by Clara Benson
Freddy was reading the article eagerly on Tuesday morning when Gertie swept in and up to his desk, brandishing her own copy of the paper.
‘Have you seen the news in the Herald this morning?’ she demanded.
‘I have, but what are you doing, buying the Herald? Don’t mention it too loudly or old Bickerstaffe will peg you as an enemy of all right-thinking people and run unflattering stories about you.’
‘Silly—the head footman gets it and lets me read it. But have you seen what it says about Dauncey? He sabotaged the plane himself! Can it be true?’
‘It had better be, or the Herald is going to be in deep trouble. No, even Corky isn’t that stupid. I can only suppose he must have found some solid evidence that Dauncey nobbled the plane, or they’d never have let him run the story.’
‘True enough. Oh, Freddy, can there be any doubt now that he murdered Doug? Doug must have known that Dauncey was up to no good and told him so, and Dauncey killed him to keep him quiet.’ Her face fell. ‘Oh, but that means Lois must have been in on it too. If she was with Dauncey on the balcony then she must have been lying about his not going through the window.’
‘No, I don’t think she was lying.’
‘But then how did he get in to kill Doug?’
‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about that. What do you say to a walk?’
‘A walk? Where to.’
‘Tatty’s house.’
‘Can’t we just telephone her?’
‘I don’t want to speak to her. I want to see something.’
Despite her badgering he refused to answer any more of her questions, and persisted in whistling exasperatingly all the way to St. James’s Square.
‘This had better be good,’ said Gertie darkly as they went up the steps and Freddy knocked smartly on the Browncliffes’ front door. It was answered at length by Sally, the maid.
‘Miss Patricia is out with her ladyship, and Mr. Whitcomb isn’t here,’ she said doubtfully, upon their request to enter the house.
‘He won’t mind. And nor will Miss Patricia,’ said Freddy. ‘I promise I’ll take full responsibility for it and won’t let Gertie steal the silver, even though she’s rather inclined that way.’
‘Ass,’ said Gertie, and went in without waiting for any further invitation.
‘May we go up to her ladyship’s dressing-room?’ said Freddy.
‘It’s locked, sir,’ said Sally.
‘Do you know where the key is kept?’
Sally did know, but had misgivings. On further promises from Freddy that she would not get into trouble for any of this, she was persuaded to fetch it, and they all went upstairs.
‘You may stay and watch if you like,’ said Freddy.
He glanced around the room. Gertie and Sally were gazing at him expectantly.
‘Go on, then,’ said Gertie. ‘If he didn’t use the window, then how did he get in—or out, rather?’
‘Through the door, of course,’ said Freddy.
‘But it was locked on the inside.’
‘It was bolted on the inside, which is quite a different thing.’ He turned to the china plates that were hanging on the wall by the door and indicated the blue and gold one with the flowers. ‘When we got in through the window and discovered Douglas’s body, this plate was on the floor, standing against the wall. Whitcomb saw it and hung it back up, thinking it had fallen down because of the shot, but in actual fact it had been taken down deliberately.’
He took down the plate carefully and leaned it against the wall again.
‘You see this hook?’ he said. ‘Notice that it’s at the same height as the bolt on the door.’
‘What of it?’ said Gertie.
Freddy turned and crossed to the little table on which Lady Browncliffe’s sewing-box was standing, gathering dust.
‘I need a needle and thread,’ he said. He peered into the box and took out a bobbin of pink silk embroidery thread, then selected a long needle. ‘And a hook of some sort. A bent pin might do it, or some wire—aha! I see we have some ready-made ones.’ He brought out a small card of metal hooks. ‘One missing, I see. Not that that proves anything—after all, Lady Browncliffe might have used it herself.’
He took some scissors and cut a long length of the pink thread, then fastened the hook to one end of it. The other end he threaded through the needle.
‘I remember playing a trick of the sort at school,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trying it at home, but it doesn’t work very well because the only bolt I have is too stiff. The bolt on this door slides easily, though, so it might work. Now, watch. We hook this end onto the bolt fastener—’ he suited the action to the word, ‘—then pass the thread around the plate hook, keeping it taut. Then the needle goes through the keyhole, like so. You see? The plate hook acts as a kind of pulley. Now, I duck outside the door and close it, still keeping the thread taut.’
He squeezed out through the almost-closed door and shut it behind him.
‘Now, look what happens when I pull on the needle,’ came his voice from the other side of the door.
Gertie and Sally watched in fascination as the bolt slid across and into its fastening.
‘Did it work?’ called Freddy.
‘I’ll say!’ said Gertie.
‘Now all I have to do is let the thread go slack and the hook should fall off the bolt.’
He demonstrated, and they watched as the thread and the hook disappeared through the keyhole.
‘Well I never!’ exclaimed Sally. ‘It’s like magic!’
‘Let me in, won’t you?’ said Freddy.
Gertie unbolted the door, her eyes shining.
‘I believe you’ve got it!’ she said. ‘So nobody went through the window at all! Here, let me try.’
After one or two fumbling attempts she, too, succeeded in bolting the door from the outside, then Sally was allowed to try it. It seemed clear that this was how the murder had been done, and how the killer had made Douglas’s death look like suicide.
‘We’ve been looking at the wrong part of the house all along,’ said Gertie. ‘We ought to have been asking who went upstairs, rather than who went onto the balcony.’
‘Yes, and it might have been anyone,’ said Freddy.
‘Oh, but it must have been Dauncey.’
‘I’m inclined to think it was. But I’d still like to know what happened to Douglas’s shoes.’
‘Does it matter? It’s not important, surely.’
‘Perhaps not, but I don’t like things to remain unexplained.’
‘Well, we can think about it afterwards,’ said Gertie. ‘Now that we’ve got a motive, and we know that Dauncey was up to no good, all we have to do is find some proof that he came in here.’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘We’ll think of something, I’m sure,’ said Gertie.
They took their leave of Sally and came out, to find Corky Beckwith loitering outside the house.
‘Not you again,’ said Gertie. ‘What is it this time? Have you come to ask where I buy my stockings?’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Corky. ‘I’m merely passing the time on this beautiful day. There’s nothing like a spot of sunshine to fill the heart with gladness and joy, don’t you think?’
‘Rot. I suppose you’re looking for a story again. Well, you won’t find one.’
‘Then you have nothing to tell about any impending nuptials? I must say, the two of you seem inseparable lately. I never see one of you without the other. Tell me, when can we expect an announcement? Speaking of which, a little bird tells me that the much-vaunted and wildly fêted betrothal between two people of your close acquaintance is about to come to naught. I don’t suppose you’d care to expand upon the subject?’
‘No,’ said Freddy.
‘Pity. News is a little sparse on the social side of things, although Lord knows I’ve plenty of other news to keep me going. I suppose you saw my piece this morning, Freddy? First off the mark again,
you’ll note. You really ought to try harder to keep up. But that’s what you get for employing Lady Gertrude to do your dirty work for you. Very decorative, the ladies, but lacking in mental acuity as a rule. No,’ he went on blithely, before Gertie could formulate a trenchant interjection, ‘one doesn’t like to boast, but I rather think I’ve come out well in this story. I have a series of follow-ups planned for the rest of the week. The police have taken an interest, you know. They searched the offices of Stamboul Export Co, and have found a whole set-up, with spies planted in dozens of companies here and abroad. Of course, it will be difficult to prove Rawson Welbeck knew anything about it, although the fact of their having employed Anatoli Salmanov indicates it was deliberate.’
‘But what about Captain Dauncey?’ said Gertie. ‘How can you be sure he won’t sue you for libel?’
‘He may try if he likes,’ said Corky. ‘But since you ask, I don’t think the Herald will be troubled with legal action, since we’ve had word this morning that Dauncey has “done a bunk,” as the vulgar saying goes. I’ve found a witness who is prepared to sign a statement to the effect that on the day of the air show he was paid to keep a look-out while Dauncey sabotaged the Nugent Nuthatch shortly before take-off, and I dare say that’s what has spurred him to this present action.’
‘He’s disappeared?’ said Gertie in dismay. ‘You idiot! You’ve driven him off just when we were about to prove he killed Douglas!’
Freddy nudged her sharply, but it was too late, for Corky had pricked up his ears immediately.
‘Douglas?’ he said. ‘Do you mean Douglas Westray? Surely that was suicide?’
‘Of course it was suicide. Gertie didn’t mean it literally,’ said Freddy quickly. ‘She thinks they might have had a row that contributed to Westray’s depressed state of mind, that’s all.’
‘That’s right,’ said Gertie, recollecting herself. ‘I meant what Freddy said.’
‘Is that so?’ said Corky, regarding them both narrowly. ‘Hmm, I shall have to look into that. Perhaps I can lay another charge at his door and stretch the story out for day or two.’
‘That’s right, kick a man when he’s down,’ said Freddy. ‘It’s a pity they stopped hanging people in public, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Corky with perfect sincerity.
Freddy glanced at his watch.
‘Well, it’s been delightful to pass the time, old chap, but I must get back to the office,’ he said.
Gertie was also wanted back at home, and so they parted for the present. Corky dithered over whether to pester Freddy all the way back to Fleet Street or follow Gertie, and eventually decided on the latter. Freddy callously left her to Corky’s tender mercies and set off back to the Clarion’s offices. It was exasperating that Corky had driven Dauncey away just when they had been starting to make material progress in the investigation, but when all was said and done it did look very much as though Dauncey were a guilty man, and in any case there was nothing that could be done for the present until he was found, so Freddy returned to work and tried to forget about the matter, supposing that the case had at least reached some sort of conclusion, even if no-one had been arrested.
Sure enough, the Herald ran a series of stories about the sabotage scandal, as it was being called, over the next few days, and each one showed Captain Dauncey in a worse light than before. Soon, the whole country was talking about it, and shaking their heads over the fall from grace of their former hero. There were those who said that Dauncey’s brave feats ought not to be forgotten, however far he had sunk since, but most people were quite happy to forget they had ever admired him, and to condemn him as a traitor and the worst of men.
On Thursday, Freddy was sitting in the office, reading over some notes with a dissatisfied air, when Jolliffe came in, looking busy.
‘Can’t stop,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be late for the Finkley inquest.’
‘Eh? What’s that?’ said Freddy absently.
‘You know, the woman who was flattened by a car at the air show. Hilda Finkley, her name was. Very unfortunate, and all because of the crowds, I understand.’
Freddy looked up and frowned.
‘Hilda Finkley—now, where have I heard that name before?’ he said.
‘Couldn’t tell you, old chap. Let me know when you remember, but not now. Must dash!’
With that he rushed off, and Freddy went back to his work. After a minute he sat up straight, for he had just remembered Hilda Finkley. She was the engineer’s widow he had spoken to on the day of the air show. She must have died only an hour or two after he had spoken to her. What an odd coincidence. He reflected briefly and poignantly on the vagaries of Fate, then returned again to his notes. But his work was destined to be left unfinished, for once again a memory darted into his brain and he straightened up in his chair.
‘Now, what the devil—?’ he murmured.
He frowned over the thought for a while. It could not be a coincidence, surely, although he could not see how exactly it fitted into the mystery. Still, there was no concentrating on his work while the thing was on his mind. He reached a decision and made a short telephone-call, then replaced the receiver and stared straight ahead for several minutes.
‘How very odd,’ he said at last.
Chapter Twenty
Freddy was kept busy for most of that afternoon, and so was unable to spare the time to pursue his line of thought, but he watched the door anxiously, waiting for Jolliffe to return to the office, for he wished to consult him. At a quarter past three, Jolliffe returned, and gave Freddy the information he was looking for, not without some curiosity. At five o’clock Freddy left the office to set off for an address on the Caledonian Road—a trim, terraced house with a red front door, at which he knocked, and asked to speak to a Mrs. Wade. The lady in question was in, and after a little hesitation was persuaded to speak to him. Some time later he emerged from the house and headed back into town on foot, for it was a very fine evening. When he reached the bottom of Gray’s Inn Road he hesitated, undecided, then bent his footsteps towards Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where he sat on a bench, took out his notebook and spent some time writing down what he had learnt. There were still several things which were not wholly clear to him—the shoes in particular—but he was now almost certain that he knew who had murdered Douglas Westray, and why. Knowing was one thing, however, but proving it was quite another, and he had no idea how to do that, for it seemed to him that the only way to find evidence would be to convince the police that Douglas’s death had not been suicide after all, and for them to obtain a search-warrant and seek the evidence themselves.
He did not hold out much hope that the police would be prepared to act, but he decided to try anyway. He sought out a telephone box and telephoned Sergeant Bird at Scotland Yard. The sergeant listened to his story with interest, and, far from pooh-poohing it, was inclined to think that Freddy was on to something. But as Freddy had feared, since the inquest had come down so firmly in favour of suicide, there was little he could do, he said, without some strong evidence that foul play had been involved. Since evidence was just what Freddy did not have, there was nothing to do but bid the sergeant good evening and hang up. Then he continued on his way home, still absorbed in his own thoughts. He was so busy cogitating as he went that as he turned a corner he almost cannoned into a cart on which many crates of eggs were balanced precariously. The delivery-man had stopped to remove something from one of his horse’s hooves, and, fortunately for all concerned, was able to shout a warning just in time, before disaster occurred. Freddy begged pardon and passed by hurriedly, but was vexed, because he was sure the incident had interrupted an important train of thought, and that he had been on the point of making a very important deduction. He could not for the life of him bring it back to mind, and in the end decided to leave it, for he knew that trying too hard to remember something was the surest way to fail in the attempt. He had not got ten yards farther on, however, before he stopped short and turned to
look back. He stared at the horse and cart for several minutes.
‘I wonder if that’s it,’ he said to himself. ‘Yes, that would make sense. But what was it?’
He returned to the Clarion’s offices, where he spent some time reading through the archives and frowning, until one of his colleagues found him and asked if he was feeling quite well, for it was almost unheard of for Freddy to be still in the office at this time. It was getting late, and he had found out what he was looking for, so he went home and was just in time to catch Gertie on the telephone before she went out for the evening.
‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’ he said.
‘I was supposed to be going out with Priss and her latest,’ she said. ‘Not that I particularly want to play gooseberry, but everybody else is away.’
‘Come to dinner with me instead. I’ve been tremendously clever and I need a woman to clasp her hands together and gaze at me admiringly.’
‘I can’t promise to do that, but of course I’ll come out with you—anything’s better than watching Priss and whatever he’s called going soppy over each other all night. What is it? Don’t tell me you’ve tracked Captain Dauncey down to his lair?’