The Unseen Hand

by Edward Marston

  ‘Is that what Jenny said?’

  ‘No, she didn’t go into detail.’

  ‘Then I’d rather not do so.’

  ‘That’s all right by me,’ said the other. ‘The result is all that I care about. I do, however, suspect that your lateness this morning was somehow connected with Jerrold’s decision to stay. Am I right?’

  ‘You might be.’

  ‘In that case, I’m sorry that I shouted at you.’

  Alice grinned. ‘To be honest, I hardly noticed.’

  From the moment he entered the room, Ian Maitland made his intentions clear. He was going to talk his way out of an awkward situation. He was relaxed, friendly and apparently cooperative. An extra chair was brought into the room so that he could sit beside Rogan with whom he exchanged no more than a glance.

  ‘I believe that you and Mr Rogan are friends,’ began Keedy.

  ‘We know each other, Sergeant, but we’re hardly friends.’

  ‘Then why did he come to see you this morning?’

  ‘He wanted to ask me about the Roath Court,’ said Maitland, smoothly. ‘Knowing that Mrs Fleetwood was bound to blame Mr Buchanan for what happened at the Lotus, he was keen to know what sort of a man he was.’

  ‘You’re a close friend of Mr Buchanan, are you?’ said Keedy in mock surprise.

  ‘No, but I’ve got to know him well and have a lot of respect for him. I was able to tell Len that he’d never do anything illegal, let alone arrange a murder.’ He turned to Rogan. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said the other, taking his cue.

  ‘We spoke for no more than a couple of minutes.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Keedy. ‘Mr Rogan and I have talked for much longer than that but, for a reason known only to him, he never mentioned the fact that he wanted your opinion of Mr Buchanan. Why was that?’

  ‘It was a private conversation, Sergeant,’ said Rogan.

  ‘Maitland is happy enough to talk about it. Why weren’t you?’

  ‘I can explain that,’ said Maitland, cutting in.

  ‘I’m sure that you can,’ said Keedy, ‘because you’re ready to tell any lie – however outrageous – if it gets you and your friend out of trouble. But I’m glad you admit that you know Mr Buchanan well. It accounts for the fact that he turned to you when he needed the guest list from the Lotus Hotel.’

  Maitland snorted. ‘That’s ridiculous!’

  ‘He knew that you had a contact there, someone who had a master key that gave him access to the manager’s office in the dead of night. Rogan was able to copy that list of names and addresses.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing that,’ yelled Rogan.

  ‘Shut up, Len,’ said Maitland. ‘Let me do the talking.’

  ‘I do my job well.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Keedy. ‘Then how is it that a murder took place at the hotel when you were on duty to guarantee the safety of everyone staying there? That’s hardly proof that you do your job well.’

  ‘Len’s a decent, honest, hard-working employee,’ said Maitland, coming to his friend’s aid. ‘He stays at the Lotus out of loyalty, even though he could get better wages elsewhere.’

  ‘At the Roath Court, perhaps?’ said Keedy, pointedly.

  Maitland was at last silenced. He ran his tongue over dry lips. Rogan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Keedy pressed home his advantage.

  ‘How much did Mr Buchanan pay you both?’ he asked.

  ‘He didn’t give us a penny,’ replied Maitland.

  ‘That was very mean of him. The two of you provided him with information that was used to cause Mrs Fleetwood great embarrassment. Surely, you deserved something for going to such trouble.’

  ‘We did nothing wrong, Sergeant. You ask Mr Buchanan.’

  ‘I’ll leave that to the superintendent,’ said Keedy. ‘When I tell him that you’re both party to the theft of confidential information from the Lotus Hotel, he’ll have a lot of searching questions to put to him.’

  Even though the manager had identified the woman, Marmion wanted to take a look at the hotel register. He saw that Charlotte Browne had booked into the Lotus for one night and given a home address in Leeds. With the manager’s permission, he used the telephone to contact the police in Yorkshire. It took only a few minutes for them to confirm that there was no street in the city with the same name as the one in the register. Marmion put down the receiver.

  ‘The address is fictitious,’ he said.

  ‘And so was her name,’ said Chell.

  He went on to describe her as an attractive, dark-haired woman in her thirties who seemed at ease in the luxurious surroundings. Well dressed and well groomed, she was full-bodied and of medium height. Out during the day, she spent the rest of the time in her room.

  The manager had sent for Lena Gosling. As Marmion finished jotting down the description given to him, she arrived at the office. She was eager to offer what help she could. Lena remembered the woman well.

  ‘It was strange,’ she said. ‘Miss Browne was a handsome woman, yet she wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. I thought that she dressed to look a bit older than she really was.’

  ‘I hear that she asked you about the exits,’ said Marmion.

  ‘That’s right, Inspector. She told me that she had a fear of being caught in a hotel fire. It had happened to her once before and had been very upsetting. That’s why she insisted on having a room on the ground floor. Yet funnily enough,’ continued Lena, ‘she didn’t seem like the sort of person who’d be fearful. Miss Browne was very poised.’

  ‘Did you see her in the wake of the murder?’

  ‘Yes, I did. She was in the lounge with everyone else. Sergeant Keedy interviewed the guests one by one, Miss Browne included.’

  ‘She certainly had nerve,’ said Chell. ‘Most killers would surely have wanted to get well away from the scene of the crime, yet she stayed here all night. What does that tell you, Inspector?’

  ‘It suggests to me that the dead woman might not have been her first victim,’ said Marmion. ‘That degree of self-control usually comes from experience.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve gone cold all over,’ admitted Lena with a shiver. ‘I can’t believe that I stood right next to a woman like that. It’s frightening. The Lotus is hardly the place where you’d expect to find someone prepared to commit a murder.’

  ‘Perhaps not, Mrs Gosling, but the law of averages operates here as elsewhere. In any large group of people, you stand the chance of having the odd sinner among the saints. Even in the British aristocracy, there are those with criminal tendencies,’ said Marmion. ‘I should know. I’ve arrested a couple of them.’

  ‘That may be so, Inspector,’ said Chell, ‘but it’s certainly not the case here. Miss Browne was not a member of the aristocracy.’

  ‘She was while she was at the hotel. You’ve both told me how she fitted in so easily. In fact, she and Vesta Lyle have that in common. Both of them enjoyed mixing with the cream of society, if only for one night. I suspect that it brought the two of them immense satisfaction – especially for Vesta Lyle.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘She was able to be Lady Diana Brice-Cadmore.’

  Vesta Lyle looked nothing like an aristocrat now. Pale, drawn, hollow-eyed and sorrowful, she was slumped in an armchair in an attitude of defeat. She extended a desperate hand and mouthed some words. The man who sat on the opposite side of the room looked up from the book he was reading and spoke peremptorily.

  ‘No, Vesta. I control your supply now.’

  ‘Please …’

  ‘It’s no good pleading. You’ve got to be slowly weaned off cocaine now. It’s done far too much damage to you and to our marriage.’

  ‘I can’t live without it, Alphonse.’

  ‘You’ll have to.’

  ‘And I don’t want to live without her.’

  ‘You have no choice. Colette came between us and had to go.’

  ‘But there was no need to
have her killed.’

  ‘It was the only way I could own you again.’

  Vesta was in physical and mental agony. Her body was yearning for the drug that she needed, and her mind was aflame. There was no escape. She was at his mercy again. Dufays would stop at nothing to reclaim her. He’d proved that in the most vicious way. She was married to a monster.

  They were in a hotel room near the Kent coast. While she was in despair, he was savouring his triumph. He felt no sympathy. She’d deserved the punishment he’d meted out and so had her lover.

  ‘When I first met you,’ he recalled, ‘you were a penniless artist with dreams of being famous and with a baby in your belly. Nobody else would have touched you – but I did. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you did.’

  ‘But you came on certain conditions. The child had to be adopted and, as far as you were concerned, it ceased to exist. I provided food, shelter and a studio in which you could work. You were grateful to me in those days, Vesta. Or, at least, you pretended to be, and I was ready to settle for that.’

  ‘I kept to … our agreement.’

  ‘That’s not what you were doing at that hotel.’ She winced. ‘That creature couldn’t be allowed to come between us. You must appreciate that. Because of her, you violated the agreement. Colette Fournier had to be got rid of. You’ll accept that in time.’

  ‘I’ll never forgive you,’ she said with sudden venom.

  ‘Then you’ll never get cocaine ever again.’ She let out a cry of pain. ‘You look tired. Try to get some sleep. I want you awake when she comes this evening.’

  Vesta was terrified. ‘That woman is coming here?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She did me a good service. She expects to be paid.’

  Armed with an account of the interviews that Keedy had conducted with the two men, Chatfield sat behind his desk and dealt with paperwork. It was not long before his visitor was shown in. He rose to his feet to welcome and appraise Fraser Buchanan. The hotelier was exactly what he’d expected. When they’d shaken hands and gone through the niceties, they both sat down. Buchanan looked completely unperturbed.

  ‘It was very kind of you to invite me here,’ he said, smiling, ‘and to send a police car to save me the trouble of summoning my chauffeur. But I would have thought you had far more important things to do than to chat to me. Unless,’ he went on, ‘Griselda has been making more unjustified accusations about me.’

  ‘Mrs Fleetwood is livid with you, sir.’

  ‘That’s so disappointing! There was a time when I had the feeling that she admired me. Women can be so fickle.’

  ‘She was very angry about those handbills you had printed. And before you deny it,’ Chatfield added, ‘let me tell you that we’ve been in touch with your printer.’

  ‘Then you’ll know that he takes care of all my advertising. That handbill was the latest example of it. I know that it ruffled Griselda’s feathers,’ he said with a grin, ‘but all’s fair in love and the hotel trade, Superintendent. There’s nothing in that handbill that isn’t true.’

  ‘My interest is in the people to whom it was sent in the post.’

  ‘It’s not illegal to tout for business.’

  ‘There is if it involves stealing from one of your rivals.’

  ‘Do I look like the sort of man who’d stoop to theft?’ he asked.

  ‘As a matter of fact, sir, you do.’

  Buchanan stiffened. ‘I resent that, Superintendent.’

  ‘Do you know a young man named Ian Maitland?’

  ‘I don’t believe that I do.’

  ‘He’s one of your porters at the Roath Court.’

  ‘We have a large staff there. You can’t expect me to know them all by name. What about this … Maitland, is it?’

  ‘He used to work at the Lotus.’

  ‘Then he was probably glad to escape. Can you imagine what it must be like, surrounded all day by those ferocious old she-dragons?’

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr Buchanan, but you were quite happy to send handbills to a large number of those ladies. As for Maitland,’ said Chatfield, ‘did you know that he was sacked from the Lotus?’

  ‘Porters come and go. As a species, I’ve no interest in them beyond knowing that they can do the job for which they’re paid.’

  ‘Maitland obviously did the job for which he was paid.’

  ‘You’re being very enigmatic, Superintendent.’

  ‘Then let me be more explicit,’ said Chatfield. ‘You employed Maitland to persuade a man named Leonard Rogan, the night porter at the Lotus, to get details of the hotel’s guest list.’

  ‘That’s a laughable suggestion.’

  ‘It’s an established fact, sir. Earlier on, Sergeant Keedy spoke to Maitland and Rogan in one of our interview rooms. It took him less than ten minutes to get a full confession out of them. As a result, I’m faced with a choice. Do I believe two half-educated minions or do I believe you?’ Chatfield smirked. ‘All of a sudden, you’ve lost your voice, sir.’

  Vesta Lyle’s plight was becoming more intense. Desperate for another injection of cocaine, she was shaking at the prospect of meeting the woman responsible for the death of her dearest friend and for returning Vesta to the control of her husband. Alphonse Dufays had, to some extent, been right. He had made possible her career as an artist. Had he not rescued her when she was in such a dire predicament, she would have been homeless, forced to beg in order to buy food for herself and her baby. The man who’d fathered the child had long ago left Paris. When she wrote to him for help, her letters elicited no reply. She’d been shut out of his life entirely. Then she’d met Alphonse Dufays.

  ‘How long will we be here?’ she asked.

  ‘It may be longer than I thought,’ he replied. ‘When I took you from that hotel, I thought that we’d be perfectly safe because nobody knew who you really were. You’d given a false name. I expected the police to be running around after their own tails. Yet somehow they discovered who you really were. When I read your name in the newspapers, it gave me a nasty jolt at first.’

  ‘Do they know who you are?’

  ‘They would do if they saw my passport. If they looked at yours, they’d know that you were Vesta Lyle, the famous artist, the woman who ran away from a hotel in Chelsea and left a corpse behind.’

  It was too much for her to bear. Vesta burst into tears. He’d spoken so callously about the woman who’d replaced him. Dufays didn’t even dignify her with a name this time. She was simply a corpse and he was the one who’d arranged for her cruel murder so that he could reclaim his wife. Vesta’s future would be intolerably bleak.

  ‘I wish she’d killed me as well,’ she said, miserably.

  ‘Oh, no, I wanted you alive. That was the whole point.’

  ‘Do I have to meet that woman?’

  ‘She’s good company when you get to know her. Under different circumstances, you’d get on well with her.’

  ‘She’s a black-hearted killer!’

  He smiled thinly. ‘She was a means to an end, Vesta.’

  Marmion got back to Scotland Yard to find Keedy waiting for him. The sergeant was eager to pass on the news that he’d arrested and charged Rogan and Maitland, and that the superintendent had done the same to Buchanan. Marmion was duly impressed.

  ‘And what’s this theory of yours, Harv?’ asked Keedy. ‘Chat tells me that you believe that the killer was a woman.’

  ‘I know that she was. I can even tell you the name she used when she stayed at the hotel.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Charlotte Browne.’

  ‘That name sounds oddly familiar.’

  ‘So it should, Joe – you interviewed her.’

  Keedy blanched. ‘She stayed at the hotel after the murder?’

  ‘Yes, nobody can doubt her audacity.’

  ‘I must have taken a statement from her.’

  While Keedy flipped through the pages of his notebook, Marmion gave him a
description of the woman who was now their prime suspect. Keedy read through her statement.

  ‘I remember her now,’ he said. ‘She was an attractive woman and had an educated voice. Unlike most of them, she didn’t look down her nose at me as if I’d just emerged from the nearest swamp. Charlotte Browne, eh? I’d never have singled her out as the killer.’

  ‘She claimed to have come from Leeds.’

  ‘There was no hint of a Yorkshire accent.’

  ‘She made up her home address. She probably picked the first city that came into her mind.’ Marmion started. ‘Wait a moment …’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Isn’t there a Leeds in Kent?’

  ‘There’s a Leeds Castle, I know that.’

  ‘And I daresay there’s a village of the same name nearby. I’m starting to wonder if Miss Charlotte Browne may have slipped up when she gave that address. It would be interesting to find out.’

  Ellen Marmion had had a day of celebration. Wherever she went, she learnt that Rene Bridger had been there before her and talked about the way that Ellen had challenged Quentin Dacey at the end of his lecture. Nobody else had ever heard of him but they liked the idea of someone taking on a scaremonger. At the sewing circle, Ellen got a patter of applause as she arrived. When she went home early that evening, she was floating on air. There was another treat to come. Seeing that there was a light on in the house, she knew that Alice must have let herself in. Ellen covered the last thirty yards at a gentle trot.

  They were soon hugging each other in the living room.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you, Mummy,’ said Alice.

  ‘And I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘Go on, then. What is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Ellen, ‘you go first. I’ve already had too much attention today. It was starting to go to my head.’

  ‘Very well – I’ll take my turn.’

  When they’d sat down on the sofa, Alice told her about her detective work on behalf of a friend. Her mother was full of praise for the way that her daughter had gone to such trouble on the other woman’s behalf.