The Mad Hatter Mystery

by The Mad Hatter Mystery (retail) (epub)

  “Listen to this! Notes of some sort, with dashes between. Apparently it’s in Driscoll’s handwriting.

  “‘Best Place? . . . Tower? . . . Track down hat . . . Unfortunate Trafalgar . . . can’t transfix . . . 10 . . . Wood . . . Hedges or shield . . . Find out.’”

  There was a silence.

  “But that’s gibberish!” General Mason protested, somewhat superfluously. “It doesn’t mean anything. At least, it may have meant something, but—”

  “But he’s left out the connecting words,” Hadley supplied. “I’ve often put things down that way. Still, even with the connectives, it would take a genuine puzzle artist to put that together. It seems to refer to some clue for following our hat man. What clue, I don’t know.”

  “Read that again!” Dr. Fell suddenly boomed from his corner. He had hauled himself up straight, and he was shaking his pipe at them. On his big face was a blank expression which slowly turned to something like amusement as the chief inspector repeated the words.

  “Mrs. Larkin is here, sir,” said the voice of Sergeant Hamper from the door.

  A series of chuckles were running down the bulges of Dr. Fell’s waistcoat. His small eyes twinkled, and ashes from his pipe were blown about him. He looked like the Spirit of the Volcano. Then his red and shining face sank down again, and he became decorous as the sergeant ushered in their next visitor. Hadley hastily closed the notebook, and General Mason retired again to the fireside.

  Mrs. Amanda Georgette Larkin looked about carefully before she entered, rather as though she expected to find a bucket of water balanced on the top of the door. Then she marched in, saw the empty chair beside Hadley’s desk, and sat sown without further ado. She was a tall, rather heavy woman, well dressed in dark clothes of the sort called “sensible”; which word, as in its usual context, means an absence of charm. Mrs. Larkin had a square face and suspicious dark eyes. She adjusted her arms on the chair in the manner of one expecting somebody to adjust straps over them, and waited.

  Hadley hitched his own chair round. “Mrs. Larkin, I am Chief Inspector Hadley. Naturally, you understand, I dislike having to inconvenience any of you—”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Mrs. Larkin.

  “Yes. But you may be able to give us some very important information.”

  “Maybe,” grunted Mrs. Larkin, hitching her shoulders. “I don’t know that. But, first, before you ask me any questions, either give me the usual warning or else give me your word anything I say will be treated as a confidence.”

  She had a way of flicking her head from side to side, and half closing her eyes, as she tossed out the words. Hadley considered gravely.

  “Are you familiar with the ‘usual warning,’ Mrs. Larkin?”

  “Maybe and maybe not. But I know the law, and what I say stands.”

  “Then I can only repeat what you already know. I can make no promises. If anything you say has a direct bearing on this investigation, I can’t treat it as a confidence. Is that clear? Besides, Mrs. Larkin, I’m almost positive I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe you have, and maybe you haven’t. That’s as it may be. But there’s no slop in the business who’s got anything on me. I’m a respectable widow. I’ve got a life annuity from my old man, all straight and in order, and I can give you a dozen character witnesses. I don’t know anything about your investigation, and I haven’t anything to tell you. So that’s final.”

  All this time Mrs. Larkin seemed to be having some difficulty with her cuff. Under her dark coat she seemed to have on some sort of tailored suit, with turned-up white cuffs; whether the left-hand one was sliding down, or her capable fingers had a habit of playing with it, Rampole could not tell. If Hadley noticed it, he gave no sign.

  “Do you know what has happened here, Mrs. Larkin?”

  “Certainly I know. There was enough talk from the crowd over the way.”

  “Very well. Then you may know that the dead man is Mr. Philip Driscoll, of Tavistock Chambers, Tavistock Square. On the paper you filled out you say that you lived in this building also.”

  “I do. What about it?”

  “What is the number of your flat?”

  A brief hesitation. “Number One.”

  “Number One. Ground floor, I suppose? Quite so. You must be an old resident, Mrs. Larkin?”

  She blazed. “What the hell difference is it to you? It’s none of your business whether I’m an old resident or not. I pay my rent. If you’ve got any complaint to make, make it to the manager of the flats.”

  Again Hadley gravely considered, his hands folded. “Who would also tell me how long you had been a resident, Mrs. Larkin. After all, it can’t harm you to give us a bit of assistance, can it? You never know. Sometime”—he raised his eyes—“sometime it might help you a good deal.”

  Another hesitation. “I didn’t mean to speak so sharp,” she told him, moving sullenly in the chair. “Well, if it does you any good, I’ve been there a few weeks; something like that.”

  “That’s better. How many flats on each floor?”

  “Two. Two in each entry of the buildings; it’s a big place.”

  “So,” Hadley said, musingly, “you must have lived directly across the way from Mr. Driscoll. Did you know him?”

  “No. I’ve seen him, that’s all.”

  “Inevitable, of course. And passing in and out, you may have noticed whether he had visitors?”

  “What’s the use my telling you I didn’t? Sure I did. I couldn’t help it. He had lots of people coming to see him.”

  “I was thinking particularly of women, Mrs. Larkin.”

  For a moment she scrutinized him with an ugly eye. “Yes. There was women. But what about it? I’m no moralist. Live and let live, that’s what I say. It was none of my business. They didn’t disturb me, and I didn’t disturb them. But if you’re going to ask me who the women were, you can save your breath. I don’t know.”

  “For instance,” said Hadley. He glanced over at the sheet of mauve notepaper lying spread out under the bright lights. “You never heard the name Mary used did you?”

  She stiffened. Her eyes remained fixed on the notepaper, and she stopped fiddling with her cuff. Then she began talking rather volubly in her straight, harsh fashion.

  “No. I told you I didn’t know him. The only woman’s name I ever heard in connection with him was on the up-and-up. It was a little blonde. Pretty little thing. She used to come with a big thin bird with eyeglasses on. One day she stopped me as I was coming in and asked me how she could find the porter to get into his flat. There’s no hall porter; it’s an automatic lift. She said her name was Sheila and she was his cousin. And that’s all I ever heard.”

  Hadley remained silent for a time, regarding the articles on his desk.

  “Now, about this afternoon, Mrs. Larkin. How did you happen to come to the Tower of London?”

  “I’ve got a right to come here if I want to. I don’t need to explain why I go to a public building, do I? I just did.” The reply was fired back so quickly that Rampole suspected it had been framed in advance, ready for the proper occasion.

  “When did you arrive?”

  “Past two o’clock. Mind, I don’t swear to that! I’m not under oath. That’s what time I think it was.”

  “Did you make the tour—go all around?”

  “I went to two of them—Crown Jewels and Bloody Tower. Not the other one. Then I got tired and started out. They stopped me.”

  Hadley went through the routine of questions, and elicited nothing. She had been deaf, dumb, and blind. There were other people about her—she remembered an American cursing the fog—but she had paid no attention to the others. At length he dismissed her, with the warning that he would probably have future questions. Mrs. Larkin sniffed. She adjusted the collar of her coat, gave a last defiant glance about, and stalked out.

  The moment she had disappeared Hadley hurried to the door. He said to the warder there, “Find Sergeant Hamper
and tell him to put a tail on the woman who’s just left here. Hurry! If the fog’s any thicker he’ll miss her. Then tell Hamper to come back here.”

  He turned back to the desk, thoughtfully beating his hands together.

  “Hang it all, man,” General Mason burst out, impatiently, “why the kid-glove tactics? A little third degree wouldn’t have hurt her. She knows something, right enough. And she probably is, or has been, a criminal.”

  “Undoubtedly, General. But I had nothing to hold over her; and, above all, she’s much more valuable on the string. We’ll play her out a bit. And I think we should discover something interesting. I think we’ll find there is nothing against her at present at the Yard. And I’m almost sure we’ll find she’s a private detective.”

  “Ha!” muttered the general. He twisted his mustache. “A private detective. But why?”

  Hadley sat down again and regarded the articles on his desk.

  “Oh, I needn’t be mysterious like my friend Dr. Fell. There are any number of indications. Clearly she has nothing to fear from the police; she challenged that with every word. She lives in Tavistock Square. The neighborhood isn’t ‘flash’ enough for her if she had that much money of her own to spend, and it isn’t cheap enough if she had less. I know the type. She has lived there only a few weeks—just opposite Driscoll. She obviously had paid a great deal of attention to his visitors. She told us only one incident, the visit of his cousin Sheila, because that wouldn’t help us; but you notice she had all the details.

  “Then—did you see her fumbling at her cuff? She hasn’t been in the business long; she was afraid it would show out of the arm of her coat, and she was afraid to take it off over in the Warders’ Hall, for fear of looking suspicious.”

  “Her cuff?”

  Hadley nodded. “These private snoopers who get material for divorces. They have to make notes of times and places quickly, and often in the dark. Oh yes. That’s what she’s up to. She was following somebody this afternoon.”

  The general said, “Hum!” He scuffled his feet a moment before asking, “Something to do with Driscoll?”

  Hadley put his head down in his hands.

  “Yes. You saw the start she couldn’t help giving when she saw that note on my desk. She was close enough to have read it, but the color of the paper was enough to identify it—if she’d ever seen any similar notes in connection with Driscoll. H’m, yes. But that’s not the point. I strongly suspect that the person she was actually shadowing this afternoon was— Whom do you say, Doctor?”

  Dr. Fell relighted his pipe. “Mrs. Bitton, of course. I’m afraid she rather gave herself away, if you listened to what she said.”

  “But, good God!” muttered the general. He paused and stared round quickly. “Eh. That’s better. I thought for a moment Bitton was here. You mean to say there’s something between Driscoll and— H’m. Yes. It fits, I suppose. But where’s your proof?”

  “I haven’t any proof. As I say, it’s only a suspicion.” Hadley rubbed his chin. “Still, let’s take it as a hypothesis for the moment, and work back. Let’s assume Larkin was shadowing Mrs. Bitton. Now, this White Tower, General. That’s the biggest and most important one, isn’t it? And it’s some distance away from the Bloody Tower, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes. It stands alone; it’s in the middle of the inner ballium walls just beside the parade-ground.”

  “And I think you said that the tower where the Crown Jewels are kept is directly beside the Bloody Tower?”

  “The Wakefield Tower. Yes. Wait a minute!” said Mason, excitedly. “I’ve got it. Mrs. Bitton went to see the Crown Jewels. So did Larkin. Mrs. Bitton said she wandered up through the arch of the Bloody Tower, inside the inner wall, and up to the parade-ground. Larkin went to the Bloody Tower. She couldn’t keep too close to Mrs. Bitton. And if she went up the stairs of the Bloody Tower to Raleigh’s Walk, she could have seen from a height where Mrs. Bitton was going.”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you,” said Hadley, knocking his fists against his temples. “She couldn’t have been very far in the mist, of course. It’s more probable she did that—if she did—to keep up the illusion of being a tourist. Or she might have thought Mrs. Bitton had gone into the Bloody Tower. It’s all supposition. But neither of them went to the White Tower, you see. Those may be coincidences, but when you couple them with the presence of those two women here, and the statements of Mrs. Bitton and Larkin, they sound pretty plausible indications.”

  “You’re assuming,” said the general, pointing to the table, “that Mrs. Bitton wrote that note?”

  “And all the time,” Hadley mused, “suspecting she was being watched. See what the note says: ‘Be careful. Suspect. Vital.’ She used an obviously crude and ordinary notepaper; but, you remember, Larkin gave a start on seeing it. The letter was posted at ten-thirty last night, in Mrs. Bitton’s district, after Driscoll had paid a short visit that evening. Mrs. Bitton had just that day come back from a walking tour in Cornwall—and why, in God’s name, a walking trip in Cornwall in the worst part of March, unless somebody wanted to get her away from a dangerous infatuation?”

  He got up and began to pace about the room. As he passed General Mason, the latter silently handed him his cigar case. Hadley took a cigar and put it into his mouth, but he did not light it.

  “I’m running on, I suppose. Still, if we assume all this, we must assume it was a dangerous infatuation. For here’s a private detective who has been planted in a flat opposite Driscoll for some weeks, even during the time she and her husband were away! Does that mean anything? And who planted her there? Offhand, of course, the husband.”

  “But the name, Mary?” suggested General Mason.

  “I’ve heard many more hilariously funny nicknames—whatd’yecallem—pet names—in my time,” Hadley said, grimly. “And the handwriting’s undoubtedly disguised. Even if it were stolen it couldn’t be used as evidence against her. She’s a clever woman, right enough. But look here—”

  He struggled with a match to light his cigar.

  “Do you see the deep waters we’re in now? Come along, Mr. Rampole,” he prompted, turning so suddenly that the American jumped; “do you see how it mixes everything up?”

  Rampole hesitated. “I can see plenty of difficulties,” he returned. “That letter would have been delivered fairly early this morning. Now we’ve been assuming all along that the reason why Driscoll telephoned Mr. Dalrye had something to do with the hat thief and his pursuit of the hat thief. But Driscoll never actually said it did. Dalrye asked him jokingly, if I remember it right, whether he was afraid of his hat being stolen. But all Driscoll actually answered was, ‘It’s not my hat I’m afraid of; it’s my head.’ Dalrye thought it referred to the hat affair; but did it?”

  He looked bewilderedly at the chief inspector.

  “I don’t know,” snapped Hadley. “But he makes that appointment with Dalrye for one o’clock. The appointment in the letter is for one-thirty. He has received the letter that morning; it’s scared him, and he wants Dalrye’s help. Then, what? Some other person carefully sends Dalrye on a wild-goose chase to Driscoll’s flat. Then Driscoll arrives here, in a bad state. He is seen by Parker looking out of the window, and later somebody touches him on the arm by Traitors’ Gate.

  “So what?” Hadley had got his cigar lighted now, after wasting several matches, and he regarded his companions more calmly. “What went on in the merry-go-round composed of Driscoll, Mrs. Bitton, Larkin, and a possible fourth party? Was it some sort of crime passionel? And if it was, can anybody on this side of sanity inform me why Driscoll’s body should be found wearing Sir William’s stolen top hat? It’s the hat thief angle that’s mad and impossible; but the hat thief is in on this somehow, and I hope you can explain him. I can’t.”

  There was a pause. Dr. Fell took the pipe out of his mouth and spoke rather plaintively.

  “I say, Hadley,” he remonstrated. “You’re working yourself up into a lather. Be calm. End
eavor to cultivate that philosophical outlook of which Marcus Aurelius speaks. So far you’ve reasoned closely and well; but—to put it pointedly—don’t smash your bat over the wicketkeeper’s head when you’ve already made over a century. It’ll come out all right. Just keep on in your normal course.”

  The chief inspector regarded him bitterly.

  “Unless our questioning of the other visitors turns up something,” he said, “we have only one other person to interview. And thank God. I need a brandy. Several brandies. But for the next few minutes, Doctor, I am going to exercise that philosophical spirit. You are going to be the chief inspector. With the next witness it becomes your case. In other words, you are going to examine Julius Arbor.”

  “With pleasure,” said the doctor, “if you’ll give me your chair.” He hauled himself to his feet as Hadley summoned the warder on guard and gave instructions. “It’s what I should have asked to do, in any case, Hadley. Because why? Because a good part of the case depends on it. And that side of the case—shall I tell you what that side of the case hinges on, Hadley?”

  “You will, anyhow. Well?”

  “It hinges on a stolen manuscript,” said Dr. Fell.

  VIII

  Mr. Arbor’s Aura

  DR. FELL hung his cloak over the back of the chair. Then he squeezed himself into the chair and arranged his various ridges of stomach. Folding his hands over this, he twinkled amiably.

  “I don’t know whether I ought to let you do this,” said Hadley. “I don’t want the general to think we’re both mad. And for the love of God try to control your deplorable sense of humor. This is serious business.” He massaged his chin uncomfortably. “You see, General, in his own way Doctor Fell is invaluable. But he gets his ideas of police procedure from the cinema, and he is under the impression that he can act any sort of part. Whenever I let him question anybody in my presence he tries to give an imitation of me. The result sounds like a schoolmaster with homicidal mania trying to find out what fourth-former spread the axle grease on the stairs when the headmaster was coming down to dinner.”