Collected works of j s f.., p.765
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 765
‘Then there was nothing unusual in your seeing a man leave the place at a quarter to two in the morning?’ interrupted Doxford.
‘Nothing at all, sir!’ replied Mrs. Goodge. ‘I never said there was, did I? What I said was that something happened. Well, that happened. But I didn’t consider it at all unusual. It didn’t keep me awake, I can tell you! The only unusual thing was that I didn’t know the looks of this here man in black at all — his appearance was a stranger to me. Some of the people that comes visiting and calling here I do know by sight. There’s young gentlemen drops in sometimes to see some of our ladies — well, I know them, by sight, d’ye see, though I couldn’t put a name to ’em, and — —’
‘But this particular man, with his black coat, black slouch hat, and white muffler, you’d never seen before?’ said Doxford. ‘That it?’
‘That’s it, mister,’ agreed Mrs. Goodge. ‘He may ha’ been in these flats before, but if he had I’d never seen him.’
Doxford looked at Chaney, who was making notes in his memorandum book. They began whispering. The Scotland Yard man, who had quietly followed all that Mrs. Goodge had said, turned to her.
‘There’s a matter I’d like to know something about, Mrs. Goodge,’ he said. ‘That street door — through which you saw the man disappearing. Is it never fastened at night?’
Mrs. Goodge pursed up her thin lips, and made no reply.
‘Oughtn’t it to be?’ continued the Scotland Yard man. ‘Come, now?’
Mrs. Goodge spoke then, shaking her head.
‘Well, mister, it did!’ she admitted. ‘My orders was to fasten it at twelve o’clock, ‘cause every flat-holder has a latch-key to it. But you see, they was all of ’em, ‘specially them young actress ladies, a-forgetting of this latch-key, and rousing me out of bed down here at all hours of the night, so that it’s been left open for I don’t know how long. ‘Taint worth my while to lock it!’
Doxford and Chaney got up. Doxford turned to Mrs. Goodge.
‘Well, we want to see this Mr. Morty, the agent, next,’ he said. ‘What’s his address?’
III
MRS. GOODGE OBLIGED us with Mr. Morty’s address, which was a certain number in Great Portland Street, and Doxford, Chaney, and myself went round there at once to see him, the Scotland Yard man remaining at Little Custom Street to carry out some further investigations. Although he was, relatively, within a stone’s throw of its scene, Mr. Morty, an innocuous and colourless sort of person, had not heard of the murder, and was properly shocked when we told him of it. But when we asked him what he knew of the dead woman, he spread his hands and shook his head.
‘Nothing, my dear sirs!’ he exclaimed. ‘Absolutely nothing! No more than you do!’
‘Just a bit more, I think,’ suggested Doxford. ‘You let the flat to her.’
Mr. Morty spread his hands again.
‘Oh, in the way of business, yes, just a bit more, as you say,’ he admitted. ‘But what’s it amount to? Just nothing — as I say. She came in here one morning and said she wanted to take a furnished flat. Well, I let her a furnished flat — see?’
‘Not without some preliminaries, I suppose,’ said Doxford. ‘You took her to see Number 12 at 39 Little Custom Street, I believe.’
‘I did, of course,’ assented Mr. Morty. ‘In the way of business, I did. I took her round there myself. She saw the place: she said it would suit her: she came back here and paid a month’s rent in advance. Which, of course,’ he concluded, with more spreading of his hands, ‘was all business.’
‘She gave you her name, I suppose?’ suggested Doxford.
Mr. Morty turned to a book which lay on his desk. He turned certain of its pages over.
‘Mrs. Clayton — that’s the name she gave,’ he answered. ‘Shouldn’t have remembered it, if you hadn’t asked me. These people are tenants to me — just tenants. I can’t think of all their names!’
‘Did she tell you where she came from?’ asked Doxford.
‘She did not — in particular,’ replied Mr. Morty. ‘Runs in my mind, though, that she said she’d come over from the Continent on business. That wasn’t my affair of course, you know.’
‘Didn’t you ask for any reference?’ enquired Doxford.
Mr. Morty looked squarely at his questioner as if wondering where he had been brought up.
‘Don’t I tell you she paid a month’s rent in advance?’ he answered. ‘I don’t want any reference after that. Money down on the nail is the best reference.’
‘Have you ever seen her since she took the flat?’ persisted Doxford. ‘Either there or here at your office?’
‘Neither here nor there, my dear sir,’ replied Mr. Morty. ‘But I did see her one night not so long ago. Not in a business way, though.’
‘How, then?’ asked Doxford.
‘It was at Riccasoli’s, down the street,’ answered Mr. Morty. ‘Restaurant, you know. I went in there to have my dinner, being obliged to stay late at my office. She was there.’
‘What doing?’ enquired Doxford.
‘Having her dinner,’ replied Mr. Morty.
‘Alone?’
‘Alone so far as I know.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘I did not! She gave me a bow as I passed her, and I gave her one. What should I speak to her for? I hadn’t any business with her. Our business was done — till the month was up.’
Doxford glanced at Chaney as if inviting him to take up the running, and Chaney stepped in.
‘About those flats at Little Custom Street, Mr. Morty,’ he said. ‘Are you responsible for the management?’
‘I am not, my dear sir,’ replied Mr. Morty. ‘All I am responsible for is the letting of ’em, and the collection of the rents.’
‘Who is responsible for them, then?’ asked Chaney.
‘The caretaker woman, Mrs. Goodge, is responsible,’ said Mr. Morty. ‘They’re in her charge, not mine.’
‘But I suppose Mrs. Goodge was given certain orders, wasn’t she?’ asked Chaney. ‘About that front door, now — the street door — —’
Mr. Morty spread his hands abroad again: it was remarkable what a variety of emotions he could express with those white, fat hands.
‘Mrs. Goodge has been warned about that front door a dozen of times!’ he exclaimed, testily. ‘Her orders are to close it at a certain hour every night, because every flat-holder in the place has a latch-key for it. But Mrs. Goodge says that they’re always forgetting their keys, or losing ’em, or leaving ’em lying about somewhere, and then they ring her up, and — well, of course, the woman naturally leaves it open. I suppose she left it open last night, and the murderer walked in and upstairs and did his job? Just so — well, sorry I can’t be of any use to you, gentlemen. Has he made much mess of that flat? — we’d only just had it done up, so nice and fresh!’
We left Mr. Morty and went out into Great Portland Street. Doxford looked at his watch. Nearly two o’clock.
‘I’ve got over my yawniness,’ he said, ‘but I’m famishing for something to eat. Let’s turn into Riccasoli’s and get some lunch. Perhaps we may hear something about this woman there. She may have gone there regularly.’
We went down the street to Riccasoli’s — a typical Italian café-restaurant. We had lunch; we felt justified, having lunched, in trifling a little over our coffee and cigars — and in due time we got the manager to our table and told him in confidence what we wanted. He was a sharp-eyed, observant fellow, and became of use to us at once.
‘Ah, I knew the lady you speak of!’ he said. ‘A pleasant, rather handsome woman that has come here every night for her dinner for the last two or three weeks. I have not talked to her myself beyond a mere polite word, you understand, but she always sat at the same table, over there, in the alcove, and — Marco!’
He summoned a waiter with a wave of his hand, and again turned to us.
‘Marco here always waited on that lady,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you will explain — —’
We explained to Marco, an olive-skinned, black-eyed product of Tuscany: Marco comprehended perfectly.
‘She was in here last night, gentlemen,’ said Marco. ‘Last night she was a little late; half-past seven it would be; usually it was seven.’
‘Did she talk to you at all?’ enquired Chaney.
‘As a customer will,’ answered Marco. ‘Now and then, you understand. At intervals.’
‘What did she talk?’ asked Chaney. ‘English?’
‘No — she spoke French, to me. But,’ added Marco, with a knowing shake of his sleek head, ‘with an English accent. Not as a Frenchwoman would speak it. Plenty of words, yes, what you call a good vocabulary, but accent — no! English.’
‘Why did she speak French to you?’
Marco shrugged his shoulders.
‘She thought, at first, I was a Frenchman — a Provencal.’
‘And you weren’t, eh?’
‘I am from Florence, gentlemen.’
‘Then she went on speaking French to you — why?’
‘I speak French, too, as well as English. Perhaps she wanted to practise. Many people do.’
Chaney went off on another tack.
‘Well, now, you remember this lady very well,’ he said. ‘She’s been coming here regularly for her dinner every night for the last two or three weeks. Now did she always come alone?’
Marco answered that question promptly.
‘Always alone but just once! Once she came with a gentleman.’
‘A gentleman, eh? When was that?’
‘About a week ago.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He was a Frenchman — they talked in French all the time. I heard them mention Nice, Monte Carlo, Mentone.’
‘But, if you can, describe him. Tell us what he was like.’
‘A man of about forty years. About medium height. Dark — moustache and imperial. Good-looking man.’
‘Well dressed?’
‘Oh, nicely! Black coat and vest; striped trousers. Dark, perhaps black overcoat. Nothing conspicuous, you understand. Well-mannered man. Perhaps — a merchant.’
‘Did they seem to be great friends?’
‘Oh, yes. Old friends, perhaps.’
‘Any love-making?’
‘Oh, no, no! Good old — what you call pals, you know.’
‘Who paid for the dinner, that night?’
‘He did.’
‘Did they leave together?’
‘Yes. They sat some time after dinner, smoking and talking. Then — yes, they went away together.’
‘Had you ever seen the man before?’
‘Never! Stranger.’
‘Has he ever been here since?’
‘Oh, no, no! Only that time.’
‘Did she mention him to you when she came again, by herself?’
‘No — nothing.’
There seemed nothing more to ask after that, but Doxford put a further question.
‘Did this lady ever happen to tell you where she came from?’ he asked.
Marco hesitated, evidently searching his memory.
‘Not that exactly,’ he answered. ‘But she knew Paris. And she knew Monte Carlo. You see, I have been a waiter at hotels in both places. So — —’
‘Common ground between you,’ said Doxford.
He rose and we rose with him, and presently went out into the street again. And there, after a brief discussion we all three got into a taxi-cab and went back to Cheverdale Lodge.
IV
AS OUR TAXI-CAB drew up at the entrance gates of Cheverdale Lodge a private car, driven by a chauffeur in livery, came alongside it, and from it stepped Mr. Francis Craye, looking very grave and carrying a bundle of papers. He came straight to Doxford, with a single sharp word.
‘Well?’
‘Well — what, sir?’ asked Doxford, staring at the questioner.
‘Is that the same woman — the woman who called on Hannington?’ asked Craye. ‘Have you ascertained anything?’
‘There’s no doubt about it, sir! Miss Hetherley identified her at once.’
‘But I understood that Miss Hetherley said she couldn’t identify her! Miss Hetherley, you may remember, said that the woman was so closely veiled when she called on Hannington that she never saw her face!’
‘Exactly, sir — but Miss Hetherley identified her by other means and circumstances. She recognized certain things the woman wore — her gown, her coat, her ear-rings. Miss Hetherley is positive on the point. I don’t think there’s the least possible doubt that it’s the same woman. And, according to the medical men, she’d been killed in exactly the same way that Hannington was.’
‘Anything to show by whom?’
‘We’ve evidence that a strange man was seen leaving the flats about two o’clock this morning. Whether he was the murderer we don’t know. Only one person saw him — the caretaker — and she only got a glimpse of his back as he vanished through the front door, and couldn’t possibly identify him from the bit she saw of him.’
Craye looked from one to the other of us as if in perplexity.
‘Is that the only clue you’ve got?’ he asked. ‘What the caretaker saw?’
‘If you can call it a clue,’ replied Doxford, ‘yes.’
‘Nothing to show any motive?’
‘Whatever motive there was, sir, it wasn’t robbery,’ said Doxford. ‘The woman had a lot of money, French and English, lying about, all untouched; she’d some fairly valuable jewellery, too. But we came up to make a report to Lord Cheverdale, sir — hadn’t you better come in and hear it.’
Craye nodded, and moved towards the house: we walked alongside him.
‘I’ve got some fresh information myself,’ he remarked as we neared the front door. ‘About Hannington’s movements, last night. You shall hear it when you’ve reported to Lord Cheverdale. By-the-way, did you ascertain anything about the woman — who she was, where she came from, what she called herself?’
‘No more than that she took a furnished flat in Little Custom Street two or three weeks ago, was believed to have come from abroad, and called herself Mrs. Clayton,’ replied Doxford. ‘But you’ll hear all details — they’re few enough! — in what we say to his lordship. Then, Mr. Craye, we’ll be glad to hear your news. News is scarce enough, so far!’
‘Mine’s not much, Inspector,’ said Craye. ‘A mere detail — but it suggests something to me.’
We found Lord Cheverdale in his business room: Paley was with him. He listened eagerly and with a sort of queer impatience while Chaney, at Doxford’s invitation, gave him a concise but exact account of everything that had happened to us from our leaving Cheverdale Lodge to our return. As the story went on his eagerness and impatience seemed to increase.
‘Now, what, what, what do you make of this?’ he burst out at the end. ‘Haven’t you found any clue? Haven’t you any explanation? Haven’t you anything to suggest? What do you say about it — all of you, any of you?’
‘It’s scarcely time yet to say anything, my lord,’ replied Doxford. ‘We can only give your lordship the bare facts, so far. Our people down there are, of course, carrying out the most careful investigations — finger-prints, and all that sort of thing, and later on — —’
‘Yes, yes, yes, but meanwhile — dear me!’ continued Lord Cheverdale, interrupting himself. ‘I never knew such a business! My editor murdered in my own grounds, within a stone’s throw of my front door — this unfortunate woman similarly murdered, the same night, in her own room — good God! how do I know that I may not be the next victim? But tell me — are you sure, positively sure, that the woman you have seen dead is the woman who called on Hannington yesterday afternoon?’
‘Miss Hetherley is certain of it, my lord,’ replied Doxford. ‘Miss Hetherley identified her at once — without any hesitation.’
Lord Cheverdale sat bolt upright in his chair, staring from one to the other of us and drumming the tips of his fingers on the table before him.
‘What’s it all mean?’ he exclaimed. ‘What does it all mean?’
Doxford motioned to Craye, who had been whispering to Paley.
‘I understand that Mr. Craye has something to tell, my lord,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he’ll tell it now.’
Lord Cheverdale turned on his business manager.
‘Yes, yes, let me have it, Craye!’ he said hastily. ‘Anything that will throw some light on this ghastly business! Like living in a thick fog, and not a gleam of light anywhere. What is it — what is it?’
‘Not very much,’ replied Craye, quietly. ‘But as I have said already to these gentlemen, it suggests something to me. It’s just this — I told you, this morning,’ he went on, turning to Doxford, Chaney and myself, ‘that I have a flat in Whitehall Gardens. It is, of course, a bachelor establishment. I keep one man-servant, a sort of valet and general utility man. I mention this in order to explain that last night, when I was out, dining here with Lord Cheverdale, my man was out, too — it was his weekly night out. Now, at these particular flats in Whitehall Gardens we have just got a new hall-porter, who is as yet unfamiliar with people who call there. This man told me this afternoon, just before I came up here, that at about ten o’clock last night a gentleman, who, from his description, I feel certain was Hannington, called and went up in the lift to the floor — second — in which my flat is situated. He came down again in a few minutes and asked the hall-porter if he knew where I was? — he wanted, he said, to see me particularly, and must find me, if possible. The hall-porter told him that he had seen me go out, had, in fact, got a cab for me at seven o’clock, but had no idea where I had gone, though he believed, to dine out somewhere. The gentleman then asked if the hall-porter knew anything of the whereabouts of my valet? All the hall-porter could say on that point was that he knew my valet had gone out, too. On that the gentleman went away. Now, as I have already said, I have no doubt whatever that this gentleman the hall-porter spoke of was Hannington. And I have formed a certain opinion.’
