“Confound the woman, she might help a fellow out,” thought Robert. He determined on a direct question to her. “Will you help us to find out the truth?”
“About what do you want to know the truth?” Annette spoke at last although she did not raise her eyes.
West temporized. “Er, well, about the burglary at the flat for a beginning.”
“The burglary at my grandfather’s flat? How can I know anything about that? Surely your police are going to find the burglars?”
“Of course they will do their best, but we are all so in the dark about what I might call the background of the whole business. That is the most important thing at the moment. Can you throw any light on any reason your grandfather might have had for committing suicide last night?”
Then Annette looked up, and Robert realized why he had thought her beautiful. Her eyes, large, clear dark blue, were in startling contrast to the rather severe moulding of her oval face. They made her human, warm even. “My grandfather did not commit suicide, Mr West.”
Robert was startled by the quiet assurance of her tone. Unless Blackitt had had his interview even the Home Secretary would not yet know that the police had any doubts about Oissel having killed himself. Yet Annette calmly stated it as a fact she knew, and about which there could be no argument.
“Then how did he die, Miss Oissel? I can assure you there was no one in the room when Mr Shaw and I dashed in.”
“I don’t know how he died,” said Annette. “But I want to see the Home Secretary to tell him that it could not have been suicide, whatever the papers say, and he must find out who did it.”
Then Annette looked up at him again with the odd power of her dark blue eyes. “Do you honestly believe it was suicide, Mr West?”
Knowing what he did, Robert couldn’t say yes. To say “No” might hamper the police and would certainly annoy Blackitt. Hesitation would give her at least room for doubt. He plunged. “Honestly I see no other solution, Miss Oissel, but the police must find out what they can, and you will help, won’t you?”
“Certainly, if I can, but how?”
“Well, why are you so sure he did not commit suicide?”
“Because he had a love of life amounting to a mania, Mr West. He was attacked and badly wounded by gangsters at Detroit and nearly died. When he got better he was crippled for life. He spent thousands every year in keeping as fit as he could. He had endowed a research institution on rejuvenation and was going to start treatment in August. I was to go with him. He was terribly excited about it. I know he wouldn’t take his life just now.”
“But perhaps there were reasons you don’t know, Miss Oissel. The crash of the markets has broken men nearly as big as he——”
“But the crash did not break him. He was right in the inside. I know he helped to bring about one of the breaks, and he made millions. I know more of his affairs than anyone. I say it is quite inconceivable that he should have taken his life himself. Quite impossible.”
The girl did not raise her voice or hurry her words in excitement. She spoke so quietly and definitely that West realized that Kinnaird had spoken truly when he said they would have to deal with no weeping Madonna. Here was a determined young woman, trained in a business atmosphere and immensely self-assured. If she had inherited the whole of the Oissel fortune in addition, the British Government would have to reckon with a very formidable enemy if they did not please her.
A secretary arrived to conduct Annette to the Home Secretary’s room. When the door closed behind her Kinnaird turned to West and said: “Well?”
Robert whistled. “I say, Kinnaird, what a handful if she’s out to make trouble—” and he whistled again. Then checking himself he said: “But I forgot—you’re a special friend of hers, aren’t you?”
Kinnaird smiled. “I hope to be something more soon.”
“Really! I say! You are in luck. The Oissel heiress—and in dollars! You won’t need to form up in a bread queue even if the pound goes down to blazes.”
“But I’d be in love with Annette even if she hadn’t a sou.”
“I’m sorry,” said West, going rather red. “I’m the rudest blighter! I didn’t mean——”
“Of course not, and I’m not going to deny that dollars are likely to be useful in Britain for a bit. Have a cigarette?”
The case was a lovely gold thing with a cubist design in enamel.
“Seems like Miss Oissel somehow.”
“She gave it to me,” replied Kinnaird.
As West smoked, he found himself wondering what it would be like to be the lover of Annette Oissel. She seemed so spiky, somehow, with her cubist ornaments, her thinness, and her elegance. Yet those deep blue eyes… they made her seem human, a woman who could be loved. But under those long lashes one didn’t see much of Annette’s eyes.
“Kinnaird,” he said suddenly, “forgive my asking, but did old Oissel know you wanted to marry her? I mean, was he all right about it?”
Kinnaird flicked the ash from his cigarette. “He knew, of course. I had formally asked him, but he wanted her to marry a title, a French marquis—old family. He was very keen about it because his father had been a peasant on the estates of this family and you can imagine his desire for such a climax.”
“And she didn’t fall in with his plans?”
“Most emphatically she did not. She met the Marquis once and that was enough. A nasty little degenerate, and there was nothing doing.”
“Oissel was angry, I suppose?”
“Yes and no. He was devoted to Annette and never more so than when she defied him. She knew how to do it the way he liked. I think he was getting used to the idea of having me for a son-in-law.”
“Do you think Miss Oissel is right about the suicide?”
Kinnaird shrugged his shoulders. “Annette didn’t know all there was to know about the old man, not by a long way. He dreaded her finding out about some of his less reputable side-lines. Oissel was a tough customer, West.”
“So I’ve gathered. Good many enemies too, I should say?”
“Less than there might have been if so many hadn’t died first,” said Kinnaird grimly.
West remembered Shaw’s remarks about the Regal Irak shares and whistled characteristically.
The door opened. It was Annette. The two men rose. West wondered what had happened at the interview with his Chief. But the girl was perfectly composed. Robert felt irritated. A woman with eyes like Annette’s ought not to pose as a marble statue of a Madonna. Quite irrationally he wanted to shake her, to break through her defences, to assert in some way his sheer masculine superiority. Angry with himself, he yet found himself rapidly thinking of some way to impress her, to ruffle this cool indifference.
Besides, it was important not to lose touch. This girl could give information about Oissel that no one else could. It was all-important to have her as an ally.
“I mustn’t keep you from your work, Mr West. Thank you very much for your help.”
Robert held her proffered hand for a moment. “I want to be of a great deal more use in this matter, Miss Oissel. Believe me, we are as anxious to find the truth as you are. But if we are in difficulties about details, would you mind if I phoned you, perhaps later to-day?”
“Not at all. Please do. Any time.”
Then she added: “So long as you understand that my grandfather did not commit suicide whatever the police may say.”
“Then Blackitt hasn’t seen the Chief yet,” thought Robert as he bowed his visitors out of the room.
He returned to his desk and tried to think things out. Why was Annette so sure her grandfather had not committed suicide? Why was she so anxious to impress that on the Home Office. She had made this early visit with apparently no other object. Had she some inkling as to who the murderers might be, and was she afraid they might go unpunished if the police accepted
the convenient suicide theory? Then suddenly Robert kicked himself for a fool. He had just mentioned the burglary at Mr Oissel’s flat, but had not asked her one question about it. Damn those lovely dark blue eyes—they had flustered him completely. But obviously he must see her again and quickly. He ought to be able to get details from her about the atmosphere and the visitors at Charlton Court which she would not be willing to tell the police. Yes, decidedly he must see Annette very soon.
The telephone bell rang. “Could Mr West come to the Home Secretary’s room immediately and accompany him to the House of Commons?”
“What’s in the wind now?” said Robert to himself as he picked up his grey felt hat.
CHAPTER VI
It was nearly lunch-time before Sir George Gleeson was able to have a private talk with his political Chief. He was angry that the Minister should have agreed to see Annette Oissel alone, an unprecedented action. No Minister ever sees any visitor without an official nurse in attendance. It is recorded that a recent Home Secretary, after laying down office, remarked to his wife, “How nice to be able to talk to you, my dear, without having the minutes taken by a secretary.”
When at last they were alone together the Minister and his chief civil servant settled down to their usual tug-of-war. The relations of Ministers with their civil heads in England follow one of two well-trodden paths. If the political chief has acquired an inferiority complex, as a result of years of explaining away his actions to a critical electorate and being anxiously amiable to his leaders lest he may be left off the list when posts are being considered, then he thankfully recognizes the domination of whatever variety of Sir George Gleeson is in charge of his department, and spends his ministerial time meekly repeating the lessons his chief civil servant carefully teaches him.
But if the Minister has won his place in the Cabinet by doing the dominating himself, he starts on his career with the determination to stand no nonsense from his civil servants. It takes his staff about six months—sometimes less—to reduce him to apologetic pulp. The Civil Service has its own ways of withdrawing an expected prop at unexpected moments.
But sometimes the Sir George Gleesons meet their match. Either they have a Minister with a mental equipment they can respect and work with, or they find, as our Sir George Gleeson was finding, a Minister whose immovable obstinacy positively frightens them. After all, the civil servant’s main interest is the regard which is paid to his ‘show’ by the heads of other departments. With a Minister he cannot dominate, and who is not intelligent enough for skilled co-operation, yet is determined on playing the part he imagines a Cabinet Minister ought to play, and is thus likely to let down the department at any moment, the world is at its worst for a Civil Service chief. Sir George Gleeson had been discovering this painful fact for the last two years.
The Home Secretary, perfectly groomed as usual, received his chief permanent official with a grave air suitable to the occasion, but as a man properly concerned with the tragic death of an old friend rather than a politician worried by what might be a serious international affair. Indeed, he seemed much more concerned about the burglary and the death of Edward Jenks than about Georges Oissel.
“Let’s leave the burglary for the moment,” said Sir George impatiently. “The police have got that well in hand. Blackitt is down there, and I will let you have his report as soon as I get it. But we must face up to the death of Mr Oissel. I’ve sent a formal report and your regrets to the American Embassy, but we will have to follow that up with a full report, and there are some damned awkward questions sent in already as private notice questions.”
A private notice question can cause more flutter in the Civil Service than any other of the few instruments of torture left in the hands of back-bench Members. Ordinary Parliamentary questions to a Minister have to be on the order paper in time to give the department at least forty-eight hours in which to concoct a reply. On a matter of urgency, with the Speaker’s permission, the question can be sent in to the department only a few hours before it has to be answered. And answered it must be, or a very awkward Parliamentary situation arises, for the House and the Press naturally pay much more attention to private notice questions than to the routine variety.
The Minister made an impatient movement. Questions—of course there would be questions. There were always the insignificant fools who wanted to get their names in the papers, who would jump in at any occurrence that got into the Press. But the House of Commons as a whole was a sensible assembly. Obviously he couldn’t help it if his guest committed suicide. Oissel’s revolver was beside him as clear proof of what had happened.
Gleeson, who had kept the information for the purpose of puncturing the Minister’s hide-bound self-confidence, said quietly:
“The police have very grave reasons to doubt the suicide theory.”
The Home Secretary stared. “But what nonsense! There was the revolver—a shot had been fired from it, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, then, what’s the difficulty?”
Sir George Gleeson repeated in great detail the reasons Blackitt had given him for doubting the suicide theory. He took particular pleasure in demonstrating the matchbox proof. Like all men who work entirely with their heads, Gleeson was immensely impressed with any little practical experiment.
The Home Secretary was impressed too. If the expert men at Scotland Yard had decided it was not suicide they were pretty certain to be right. “Damned awkward, Gleeson,” he said.
“Very.”
There was a certain directness about the Minister.
“If Oissel did not die by his own hand,” he said, “then the means by which he died are in that room, if, as you say, it has never been left since West found him dead. Call West, and we’ll go over and see the place for ourselves.”
Robert West, in silence, accompanied the Minister and Sir George Gleeson across to the House. A group of reporters, who had kept watch on the door in the hope of catching West, as being softer game than his Minister, glanced with curiosity at the three set faces and followed at a discreet distance. Robert couldn’t help admiring his Minister, whose whole demeanour gave no hint of undue worry. “There’s nothing like having a presence at times like this,” he thought irreverently. “It’s all rot keeping down one’s waistline, really. A politician is taken much more seriously if he has a substantial middle.”
At the fateful Room J the policeman on guard saluted. Inside, another constable was seated. He sprang to attention and assured Sir George that under Inspector Blackitt’s orders the room had never been left for an instant.
In the sunlight of a June morning the room looked oddly untidy. The flowers were wilting on the table. A half-peeled pear was still on the plate Oissel had been using. The windows were tightly shut, and the air of the room was hot and heavy.
“Rotten job a policeman has,” thought Robert. “We just shove him into a hole like this and keep him there for hours on his own.”
The Minister stood in the middle of the room, grimly surveying the table at which so recently he had been placidly talking business with Oissel. Then with determination he started on a tour of the room, asking questions of Sergeant Bourne, who had hurried to them on being told that the Minister and Sir George Gleeson had arrived, after first, with great presence of mind, telephoning for Inspector Blackitt.
Were there any secret panels? It was known that the place was riddled with strange holes due to the idiotic ventilation system. The sergeant assured him that every panel had been examined. The only two hollow ones were those that concealed certain lighting switches—a tiny box and a cupboard that held glassware. Bourne admitted that the police were a little hampered by the fact that it was not known just how Mr Oissel was sitting at the time, because the body had fallen to the floor after the shot. Robert repeated his story over and over again to impatient questions by the Minister and intelligent inquiries from Sir George.
But it was hopeless. They searched every nook and cranny, but the facts would not fit together. If there was no one in the room when the shot was fired, and the last person to see Georges Oissel alive was the Home Secretary, and the police had grave reasons for doubting any theory of suicide, then what had happened in the ten minutes between the Home Secretary leaving for the division lobby and Robert West hearing the shot?
The Minister sat down heavily at the head of the table near the door, where he had sat that night opposite to his guest.
“You were right, Gleeson. This is going to be an extremely awkward business. I think we ought to see Blackitt while we are here.”
“I took the liberty of telephoning for him when you arrived, sir,” said the sergeant deferentially. “He should be here any minute.”
Blackitt came while the Minister was still meditating over the untidy table.
“Of course we can’t… er… keep to ourselves the fact that… er… well, the fact that suicide cannot be proved.” The Minister’s voice was reflective, almost hopeful.
“Well, sir, that was what I wanted to consult you and Sir George about,” answered Blackitt. “We needn’t say anything at the inquest about our doubts, especially as we are only going to give formal evidence and ask for an adjournment. Of course, if the police said nothing the verdict would be suicide, sure enough—but——” and the Inspector looked for guidance to Gleeson.
Sir George made an impatient gesture with his hand. “That’s nonsense, Blackitt. The facts are bound to come out under cross-examination. First thing the Oissel solicitor would ask.”
The Home Secretary was pulling the lobe of one ear, and it was obvious that he was thinking at that moment that the boasted incorruptibility of the British Civil Service could be a little overdone at times. “Of course, of course,” he said, after a moment’s interval, “we couldn’t think of such a thing.”
“All the same, we’d better give the police a breathing-space,” said Sir George, “and as the inquest will be adjourned—it’s to-morrow at twelve, you said, Blackitt?—the more non-committal the answers in the House this afternoon the better.”
The Division Bell Mystery Page 6