Complete works of peter.., p.426
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 426
"I don't know, Miss Durward. But what I do know is this: your position in this case seems to me to be rather a serious one. Looking at you, I cannot believe you to be a murderess. Yet at the same time the evidence against you up to the moment, although circumstantial, is fairly strong. As far as I'm concerned, the police don't know that you came to me last night, or that you went to Strex's house. Tonight I was about to tell Mr Ralston, the detective handling the case for Scotland Yard; but circumstances prevented it, although I fear I shall have to tell him what I know. There'll be a coroner's inquest very shortly. I shall be on oath. I'll have to give the truth. So if there's anything which would appear to mitigate the circumstances, if I were you, I would tell me now."
She frowned. "Mr Ralston... Is that the Inspector Ralston who was in charge of the case against my father?"
"Yes," said Vaness.
"Isn't that strange? That the same man who arrested and secured the evidence against my father should now be appointed in charge of this case in which it seems I'm suspected. I rather like Mr Ralston. He had to do his duty in my father's case, but he seemed very kind. He was very nice to me, endeavouring to save me from as much pain as possible. Will you ask me anything that you want? You may rest assured I shall tell you the truth."
"There are two or three things which I should like to know," said Vaness. "But in the meantime won't you take off your things and let me send for some tea? I feel it would brace you up a little."
"I would like that," she said.
Vaness helped her off with her coat, rang the bell, and ordered tea. By the moment he found it more difficult to believe the girl sitting in the big chair by the fire had murdered Strex. He was intrigued with the situation, and with her. At the back of his mind was the hope that something she might say would alter the complexion of the crime so much that at his next interview with Ralston he would be able to produce some extenuating circumstance which would serve to give her a chance.
After she had drunk the tea a little colour came back to her face, and she seemed more cheerful.
"Now, Mr Vaness," she said, almost brightly, "I'm ready for your inquisition."
Vaness smiled. "It won't be a very difficult one, but there are one or two points in connection with this business which I don't understand, and which I would like to understand. Candidly, I want very much to believe you had nothing to do with it, but at the moment that's a little awkward.
"I told you last night: the idea I should write this crime series, including the trial of your father, only evolved yesterday afternoon in the Daily Sun offices. My definite instructions from the editor were sent round here by hand at seven o'clock last night, yet you came here to ask me not to write the account of your father's trial. In other words, please tell me this: by what means had you secured information telling you what had happened in the Sun offices that afternoon?"
Vaness looked at the girl intently.
"There's another point which intrigues me," he said. "In the course of conversation with you last night you told me you thought I should not interview Strex. I was taken off my guard by your knowledge, and told you rather angrily that I had arranged to do this. Tell me, please, how did you know those two things? How did you know that I was about to write the story of the Durward trial, and how did you guess I was going to interview Strex?"
She returned his gaze and her eyes were frank. "I had no idea till yesterday afternoon at half past five when I was brought this..."
She handed an envelope to Vaness. "My maid told that it was delivered by hand by an urchin, one of those small boys whom one sees playing about the street. He delivered the letter and ran off quickly. If you read it your question will be answered."
Vaness took the envelope and examined it carefully. It was a square envelope of cheap manilla paper, such as may be bought at any stationer's. He took out the folded sheet of paper which was inside. The paper was just as ordinary as the envelope. It bore no watermark; it was written in a thin shaky hand, so shaky that it immediately occurred to Vaness that it had been written by someone's left hand:
Dear Miss Durward,
Anthony Vaness has been commissioned to write the story of your father's trial. He will probably interview Hugo Strex tonight, because Strex leaves London tomorrow morning. If you have any respect for your father's memory you will go to Vaness, at Garron Gardens, near Manchester Square, and ask him not to write this story. If he refuses your request inform him that you will request Strex not to give him an interview, and that you will go immediately to Strex's house and make this request. As Vaness's account will depend mainly on what Strex has to say, the fact that he believes that you can stop Strex giving the interview will probably cause him to reconsider his decision to write the story. In any event, go to Strex's house afterwards, and persuade him to refuse to give the interview. I know that he will agree.
A Friend of Your Father.
Vaness sat staring in amazement at the piece of paper in his hand. He looked at the girl. She sat beside him, her hands clasped nervously, her face tense, her eyes wide open watching him. Vaness thought she was speaking the truth. At the same moment he recognised the devilish ingenuity of the writer of the note.
"By God!" he said eventually. "The writer of this letter laid a trap for you, Miss Durward, into which you have fallen. He knew you would come to me, that you would tell me you were going to Strex's house, and you would go to Strex's house. In other words, he secured me as an independent witness that you were with Strex at the time of the murder. Have you any idea who could possibly have written this note?"
"None whatever," the girl replied. "I don't know the handwriting which, in any event, looks carefully disguised."
Vaness returned the letter to the envelope and put into his breast pocket. He walked up and down the room, his brain busy. He was undecided as to the course he should pursue. Should he get in touch with Ralston immediately, and inform him of the turn which events had taken, tell him the whole story of the girl's previous visit, of her second visit, and her production of this mysterious letter?
Vaness knew without consideration what Ralston's reply would be. He would believe that the girl had faked the letter in order to divert suspicion from herself by throwing it on to someone else. Vaness realised that Ralston in his own mind was fairly certain the girl had committed the murder and, logically weighing the whole business, Vaness had no real reason to suppose the ex-inspector was wrong.
Pacing up and down the room, his hands behind his back, Vaness faced a fact. He was attracted to this girl, he liked her, and because he was so attracted, he was unwilling to believe she was a murderess. Yet his own experience as a journalist dealing with crime had taught him it was often the least expected person who committed a crime. What was he to do?
A mind picture came before his eyes, a picture of the Old Bailey, with this girl in the dock, prosecuting and defending counsel fighting over her like dogs over a bone.
At the moment Ralston was in the position of a prosecuting counsel. Suddenly an idea struck Vaness. Why should he not put himself in the position of defending counsel? Ralston had at his disposal all the forces of law. He was convinced that Alexia Durward had murdered Hugo Strex. Well, let him prove it! Vaness would be doing no harm if he, on his own part, conducting an entirely independent line of inquiry, were to work from the basis that the girl was innocent. If the girl had committed the murder there would be not be the slightest possible doubt that at some point during their independent investigations the evidence collected by Ralston and that collected by himself would meet.
In other words, if this girl had committed the crime, his endeavouring to find evidence to prove otherwise would be useless, and Ralston would win. But if it were possible, as it seemed it might be, that the letter in his pocket was not a fake produced by the girl for her own ends, then she would have a sporting chance of proving her innocence.
Vaness stopped abruptly in his pacing and turned to the girl.
"Miss Durward," he said, "I've come to rather a strange conclusion. It's not for me to say whether I believe you guilty or innocent of this crime, but I am prepared to do this. It's certain within the course of a few days that the police's suspicions of yourself will definitely be aroused. I don't think they'll arrest you immediately; that's not their method these days. Ralston will probably get an adjournment of the coroner's inquest in order that he may obtain all the evidence against you that he requires. In the meantime, because the police are working on the premise you are guilty, I propose to take the opposite view. For the sake of argument, I will temporarily adopt the belief you are innocent. I will take it as a fact that this letter you have given me was delivered to you as you've stated; that there's someone—some man or woman—who attempted to pin the murder on you.
"Because of my position as a journalist handling the case I shall be in touch with Inspector Ralston practically every day. I shall see each move the police make and, knowing that and working from the point of view that the basis on which they are building their evidence is false, I shall do my best to meet each fresh piece of evidence against you with any evidence in your favour my investigations may produce. That's all I can do. Whether you murdered Hugo Strex or not I don't know, but I'm trying very hard to believe that you didn't. Well...?"
THE girl rose from her chair. A little smile had appeared about her mouth, and her cheeks were flushed.
"That's the most wonderful piece of news I've heard today," she said; "You will realise, Mr Vaness, that it's a horrible thing for me to be without a friend at this time. I believe you are my friend, and although you say you don't definitely know whether I'm guilty of this murder or not, I believe in your heart you think me innocent. I think, too, that truth will out, and that whatever circumstantial evidence there may be against me I am sure you will be able to combat this and find out something which will prove my innocence. I can hardly tell you how relieved I feel now."
A little mischievous gleam came into her eyes.
"After all," she said, with a smile, "it isn't every criminal who has the great Mr Anthony Vaness trying to prove her innocence, is it?"
She laughed, and, as Vaness laughed with her, the thought came to him that no murderess would ever laugh like that.
"There's something else, too, Mr Vaness," she said. "My father was innocent. Of that I'm sure. How the circumstances arose which enabled him to be convicted of that terrible crime I don't know, but I know he was innocent, and I know one day the truth will be known... In the meantime the Durward family seems to be thoroughly unpopular with the police!"
Vaness helped her on with her coat.
"Go home, and sleep soundly," he said. "Just lead your ordinary life, and don't do anything at all or go anywhere without letting me know first. I think in any event we've got a week in which to work undisturbed. I hope for your sake I shall be lucky."
She held out her hand. "I wish you luck, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart."
Back again at his favourite place by the window, Vaness watched the tail light of her car disappear in the darkness. He realised that the proposition was a difficult one. Yet somehow this battle against odds attracted him, for like most men in love, Anthony Vaness had not realised it.
His ruminations were soon over. He was of a sufficiently practical mind to understand he had no time to waste. He knew Ralston! The ex-chief inspector was a rapid worker and, in spite of his physical disability, Vaness had not the least doubt that within a few days he would pile up sufficient evidence to secure a warrant for Alexia's arrest.
Strangely enough, Vaness considered the position one to be entirely favourable to Ralston's chance of victory. He was aware the girl would be asked to account for her movements on the night of the murder, that she had no alibi, and that her presence at Strex's house must eventually come to light.
Ralston's suggested motive for the crime was a strong one. In fact, there were two motives, and either might have caused a determined woman to murder Strex. The first was a desire to avoid publicity; the second, and stronger, was a determination that the money which had come to her from her father should not find its way into the hands of the police.
Now that Alexia Durward had gone, and the atmosphere of his sitting room lacked her rather wonderful personality, Vaness wondered if he had not been a fool. What chance was there of fighting Ralston successfully? The only possible evidence pointing in the girl's favour was the letter. Vaness accepted that he must work along the line that this letter was not a fake; that it had actually been written by someone who desired to put the responsibility for the Strex murder on Alexia; but to look for the writer of the letter would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.
Once more the journalist's mind went back to the picture of the scene which had unfolded itself to him as he opened the door of Hugo Strex's study. He visualised once again a huddled figure sprawled over the desk, and the movement of the long window curtains behind the chair in which Strex sat. The French window had been open, and it seemed to Vaness that if Alexia's story were true, and the murder had been committed before she arrived on the scene, the murderer must have entered via the lawn at the back of the house, opened the French window, which must have been left unlatched, and stabbed Strex.
It was also plain to Vaness that if it were this murderer who had closed the front door after the terrified girl had run out, he must have seen her enter Strex's room. He must have been hiding behind the curtain.
The thought occurred casually to Vaness that, for all he knew, the murderer might have still been there when he entered the room. He remembered that he had telephoned Scotland Yard, and then gone off and summoned the old butler before he had even tried to look round the room. Anyone hiding behind the window curtains would have had ample time to make an escape while all this business was going on.
Then there was the blotting paper and the few letters which were legible on the bloodstained sheet. Strex had written D-u-r. The rest had been obliterated by his own blood. Obviously he had written the word "Durward," and something else. What was that something else?
Several sentences flashed their way through Vaness's imaginative brain. "Durward's daughter killed me." That might have been one sentence. Against the guess, was there anything else which Strex might have written indicating some other assassin?
If he had been killed by a stranger whom he had not recognised, he would not have written the name Durward. Then again, Vaness realised it was more than possible, and the police doctor's report confirmed the belief, that Strex had never seen the individual who had killed him. The blow had been struck from behind, and Strex had fallen face forward on to his desk.
Why, then, if he had not seen his assailant, should he be concerned in writing something about Durward? Was there some secret which Strex had carried through the years, and which, as a dying man, he had wished to make plain to the world?
Suddenly three words flung themselves into Vaness's head. "Durward was innocent."
Well, supposing Strex had tried to write that, supposing he had written it? Vaness found the idea affected him strongly. He would like to believe those words were the true ones.
CHAPTER V
THE house telephone buzzed. Vaness took up the instrument.
"A gentleman to see you downstairs, sir," said the hall porter. "Mr Soames. Shall I send him up?"
"Yes," Vaness said. "Ask him to come up, and if anyone wants to see me I'm engaged."
He walked out into the hall to meet the cheerful face of Inspector Soames of Scotland Yard, Ralston's official assistant.
"Glad to meet you, Mr Vaness," said Soames, putting out his hand. "Mr Ralston suggested if I had time I might come round and make your acquaintance. He told me he'd asked you to make nothing public at the moment, and he said I could tell you just how far we'd got.
"The position is briefly this. The medical evidence definitely stated that Strex was stabbed from behind. It's also absolutely definite, by the position of the wound, he could not have seen the individual who killed him. We've had the medical evidence checked up from three different angles, and, for once, the doctors agree. Strex must have died immediately he was stabbed.
"That produces a rather peculiar situation. If Strex died at once he could not have written that word, or those words, because the bloodstain obliterated most of them on the blotting paper. That means to say that he must have written them before he was stabbed, which is interesting. I don't think there's any doubt about our finding out exactly what he did write, because the chemical department of the Yard are fairly certain they will be able to read everything which was written on the blotting paper."
"I see," said Vaness. "By the way, inspector, is Mr Ralston at all definite about how the murderer entered the house?"
Soames smiled a little cynically. "Murderer, Mr Vaness? Why not murderess? We've got a pretty good idea who pulled this job. There's a daughter, a pretty determined sort of girl, I believe, and we've found out this much about her. She was out on the night of the crime. She took her car from the garage about twenty two minutes before the actual time that Strex was killed. I have the most substantial evidence that her car, which is most distinctive, was seen driving away from the avenue in which Strex's house is situated immediately after the time the murder took place."
Vaness handed the inspector a cigar.
"That's interesting, inspector," he said, "but you've not answered my question."
The inspector shrugged. "Well, of course," he said, "whoever it was killed Strex went in by the front door. They must have gone in by the front door."
Vaness's heart gave a bound, but he betrayed nothing.
"Why?" he asked.
"Well, it's obvious," said Soames. "I was down at the house within fifteen minutes of the time you telephoned the Yard. You will remember I sent Sergeant Harris straight into the study while I questioned the butler. As Harris entered you came out. After taking a look at the body Harris examined the room. The window was locked, for as you know, they have no catch inside as is usual, but an ordinary door lock to each window. So the murderer didn't come in that way."
