Complete works of peter.., p.424
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 424
The journalist liked the idea of being once more able to tell the public of Ralston's past achievements, to tell them of the patient and painstaking methods which had enabled him to build up the evidence, scrap by scrap, against Durward, evidence which, although circumstantial, showed the jury plainly that here was a criminal of the most dangerous type.
Vaness knew that this compliment on his past career would please Ralston, and would strengthen the bond of friendship which existed between them even more if that were possible. Vaness brought his mind back to the work on hand, and turned to the papers before him.
His notes on the case told him that Durward's partner, who was quite innocent of any complicity in the crime, was still alive, living at St John's Wood. It seemed to Vaness that one of the first things for him to do was to get in touch with this partner—Hugo Strex—and to endeavour to get from him a pen picture of Durward, as Strex had known him—a picture of this smiling hypocrite who could give liberally to charities and endow hospitals with one hand, while with the other he stole from people who invested in his business.
Vaness rose from the table, walked over to the telephone, and called Strex's number. A few minutes afterwards he spoke to Strex.
"Good evening, Mr Strex," he said, "I'm sorry to disturb you at such a late hour. I'm Anthony Vaness, and I'm writing the story of the Durward trial for the Daily Sun. It occurred to me that having been associated in business with John Durward for so many years, you might be able to give me some information about him which would be of interest to our readers. Can you give me an appointment?"
Strex's voice came wearily over the telephone. "I suppose I must if you want it," he said, "but I'm sick of talking about the Durward case. The whole thing was a great shock to me, a shock I've never really got over. I'm an old man, Mr Vaness, and I'm sorry that you newspaper people can't leave me alone."
"Oh, I shan't trouble you very much," Vaness replied cheerfully, "the whole thing won't take half an hour, Mr Strex. What about tomorrow morning?"
"I'm going away tomorrow," said Strex. "If you want to see me about it you will have to do it tonight. I'm busy now. The earliest time I can see you will be at ten minutes to twelve. If you'd like to come along then I'll give you half an hour."
"That will suit me excellently," said Vaness. "I'll come along then. Good night, Mr Strex. Thank you."
He hung up the receiver, and turned to his desk, well satisfied with his conversation. He thought that even the Durward case could be made interesting through his interview with Strex on the dead criminal, and his notes on ex-Inspector Ralston's career. He was glad that he had achieved the interview with Strex, for he had heard that Durward's late partner was a crusty old gentleman of uncertain temper, morose and grim, whose life, embittered by his partner's defalcations, had been a lonely one.
Vaness looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. The idea came to him that a walk through the quiet streets would enable him to turn over in his mind the proposed interview with Strex. He threw off his dressing-gown and put on his coat. He lit a large briar pipe, ran blithely down the stairs, and hatless began his walk.
VANESS'S observant eye found nothing to interest him on his stroll. The quiet squares and streets of the West End through which he wandered had no great points of interest. Like most journalists, even while he was engaged on one story, his eyes were always looking for another. He walked about for fifteen minutes, inhaling great breaths of the cool night air, then turned, intending to retrace steps homeward. Crossing Manchester Square, he called a cheery "Good-night," to the policeman on duty—an old friend of his—and was continuing on his way, when his eye was caught by a splash of colour in the shadows on the other side of the square.
He looked again. The splash of colour was a girl. A stray gleam of light from an adjacent lamp reflected on her blonde head, and shimmered on the blue velvet of her evening-cloak. She was endeavouring to start a car, but apparently the starting handle was too much for her. As Vaness walked in her direction to offer assistance, she stepped back from the bonnet of the car with a little exclamation of disgust.
"Can I help?" Vaness asked. "You seem to be having trouble."
"Thank you so much," said the girl, smiling. "Something's gone wrong with my self-starter, and I never can use a starting handle. It's so good of you."
During the moment in which he looked at her, before turning to seize the car's starting handle, Vaness noted the extraordinary beauty of the girl. Tall, slim and straight, she possessed a quality, almost a dominance, which made Vaness realise she was cast in no ordinary mould.
His practised arm soon had the engine running. He opened the door of the car for her.
"All is now well, and nothing remains but for me to wish you good-night."
She smiled back.
"Oh, yes, something still remains," she said. "Can you tell me, please, where Garron Mansions are? I was told they were somewhere about here, but I seem to have been driving in circles. Do you know them?"
Vaness grinned. "I ought to. I live there."
"Then Garron Mansions must be a very nice place," she sparkled back at him. "Do you think it would be a fair bargain if, in return for showing me where they are, I were to drive you back there?" She stood looking at him, her head slightly on one side.
"I think the bargain would be most unfair," said Vaness. "The pleasure of driving back with you would be worth so much more than my paltry information which could be secured from any policeman."
"Never mind," she said, "we'll call it a deal. Jump in!"
Vaness sat beside her, and the car moved off. Glancing sideways, he noticed the slimness of the white hand which held the steering wheel, the expensive rings which bedecked it, and the calmness with which it navigated the big and powerful car.
"By the way," he said, "there are four entrances to Garron Mansions, which is just round the corner on the right here. Which one do you want? Do you know the number of the apartment you're looking for?"
"Indeed I don't." she replied. "I want to find a Mr Anthony Vaness. He's a journalist, I think. I know he lives in Garron Mansions, but that's all."
Vaness laughed. "This is most amusing, because I'm Anthony Vaness."
She turned her head suddenly. Vaness saw that the smile had faded from her face, and the blue eyes which looked at him were cold and hard.
"I see," she said quietly, turning her eyes once more to the road. "That makes things so much easier, doesn't it? I want to talk to you, Mr Vaness."
"I shall be delighted," the journalist replied, "but I hope that our interview will not be a very long one, as I have to be in St John's Wood at a quarter to twelve. By the way, you will want to pull up at the first entrance. Here it is."
She stopped the car. Vaness got out, and held the door for her. Then he led the way into the mansions, and rang the bell for the lift.
He was not particularly surprised at their coincidental meeting. Many such events take place in the life of a journalist. People came to him with stories to sell, with rumours which they had heard, with insinuations against people which they would like to see in print; all sorts of things. The journalist listens to them all, carefully separating the wheat from the chaff, so he was not particularly intrigued by this beautiful woman's wish to see him, although he was slightly intrigued with her. Vaness had met many pretty women in his time, but he remembered no one exactly like this one.
The lift carried them to the first floor where Vaness's apartments were situated.
He led the way into his study, and pushed forward a chair for her. She seated herself, and he knocked out the ashes of his pipe. He offered her a cigarette which she refused, then, drawing up a chair for himself, he sat down. "Now," said he, "what can I do for you?"
The girl looked straight at him, and Vaness noticed that the white fingers, which lay on the arm of the armchair, were trembling.
"My name is Alexia Durward," she said. "I'm the daughter of John Durward, who was convicted and sentenced ten years ago, the man who killed himself in Parkhurst Prison three years ago. I have reason to believe that you are about to write a series dealing with crime and criminals, and I believe, too, that the story of John Durward, my father, is to be the first. I have come to ask you not to write that story, Mr Vaness."
Vaness, surprised for once in his life, pulled himself together quickly.
"I'm very sorry, Miss Durward," he said, "but I have contracted to write the story, and it's my duty to write it; I shall write it."
She rose to her feet. Vaness saw that there was a suspicion of tears in her eyes.
"Mr Vaness," she said, "can't you understand that the publicity which this story of yours will bring is something which is distasteful to me? My father is dead. Is there any reason why this sordid business should be raked up once again? Writing such things is your business, but I will willingly pay you double whatever sum your paper is to pay you if you will not do this."
"I'm sorry," said Vaness. "I can understand your attitude, but you must understand that if I don't do it someone else will. Besides, you see, I specialise in these things. I have always done them, and handling this series is rather a big thing for me. By not doing it I cannot save you anything because it will still be done, and I should only succeed in making myself unpopular with my paper. I'm very sorry, Miss Durward, but I can't agree to your request."
Vaness took a cigarette from a silver box and tapped it on his fingernail. "May I ask you one thing, Miss Durward?" he said. "How do you know I was about to write this series? The whole thing was only arranged this afternoon, and my definite instructions were sent round here from the editor of the Daily Sun only four hours ago. It would interest me to know how you came into possession of the information."
She looked straight into his eyes, and he saw that hers were hard. "That, Mr Vaness," she said, "is my business. Not only did I know you were going to write this series, but I don't think I'm very far from the truth when I tell you I think you will try to interview Mr Hugo Strex, my father's late partner. It seems a pity an old man like Mr Strex should be worried by you."
"Indeed!" replied Vaness. He was feeling angry with this girl. "You seem to know a great deal, Miss Durward, but I must admit that in this case you have again guessed right. I am going to interview Mr Strex. In fact I'm seeing him tonight."
The girl picked up her handbag which she had laid on the table. A little smile played about her mouth, a hard smile, slightly ominous, Vaness thought.
"I don't think so, Mr Vaness," she said. "I intend to see Mr Strex, and after he has heard what I have to say to him I don't think you will get your interview."
She turned on her heel, walked to the door, and opened it. "Good-night, Mr Vaness," she said. She closed the door behind her. Vaness heard her steps retreating down the passage, heard the lift bell, heard the lift descend.
Outside in the street he heard the purr of her car as she drove away.
CHAPTER II
VANESS returned to his table and stood tapping his blotting pad with a pencil. Here was a development. He realised life was indeed strange, and a journalist is favoured with glimpses of the strangeness. He could understand the girl's point of view very well. Vaness was fair-minded and, putting himself in her place, he realised the publicity following the publication of his story of the Durward affair would certainly annoy her, but what was he to do?
The fact remained—and he smiled a little humorously as he thought this—that had not John Durward committed the crime for which he was imprisoned no one would be able to write about it. This, apparently, had escaped the notice of Durward's beautiful daughter. At the same time in his heart he felt for her, but what he had told her was correct. Supposing he had refused to have written the story. Someone else would do it, and the result would be the same in the long run. But her last remark perturbed him.
What was she going to say to Hugo Strex which would make him refuse to give the interview he had promised Vaness? The journalist began to be a little annoyed with Alexia Durward. If Strex did refuse to say anything about her father, it would make it very difficult for Vaness. The story was thin as it was, and this further interference, if it were successful, would very nearly spoil it altogether. Vaness thought it was a pity people could not mind their own business but must forever be interfering; yet, at the same time, he realised he was interfering with the girl's life. He threw his cigarette away, and refilled and lit his pipe.
A glance at the clock told him it was a quarter past eleven. He made up his mind to go out to Strex immediately. He was fairly certain the girl had driven straight to Strex's house. He thought it almost as certain he would meet her there. He rather hoped that he would. He felt he would like to explain to her that he felt and sympathised with her, but that he himself was not in a position to be able to help.
Vaness, who had never in his life been particularly drawn to any woman felt strangely attracted by Miss Alexia Durward. She had courage, he thought, and after all she was doing what any woman would have done. He put on his hat, ran quickly down the stairs and walked round to the garage, which was in the next street.
As he drove in the direction of St John's Wood Vaness found himself wishing that it were possible to drop writing about the Durward case. The idea came to him that some other important case in the annals of British justice might be substituted for it. The idea pleased him. He made up his mind that, if he met the girl at Strex's house, he would tell her he would see the Daily Star editor in the morning and make a suggestion that another case, one possibly more interesting from a public point of view, should be used in place of the Durward case.
Having come to this conclusion, Vaness felt more happy. He believed a solution was found, and he was glad for the girl's sake.
He drove slowly along the main road. A hundred yards down the road to the left was a long avenue of trees, and at the end of this avenue, forming a cul-de-sac, stood the sombre Strex house. Vaness had passed the place previously, on occasion, and noticed the old-fashioned and rambling architecture reminiscent of nearly a century ago which made the house a landmark. He was thinking that in any event his talk with Strex would be interesting, for Strex himself must have lived an interesting life.
Vaness was turning into the avenue when a car suddenly shot past him. He jammed on his brakes, and pulled into the side of the road with an exclamation. The car had been going at such a speed and driven so erratically that it had missed his own by inches. Vaness looked quickly out. He was just in time to recognise the car. It was the girl's. There was no mistaking the large and powerful body and the rather out-of-the-way design of the luggage rack.
The girl had wasted no time.
A determined little thing, Vaness thought half-humorously, but somebody must tell her not to drive about the roads at that speed, otherwise she would come to a sticky end.
Vaness restarted his car and pulled up before the massive iron gates of the house. He got out and walked up the winding carriage drive. The front of the house was in complete darkness, and an eerie stillness enveloped the place. Mounting the portico steps, he pulled the ancient bell chain, and the clanging of the bell reverberated through the house. After a five minutes' wait the door was opened and an ancient face peered round the corner.
"Is Mr Strex in? He's expecting me," Vaness said.
The man motioned him to come in. "Mr Strex is in his study, sir," said the butler. "Will you go through? It's straight along this passage, the last door on the right."
Vaness handed the butler his hat, and walked down the passage until he came to the door. He tapped, but there was no response. He waited and then knocked again more loudly, but still no answer. Vaness turned the handle of the door, opened it, and stepped into the room.
Used to sights of all descriptions, he stood aghast at the scene which lay before him. Lying over his desk, the blotting paper of which was red with his blood, was sprawled Hugo Strex. From between his shoulder blades projected the handle of a knife. Vaness walked over and looked at him. There was no question he was dead. His hand, still clutching a pencil, had scrawled on the corner of the blotting pad in front of him the letters "Dur," but the rest of the words he had written were obliterated by his own blood.
Vaness walked to the door, called loudly to the butler, then he walked back to the table and took off the telephone receiver.
"Hallo, exchange, give me Scotland Yard," he said.
SITTING in his study Vaness turned over in his mind the sudden and amazing happenings of the day before, culminating in the murder at St John's Wood.
Scotland Yard had been quick to act, and investigations were proceeding. Vaness had been glad he had said nothing to the police about his meeting with Alexia Durward; there was time enough for that. He had also been more glad because in the afternoon the Daily Sun had postponed the crime series. It had asked him to cover the new murder which was filling the day's newspapers.
It seemed to Vaness more than probable the girl had killed Strex. It also seemed to him—and he was experienced in these things—that his own evidence at the inquest, which was fixed for two days ahead, would certainly end in her being sent for trial. Here was a girl who had definitely told him that Strex would not give the interview which he sought. And just before he had discovered Strex's body he had seen her car in the vicinity of the house.
He realised things would look very black for her, for hers was a very adequate motive for killing Strex. Up to the moment no one of any great importance at Scotland Yard had been assigned to the case. The preliminary photographs, measurements, and the other up-to-date techniques used for the recording of crime, had been in progress. This did not thrill Vaness particularly; he had seen all that before. At the back of his mind was a vague uneasiness with regard to the evidence against the girl which he knew he would have to give.
He could hardly bring himself to believe that a girl—and she seemed a very nice girl—could bring herself to kill a man in order to prevent him giving an interview to a pressman. Yet at the same time he realised that, with the sometimes weird workings of the feminine mind, a woman who is angry is often very much more dangerous than a man.
