely and his last vision of the “regular devil” was of that person crouched intently over the wheel of a car that could do ninety miles an hour but was in danger of being removed for obstruction, and was eliciting jeering remarks from angry taxi drivers who were forced to follow in its wake.

  M. Sachs waved a scented hand after the retreating car and then turned to hail a taxi that had just slid into the curb.

  Busied with his thoughts, he stood aside as a lady descended and paid her fare, and was about to give his directions to the chauffeur when he found himself looking into the baleful eyes of the taxi’s recent occupant. The eyes belonged to Mrs. J. Benton Hesse, and their owner was not in her most tractable mood.

  “Moosewer Sachs,” she said harshly, buttonholing him, “I have been insulted.”

  “But no, madame, who would dare?” wondered M. Sachs and looked apprehensively at the uncomfortably robust taxi driver.

  “That Raith cat,” snapped Mrs. Hesse, unaware of her companion’s sigh of relief. “Says she didn’t phone me and didn’t want to see me. I’ll say she’s got a nerve. If that’s her idea of a joke—pardon me if I can’t rustle up a smile. Side’s her middle moniker and she’s got it coming to her for this day’s work. Called me a ‘gate-crasher’ and told her fat four flusher of a butler to ‘show this person out.’ I’m the cutie who made them put ‘democratic’ in the dictionary, but I draw the line at ‘person.’ I’ll say she’s some hag. Her face hasn’t been lifted, it’s been dropped, and before I’m through with it I’ll bust it so wide that the face fixers will scream for joy.”

  “Truly unprecedented, madame. The Countess has a reputation for hospitality with which I cannot reconcile this attitude,” deplored M. Sachs.

  “Unprecedented? I’ll say it was.”

  Still retaining her hold on the Pole, Mrs. Hesse crossed the pavement and began to mount the steps of the hotel. M. Sachs, perforce, followed.

  “Have those emeralds arrived yet?” she demanded as they reached the lobby.

  “But yes, madame, your husband put them in the hotel safe before he went out.”

  “Went out?”

  Her tone imbued M. Sachs with a fervent gratitude that he was not Mr. Hesse.

  “Certainly, madame. He was going to the bank with the Baron d’Essinger.”

  “Oh well, come on up and let’s see those emeralds.”

  “I had hoped that you might excuse me, madame. I particularly wished to see—”

  “My emeralds. I know.

  Before that tone M. Sachs quailed. He allowed himself to be led to the manager’s office, and as soon as the morocco case was in Mrs. Hesse’s possession, followed her dismally to her suite, still planning a courteous but swift retreat.

  But that was not part of Mrs. Hesse’s intention. Hastily opening the case, she clasped the bracelet on her wrist and turned to the Pole.

  “Well, how do they look?”

  “Mais, charmant, madame. Superbe. Such stones would enhance many another woman’s beauty, but in madame’s case it is the stones that gain an added luster from the wearer. Madame permits?”

  He took her wrist between his fingers and studied the bracelet.

  “This oughter make that Raith dame sick all over the place with envy,” said Mrs. Hesse, and became aware that M. Sachs was studying the emeralds intently.

  He smiled suddenly. “Marveilleuse. No one would suspect. Madame is, if she will allow me the liberty of saying so, as wise as she is beautiful. L’Americaines have the reputation for caution, is it not so? The originals are, I trust, still safe in the hotel deposit?”

  A certain chilliness diffused itself into the atmosphere.

  “Say, are we talking about the same thing or are you just nacherally bug-house?” asked Mrs. Hesse, and in that second the truth was revealed to the Pole.

  He uttered a squeal, and clasped his hands to his head so suddenly that Mrs. Hesse regarded him anxiously.

  “Gone sick?” she inquired.

  “Sick? No, madame. That string—those emeralds. They are imitations! Clever, yes, but genuine, no!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  When the Flying Squad, acting on an anonymous telephone message, found Arthur Somerville, he was lying on his back in the basement of a derelict house in Kensington and he was minus his coat, waistcoat, trousers and shoes. His hands were bound behind his back with his tie, and his braces performed a like service for his feet.

  Released, he seemed a little hazy as to the exact sequence of events that had led to his present condition, but reiterated the statement that he was a waiter, lately of the Riviera Hotel, Menton, and on his way to take up a situation in London. That was all that Chief Inspector Storm, of the Squad, could extract for some time, and as an explanation it fell somewhat short of what he desired.

  Ten minutes’ further examination elicited the information that Somerville had landed in England a fortnight ago and on his first night in London had fallen into conversation with a man who possessed the three attributes of a gentleman—contempt of the existing Government, white spats and an almost unique thirst.

  At the other’s suggestion they had visited a certain bar in the neighborhood of Charing Cross and Arthur had imbibed more than was good for him. After that his recollections became vague and he could offer no reasonable explanation of his presence in the basement of the disused house.

  During the past fortnight, he asserted, he had received three visits each day from the man (which was only a part of what Arthur called him) who had brought food. The man had smiled encouragingly but had showed a remarkable reticence concerning the reasons for committing the outrage and his future plans for Arthur.

  At that point Arthur showed a tendency to revert to his former statements concerning the Riviera Hotel, and Inspector Storm made out his report and had it circulated to all stations with the private conviction that the only part of Arthur’s story that could be relied on was his statement that he had, at some time, taken more drink than was good for him.

  It was quite by chance that Inspector Keating saw the report, and it stirred him to no particular interest until he noticed that Arthur had been on his way to take up a situation at the Plaza Hotel. Then several things occurred to Keating. One of them was that the Baron d’Essinger, who had recently claimed police protection, was due to visit Mr. Benton Hesse at the Plaza Hotel that afternoon for the purpose of selling an emerald bracelet.

  Within two and a half minutes of that discovery Inspector Keating was on his way to the Plaza Hotel, speeded by the reflection that the Colonel was going to bridge a gulf with stones. Stones, which Keating suspected, might never grace the person of Mrs. Benton Hesse.

  He received that impression at a time when something else was also failing to grace the lady in question. The something else was a stream of bad language and the unfortunate hearer was M. Sachs.

  In Philadelphia Mrs. Hesse had learnt many words that are normally not mentioned in the presence of young ladies, and she had no obj
ection to airing her sophisticated vocabulary. She did so at great length and then sat down and lighted a cigarette.

  Observing that M. Sachs was edging towards the open doorway she rounded suddenly on him.

  “And what the heck were you doing to let that Morcovian welsher frame a crooked deal like that?”

  “But madame—”

  “Tie a can to it. You saw the deal transacted; why in the name of liberty couldn’t you spot the fake then? See here, when J. B. H. gets next to this yarn you’re for the high jump. And where is J. B. H.?”

  “I have already told madame that he went out. .

  “Yes, you have. What I want to know is where he went, you poor dumb-bell.”

  “I can only repeat. .

  “Well don’t. It’s offensive.” Mrs. Hesse picked up the telephone. “Hello, put me on to the manager. What? Yes, I’ll hold on, and snap into it, you.”

  For some moments there was silence in the room. Then, “Hello, the manager? Mrs. Hesse here—and in a hurry. Come right up. You’re busy? Tell that to a traffic cop. You come on up here.”

  She replaced the receiver and scowled. Her temper was by no means sweetened by the manager’s delay in appearing, and when he did enter the room she was on the verge of another outburst.

  “You wanted me, Mrs. Hesse?”

  “No,” acidly, “that’s why I took the trouble to call you on that antiquated house phone. See here, what happened to this bracelet after my husband gave it to you?”

  “What happened? I don’t understand.”

  “No, it’s a national failing. Was the thing put in the hotel safe deposit at once?”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Hesse. My secretary and the chief booking clerk saw it done.”

  “So? Anyone else got a key to the safe?”

  “Other than myself, no,” said the bewildered manager.

  “Right, that rules out substitution after it was put away. If you’re the only person with a key you wouldn’t be fool enough to pull a raw deal that would land you in the cooler. No, sir. That leaves us with the fact that the bracelet that Morcovian hick handed over was a dud. What do you know about that Moosewer Sachs?”

  “Madame, I assure you that the bracelet that His Excellency the Baron gave Mr. Hesse this afternoon was genuine.”

  “Yeh? Well, I’ll stake our camp in the Adirondacks that it wasn’t.”

  “But, Mrs. Hesse, what has happened?” It was an anguished appeal from the manager.

  She held up the bracelet with one hand and took up the telephone receiver with the other.

  “Fake,” she said laconically. “Hallo, get me the exchange.” The manager gasped. “Good heavens. A theft? In this hotel? This is awful, Mrs. Hesse. May I hope chat you are not about to telephone the police?”

  “You may, but if you bet on it you’ll lose your stack. Hello, exchange, get me Scotland Yard. What? No, I don’t know the number. Well, you should. It’s what you’re paid for. What’s that? Say that again. Is zat so? Well, you’re another.”

  She jammed the receiver back and snatched up the telephone directory, despite the frantic appeals of the harassed manager, who would have torn his hair if he could have discovered any to tear.

  “But, Mrs. Hesse, there must be some mistake...think of the notoriety. This will seriously affect our reputation, and I must implore you to consider our position or at least to consult my principals before taking any definite action.”

  “Oh go chase yourself. Did Mr. Hesse say where he was going after he’d been to the bank?”

  “He did not.”

  The manager’s tone was curt.

  “No, I guess he didn’t. That’s the one and only reason why he’s still there. Gosh, when that boy returns he’s all set for an earful. Say, what do they call headquarters in this book?”

  “Try Metropolitan police, madame,” suggested M. Sachs helpfully.

  “Try? I’d lynch ‘em if I had my way.” Mrs. Hesse glared at the directory and feverishly turned its pages. “Sufferin’ Mike, where are these police?”

  “Here,” said a gloomy voice, and the three startled occupants of the room turned to see Inspector Keating standing in the doorway.

  “You from headquarters?” barked Mrs. Hesse, recovering her poise instantaneously.

  “I’m from the Yard, and you don’t have to tell me what’s happened,” Keating retorted morosely. “I know.”

  He walked across the room and, picking up the bracelet which Mrs. Hesse had dropped on the table, studied it moodily. It appeared to afford him no particular pleasure, neither did the sight of Mrs. Hesse. He returned her glare with unmistakable hostility and she sank weakly on a couch, awed by this superman who did not quail before her look.

  For some seconds there was an awkward silence, and then M. Sachs noticed that Mrs. Hesse’s shoulders were shaking spasmodically. All the chivalry of an ancient house welled up within him.

  “Do not cry, madame,” he pleaded, and moved forward with the intention of patting her shoulder. Long before he reached her she sprang to her feet.

  “I’m not crying, you poor brow. Do I look as if I leak? That sofa’s alive.”

  She pointed a quivering finger at the sofa she had just vacated, and in prompt verification of her words it heaved suddenly.

  Keating reached it in one bound and lifted the seat. ‘Which was what Mr. Hesse had been trying to achieve with his head for half an hour, without success, until his wife’s weight depressed the catch.

  He lay in the bottom of the sofa, bound hand and foot, and gagged, but what his lips could not utter his eyes suggested. It was therefore a little unfortunate that his wife’s first remark was an intimidating one.

  “Benton, what is the meaning of this?”

  Two savage eyes glared up at her and vague unintelligible rumblings proceeded from behind the silken scarf that was tied between Mr. Hesse’s jaws.

  Inspector Keating came out of his trance and, reaching down, lifted the burly American bodily out of his prison and stood him on his feet. Then he removed the gag and Mr. Hesse moved his jaws gingerly. He remained silent while Keating cut the ropes that bound his hands and feet, and the Inspector was the only one who suspected that a storm was brewing.

  Mrs. Hesse was not so observant. “Benton,” she said coldly, “explain!”

  There was a world of significance in her tone and the remark was accompanied with the look that made New York police captains and Senators writhe in agony. Invariably it had the same effect on the millionaire. Invariably.

  Mr. Hesse looked at his wife thoughtfully.

  “That’ll be about all from you, Dulcie,” he observed. “Sit down and muzzle yourself.”

  Mrs. Hesse stared and swallowed deeply. She opened her mouth to speak, took one look at her husband and changed her mind. Something told her that this was not the time to exert her dominance. She was right. It was not.

  Hesse whirled suddenly on the manager.

  “You,” he snarled, “where’s that damn waiter who used to. fetch up our meals? Tall, dark, lean feller.”

  “Waiter...I fail to see...”

  “You don’t have to. All you do is answer questions like a slot machine gives sticks of gum. So many for a penny.”

  The manager frowned. He disliked the simile.

  “If you mean the man who attended you here...”

  “I do. I’ve already said that.”

  “Curiously enough I had a complaint from the head waiter a few moments ago that this man was not present when the tea started, but I fail to see what connection...”

  “Yes, you’re better at failing than seeing,” interrupted Hesse. “At a quarter to three that fellow came up with a telegram for me.”

  He pointed to the telegram still lying on his desk, and resumed.

  “I took the telegram, started to read it, then...flop, the ceiling fell in. When I came to I was trussed like you found me and that bird was seated opposite me making himself up. When he’d finished I wasn’t sure whether I w
as tied up on the floor or sitting opposite myself.”

  Observing that Keating was about to speak, he held up a large hand.

  “Hold everything, I’m not through yet. That guy dumped me in that damn sofa and took my place. I heard everything. Easy as getting bumped off. And you, you mutt, couldn’t spot the difference.”

  He glared at M. Sachs. “He went down to the office with you to deposit the bracelet, didn’t he? Sure he did, and swapped it for a fake on the way. I’ll say he’s cool.”

  “But, Benton,” Mrs. Hesse began nervously and stopped.

  “Another word outer you, Dulcie, and I’ll start right in to write your epitaph,” said her lord and master. He glared at Keating. “You say you’re from headquarters. Right, what do we do? Make it slippy. Someone’s going to kiss the canvas for this.”

  The answer all but gave the hearers a stroke.

  “The first thing we do,” said Keating, dropping the telegram that he had just read, “is call your bank on the phone.”

  “My God, Berkeley’s,” gasped Hesse. “Grosvenor 9000.”

  The next ten minutes were the worst that Mr. Hesse had ever endured. He could only hear half the conversation, but what he did not hear he surmised. And Keating’s brief questions and replies provided plenty of scope for surmise.

  “Inspector Keating of the Central Branch here. Can you tell me if you cashed a check for forty thousand pounds this afternoon? Drawn in favor of the Baron d’Essinger, on the account of J. Benton Hesse. Yes, that’s right. What? Say that again. Four packets of five hundred, in twenties. Give me the serial numbers, will you? Yes, I’ll wait.”

  He disregarded Mr. Hesse’s frantic signals and took out a pencil and a note case.

  “Hello, yes, G above O 3,800 to G above O 5,799. Thanks. The Baron presented the check, I suppose. Who? Mr. Hesse? Was he? No, nothing’s the matter your end. Goodbye.”

  He replaced the receiver and turned to Mr. Hesse.

  “Cashed five minutes before the bank closed,” he said. “Mr. Hesse accompanied the Baron and the bank paid out in twenties. The Baron left with Mr. Hesse in his car. I reckon we won’t have to look far for the Baron, or the car.”