Collected works of j s f.., p.671
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 671
“You think they may have conspired to kill Mr. Henry Marchmont?” suggested Liversedge.
“I see no proof that they didn’t!” answered Richard. “What was to prevent them? They were there, alone in the place with him. They could shoot him — one of them, Simpson, for choice! — and make up all this story later on. There’s a damned lot too much apparent consistency in their stories to suit me. But of course, I’m not skilled at this sort of thing. Anyhow — I wouldn’t believe a word that’s said by either Simpson or Crench!”
“Mr. Marchmont, you’d be surprised how some men can tell the truth — when it suits ’em!” said Liversedge. “Now, from experience, I believe that Simpson and Crench have both told the exact truth in their statements! All the more so, because they both know that they’re in a hole — a very nasty, deep hole! As you say, they were both in the house at Bedford Row; they’ve admitted they were. They’d every opportunity to murder your uncle for the sake of the money left with him by Lansdale. They haven’t a single witness to bring forward for their defence! And they know that, if we charge them with the murder, they haven’t a cat’s chance! But — it may be intuition, it may be prejudice — I believe they’re both innocent of your uncle’s murder. Vandelius, now — —”
Richard suddenly clutched his companion’s arm. They had come to near the entrance to the Hotel Cecil; there, amongst a procession of cars slowly filing into the courtyard, was one to which he pointed, excitedly.
“There is Vandelius!” he exclaimed. “There! — in that dark-green coupé car!”
“I see him!” muttered Liversedge. “Luck! He’ll be going to see Lansdale. We’ve got him! Keep back, Mr. Marchmont — let him get in!”
He drew Richard aside till the dark-green car had pulled up at one of the doors of the hotel and they had seen Vandelius, alone, get out and disappear inside, while the car moved off and went away.
“Now come on!” said Liversedge. “We both know Lansdale’s rooms, and we’ll go straight up there. And once there, Mr. Marchmont, leave matters to me!”
Richard followed the detective along the corridors with a growing sense of excitement. What was going to happen? — what was to be revealed? He saw that Liversedge meant business. And Liversedge went straight to it, as soon as the door opened and they walked in on Lansdale, Angelita, and Vandelius.
“Mr. Vandelius,” said the detective, with no preface or delay, “I have followed you in here to ask you a question. Did you call on Mr. Henry Marchmont at Bedford Row on the evening on which he was murdered? A plain answer, if you please, sir!”
XXVIII. Final
RICHARD, FOLLOWING CLOSELY on the detective’s heels, and secretly somewhat taken aback by his abrupt manner of entrance, was quick to observe the effect he produced on the three persons thus broken in upon. Angelita, who was arranging flowers at a side-table, turned on Liversedge with a look of sudden apprehension; Lansdale, just rising from his desk, a pen in his hand, stared first at the detective, then at Vandelius; Vandelius — at ease in a big chair, a cigar, just lighted, in his mouth, was the only apparently unconcerned person present. He glanced at Richard with a slight recognition of his presence, and then eyed Liversedge over, calmly, and with an amused smile.
“My good man!” he answered in suave, bantering tones. “Aren’t you forgetting yourself — and your manners? What warrant have you for breaking in upon a gentleman, his daughter, and his visitor — in this fashion?”
“I wouldn’t say overmuch about warrants, if I were you, Mr. Vandelius!” retorted Liversedge, standing his ground. “Warrants are not very nice things in certain circumstances — these circumstances, if you wish me to be plain. I’m investigating the murder of Mr. Henry Marchmont, and I’ve good reason for asking you the question I put to you just now!”
“And supposing I tell you to take yourself away?” asked Vandelius. “What then, my man?”
“I should go! — and you would go with me, Mr. Vandelius — to Scotland Yard!” replied the detective. “If you won’t answer here, you’ll have to answer a lot of questions there! That’s flat! — so you’d better think!”
“I am thinking!” said Vandelius. “I am thinking a great deal. The gist of my reflections is that your police methods are elementary and offensive. May I inquire why you force yourself in here — in company with a young gentleman, who, if you don’t, ought to know better! — and discharge a question at me point-blank? There are better ways of doing things, my good fellow!”
“If you’re going to bring me into it,” said Richard suddenly, “I may as well tell you that I think Liversedge is quite right! What were you doing at my uncle’s offices on the evening he was murdered?”
Angelita gave a little gasp, and Lansdale made a sharp exclamation. Richard gave them a nod before he turned again on Vandelius.
“You were there!” he exclaimed hotly. “Why lie about it?”
Vandelius’s dark face flushed, and the whiteness of his teeth suddenly showed.
“I am not accustomed to be addressed by young men in this way!” he said, eyeing Richard offensively. “How do you know I was there?”
“Look here, Mr. Vandelius!” said Liversedge, before Richard could speak. “I may as well tell you that a good deal has taken place since last night. Garner was arrested early in the evening — you’ll hear soon enough what happened to him! — and Crench and Simpson a few hours later. Crench and Simpson have both made statements — Simpson’s statement incriminates you — —”
“That is impossible!” exclaimed Vandelius. “I do not know Simpson!”
“That’s immaterial,” continued Liversedge. “Simpson’s knowledge of you is better than yours of him. Mr. Vandelius! — you were at Henry Marchmont’s office that evening! You left your card there! Here it is!”
He drew the card from his pocket and held it out. Vandelius glanced at it with a look of annoyance. Before he could speak, Lansdale turned on him.
“You never told me you’d been to Marchmont’s office!” he said. “If you had — —”
Vandelius uttered an exclamation of anger — his tone was that of a man contemptuous of trifles.
“Tcha!” he said, waving his hand at Lansdale. “Why should I tell you all my business? Why should I tell —— ?”
“You’ll tell me, anyway!” broke in Liversedge. “Or, as I said before, you’ll go with me to headquarters! Whichever you like! If you’ve any explanation — —”
“Well, well, I did go to Marchmont’s office!” said Vandelius suddenly. “Why not? I had my business to consider — great interest at stake. I wished to persuade Marchmont that Lansdale was an innocent man. I found Marchmont obdurate, pig-headed, stupid — not to be persuaded out of his obsession about Lansdale. So, well, of course seeing there was nothing to be done with him, I left him.”
“Where did you leave him?” asked Liversedge.
“Eh? In his room, of course!” replied Vandelius.
“He didn’t show you out?”
“No — he left me to find my own way out — no manners!”
“You went down the staircase alone?”
“Of course! — how else?”
“Just so!” agreed Liversedge. “But instead of walking out at the front door when you reached the hall, you turned into the room on the right hand — the right hand, that is, as you came downstairs? Didn’t you, now?”
Vandelius twisted in his chair with a sudden searching look at his questioner.
“How do you know?” he began. “How —— ?”
A knock on the door interrupted whatever he was going to say. Richard, being close by, opened it. There stood Pryke, ushered by a hotel servant.
“Come in, Pryke!” said Liversedge. “Lucky you’ve come!” he whispered as Pryke strode up to him. “I may want you. Well — found anything?”
Pryke produced a small canvas bag, and a sealed letter.
“There!” he said. “In a small suit-case, locked, in his bedroom. There’s gold in that bag — sovereigns! About — —”
Liversedge interrupted him with a sharp exclamation and a glance at Richard.
“Gold!” he said. “Good heavens! — that’ll be the gold that was on Simpson’s desk! In that case — but this letter — —”
“I didn’t break the seal,” said Pryke. “I thought I’d bring it to you. You see? — it’s addressed to Crench, at Chancery Lane, and stamped, as if Garner had meant to post it before sailing this morning.”
“I see,” muttered Liversedge. He turned the letter over, broke the seal, and drawing out the folded sheet glanced hurriedly at its contents. Suddenly his face changed, and he gave Pryke a warning look which indicated Vandelius. “Watch that man, Pryke!” he whispered. “This concerns him! Mr. Marchmont! — look here!”
Richard drew close to the detective’s elbow. Liversedge held the letter under his eyes, pointing to something in it.
“This is evidently a letter from Garner to Crench!” he murmured. “Read it! — by George, Mr. Marchmont — I believe we’ve solved the mystery at last. Read!”
“Dear Crench, — Now that the thing’s over, and we’re not likely to meet again, I’ll tell you exactly what happened at Bedford Row on the night Henry Marchmont met his death — and if you want to know who actually shot him, I’ll tell you — that is, in my opinion, for I didn’t see the shooting. Personally, I have no doubt on the point. The guilty man is Vandelius!
“After Lansdale had told Vandelius, you, and me, at your office, about the possible bother with Henry Marchmont, Vandelius, walking with me up Chancery Lane, asked me for information about Henry Marchmont; where Bedford Row was; the situation of the office, and so on. He didn’t say as much, but I formed the opinion that he meant to go there himself. Being curious on the point, I went myself to Bedford Row after it was dark. There was nobody about, and I concealed myself in the porch of Cripsdale and Peldridge’s, opposite, and watched. I saw Vandelius arrive, not long after I’d taken up my position. He went in. After a while, Lansdale came — he went in. I thought Vandelius and Lansdale would leave together. They didn’t. Lansdale came out alone, and walked very swiftly up the street, towards Theobald’s Road. A woman came on the scene and hung about — I couldn’t make out what she was up to. Then Henry Marchmont emerged, and went down the street to a post-box. He came back and went into his office door again. Almost simultaneously, the woman ran across the street, and looked in at the door, after him, and Lansdale reappeared, walking quicker than ever, and coming down the street. He’d passed Henry Marchmont’s door a few yards, when there was a sound which I knew to be a shot. Lansdale half-paused; then hurried forward towards Holborn; a second later, the woman ran from the door, crossed the street, and ran round the corner into Gray’s Inn Passage. I waited, wondering what had happened. Quite ten minutes passed. Then Vandelius came out. He made straight across the Row, and, as far as I could judge, turned the corner of Princeton Street, a little way up. After a little more waiting, I went across, and finding the outer door slightly ajar, I pushed it open and went in. There was a light in the hall, and I saw Henry Marchmont, just as they described at the first inquest. I took a quiet look — incidentally, I found a small bag of sovereigns on a desk in the front room and put it in my pocket for safety! — and went away, after turning out the lights. It seemed to me that considering all I’d seen, it would be a wise thing to do. Also, I carefully closed the front door: I thought it foolish to leave it open — a passing policeman might have noticed it.
“Yours, E. G.”
Liversedge folded up the letter and put it carefully in his pocket.
“That’s enough, Mr. Marchmont!” he whispered. “There’s only one thing to do — and we’ll do it at once! Now, Mr. Vandelius!” he continued, turning and raising his voice. “If you’re ready, we’ll take you round to Scotland Yard! I wouldn’t make any resistance, if I were you, Mr. Vandelius — it’s quite useless!”
When Vandelius had gone, protesting, the three people left together looked at each other. There was a question in the eyes of father and daughter, but for the first time for many days Richard felt that his question was answered.
THE END
The Cartwright Gardens Murder (1925)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. THE MAN WHO SAW
CHAPTER II. THE MAN WHO CAME BACK
CHAPTER III. THE WITNESS-BOX
CHAPTER IV. THE AMERICAN PHOTOGRAPH
CHAPTER V. THE HOTEL NOTE-PAPER
CHAPTER VI. FACE TO FACE
CHAPTER VII. HUSH MONEY
CHAPTER VIII. THE AMERICAN CABLEGRAM
CHAPTER IX. SHINO
CHAPTER X. THE SIXPENNY SURGERY
CHAPTER XI. MYSTERY OF MISS WALKER
CHAPTER XII. MYSTERY OF THE YOUNG WAITER
CHAPTER XIII. DEVELOPMENTS
CHAPTER XIV. TRACKS
CHAPTER XV. WHAT THE PARLOURMAID HEARD
CHAPTER XVI. UNDER EXAMINATION
CHAPTER XVII. HOME-MADE TOFFEE
CHAPTER XVIII. HE KNOWS NOTHING
CHAPTER XIX. CORNERED
CHAPTER XX. OUT WITH IT!
CHAPTER XXI. THE HOODED LADY
CHAPTER XXII. THE EMPTY HOUSE
CHAPTER XXIII. WANTED!
CHAPTER I. THE MAN WHO SAW
CARTWRIGHT GARDENS LIES in the far east corner of Bloomsbury, somewhat south of the dreary Euston Road, and somewhat north of the still drearier quarter that fringes on the western confines of Clerkenwell. Whoever knows nothing of it and goes thither on a voyage of discovery must not expect what the name, taken literally, would seem to suggest — here are neither bushes nor brakes, flowers nor fruits. What is here is a drab and dismal crescent of houses, fronted by an enclosure wherein soot and grime descend on the London plane tree and the London turf; an oasis, perhaps, in the surrounding wilderness of shabby streets, but only, as things go, for the brave sparrow and his restless stalker, the lodging-house cat. Maybe the place has seen better days; in these it presents a frontage of mean houses, in each of which it is all Lombard Street to a China orange that you would find, if not more families than one, at any rate a lodger or lodgers in addition to the nominal tenant. The houses look as if they accommodated lodgers; the men who come out of them early of a morning look as if they were lodgers; the women, who, at one hour of the day or another, stand at the doors, to traffic with wandering greengrocers or itinerant fishmongers, look as if they lived by letting lodgings. And the young man who saw a certain extraordinary thing in Cartwright Gardens, at precisely fifteen minutes before midnight, on Monday, October 25th, 1920, was a lodger, and he saw it because, being a bit of a rhymster, he had been sitting up late to write verses, and, to cool his brow, had, at the moment mentioned, opened the window of his room, on the top floor of No. 85, and thrust head and shoulders into the silence of the autumn night.
The name of this young man was Albert Jennison, and by calling he was a clerk. He was at this time one and twenty years of age, and he had been a clerk for four years, and, as far as he could see, he was going to be a clerk for ever. There were clerkships and clerkships; Jennison’s job was lowish down in that scale. Its scene was a warehouse — dry goods — in the Gresham Street district of the city: he was in that warehouse, adding and subtracting, from nine o’clock in the morning until five o’clock in the afternoon. He had begun, at seventeen, at a pound a week: now he got three pounds ten, and his relations, who lived in the country and thought rustically, told him that he ought to consider himself well off, and that when he attained to just double his present stipend he would be a gentleman for the remainder of his days. Jennison had different notions: you might, perhaps, pass as a gentleman on a pound a day, but a pound a day was not everything, and to be practical, ten shillings was precisely half, and there was neither excitement nor fun in being half a gentleman. But it was not gentility that Jennison craved for, and it was not money. Three pound ten a week enabled him to live quite comfortably, but it was that easy, uneventful, smooth-running comfort that something in him objected to. He wanted adventure; any sort of adventure. Nothing ever happened to him, either at the warehouse or at the lodgings; he was one of several at the first, and a veritable hermit at the second. With him one day was as another day, and Sundays and Bank Holidays were worse than the rest. Sometimes, of course, he got a little excited over his wooings of the Muse; now and then his heart jumped when he got an oblong envelope from some magazine editor or other, and, for a few seconds, allowed himself to wonder whether it contained a proof or an oft-rejected manuscript. And sometimes he dared to let himself think of giving the firm a month’s notice, drawing his small store of saved money out of the Post Office Savings Bank, and going boldly, rashly, adventurously, into a world of which he dreamed much and knew next to nothing. But though Jennison had been four years in London, his brains were still essentially rustic, and they cooled at the motive when he fairly faced it; after all, seventy silver shillings, paid regularly every Friday afternoon, is something that you mustn’t sneeze at — besides, there was the annual rise. No! He was tied to the warehouse, and the grip of the knot didn’t hurt . . . still, he longed for adventure, wished that things would happen . . . something . . . anything . . .
If Jennison had only known it, something was just about to happen in Cartwright Gardens when he put his head out of his window and looked round. It was a clear night — for London — and the moon was at the full. Cartwright Gardens was quiet and deserted: a light shone here and there in a window, but there was not a soul to be seen on either pavement or roadway. Suddenly a man came round the corner, out of Mabledon Place. The moon shone directly upon him; Jennison saw all of him distinctly. He was a tallish, well-built man, agile of movement; he walked well and smartly; Jennison thought he was in a hurry. He carried a walking-stick, and as he came along he was swinging it jauntily. But all of a sudden, when he was some ten or twelve yards away from the house out of which Jennison watched him, he cast the stick away from him, let out a strange, half-stifled cry, and, lifting both hands, began tearing at his neckwear, as if he was being throttled. For a second or two his actions were frantic; then, still more suddenly, his uplifted hands dropped at his sides, his figure swayed this way and that, and with a scarcely-perceptible moan he plunged straight forward on the pavement and rolled over into the gutter. And there he lay as still as the stonework beneath him — and Jennison made a dive for his door and rushed headlong to the street.
