Delphi collected works o.., p.501
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 501
Duplessis got on to the chair, and fixed his drawing-pin in the centre of the centurion’s shield.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘it seems obvious to me that this spot, on which the weight stands, isn’t the spot indicated by the writer of the letter. It’s too obvious and it wouldn’t have needed any plumb-line to find it — the eye would have done that. So I imagine that we must swing this plumb-line in a half-circle, keeping the string taut, and somewhere on the line traced — the half-circle made by the plumb-line — we shall find what we are looking for.’
Duplessis took the plumb-line between his fingers, and, holding the string taut, traced a half-circle on the wall. Suddenly, he gave an exclamation.
‘Here it is, gentlemen,’ he said. He pointed with his finger directly underneath the weight on the end of the string. Just on the right of the fireplace was an old-fashioned carved bell-push.
Hastings stepped forward, his hand outstretched. ‘So this is what—’
Duplessis pushed him back.
‘Idiot!’ he said. ‘Do you want to be the fourth murder case in this district? You’ll get a scare in a minute.’
‘Gentlemen,’ continued Duplessis, ‘I think that when I press this bell-push with the leg of this chair we shall see a remarkably simple little apparatus work. I believe that the pushing of this knob will release a spring, and through the top of the knob will come a syringe needle which will be covered with some potent form of poison, and which would penetrate the finger of anyone pressing it. Now. it stands to reason that that poison can’t be liquid, otherwise it would have dried up or evaporated with the passage of time. Therefore, it must be some oily or greasy compound which can be smeared on the end of the needle, and which would not evaporate.
‘Doctor, perhaps you would like to have a look at the end of the chair leg after I’ve used it.’
Duplessis handed his torch to one of the police officers. The two beams of light from the two torches concentrated on the knob of the bell-push. Picking up the chair Duplessis pressed one of the legs against the bell-push. There were three little clicks, and in ghostly silence of the dark room the watchers saw the bell knob draw back into the wall and shoot out in the quickness of a second. Duplessis turned the chair leg towards the doctor. It was an old rounded leg, and the end had been varnished over, but in the middle of the varnish there was a needle hole, and round the hole a tiny speck of grease showed.
Massingham nodded.
‘You were right, Duplessis,’ he said. ‘That’s some form of curare poison. The tiniest speck of it in the smallest wound causes death in twenty minutes.’
Duplessis threw down the chair, and the noise echoed throughout the empty house.
‘And that’s that,’ he said. ‘That’s how Nirac and Dupont died, and Ragosin. As for Vowles’ death, the explanation is simple. Vowles knew nothing of the secret of the fresco, although there’s no doubt that he was originally an accomplice in some plan to defraud these men. Yesterday, however, he learnt that there was some method being employed of killing the people who came over to take these houses. Now, I don’t know why Vowles went to The Last House at Chellingford, but he either went there to investigate this business for himself, or he went there to warn Ragosin. Presumably, he arrived first, and was endeavouring to find the spot on the wall with his plumb-line when Ragosin came in. Now, Vowles didn’t intend to press that spot because he knew that death lay that way. But Ragosin didn’t know that. He believed that if he pressed that spot some concealed safe in the wall would open, and in it he’d find the money of which he’d been defrauded by the Bealthorpe-Birchgate Estate Company. He recognised Vowles, and thought that Vowles was once again endeavouring to steal what was his. He sprang on him and strangled him. Ragosin is a big man, and Vowles isn’t much of a scrapper. I expect you found, Doctor, that the thumb-prints on Vowles’ throat matched those of Ragosin’s hands, didn’t you?’
The Doctor nodded. ‘Well, it was rather a pity for Ragosin that he killed Vowles,’ continued Duplessis. ‘Having done so, he tore the plumb-line from Vowles’ hand, and found the spot on the wall for himself. Rather an unlucky business for Mr. Ragosin,’ added Duplessis. ‘That’s the story of Vowles’ death.’
‘Well, we’re very much obliged to you, Mr. Duplessis,’ said Colonel Grant. ‘Your explanation is, obviously a true one. At the same time, I should be very interested to hear who’s responsible for this.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that at the moment, Colonel,’ said Duplessis, ‘but I can promise you this — that the murderer will be in the hands of the police within the next twenty-four hours. I don’t want to say any more at the moment, but if you’ll be good enough to accompany me in the morning to Scotland Yard the whole thing will be made quite plain to you. I only suggest such a procedure because the Yard has already been approached on a matter which, whilst having nothing actually to do with these murders, has a decided bearing on them.’
The Colonel nodded.
‘Well, it’s obvious we can’t do anything more tonight,’ he said, ‘and I’ll do as you suggest, Mr. Duplessis. In the meantime, we’ll leave a man on duty here, and I think the best place for us is bed.’
‘By the way,’ he continued. ‘I hope there aren’t any more of these death houses in the district.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Duplessis. ‘I don’t think you need worry any more, except it might be a good thing to have this infernal machine, or whatever you like to call it, taken out of this wall. It may work again, you know.’
‘That shall be done in the morning.’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Well, gentlemen, let’s be off; this place gives me the creeps.’
XIII. HAPPY ENDING
IT WAS EIGHT o’clock. The first shadows of dusk were creeping over the metropolis. Pleasure-seeking crowds thronged the streets in the West End of London. In the Assistant Commissioner’s room at Scotland Yard, a man, smiling sardonically, handcuffed, stood between two warders whilst a charge of murder against him in respect of Alphonse Nirac, Edouard Dupont, and Victor Emile Ragosin was read to him.
Down in Fleet street the giant presses of ‘The Evening Leader’ thundered out the exclusive story of the Birchgate murders. In his office, a damp proof-copy in his hand, the inevitable cigarette in his mouth, Le Clerq saw the reward of his patience.
Duplessis, walking up Regent street, his hands in his pockets, his hat at the usual angle, considered, with a certain amount of satisfaction and a certain amount of diffidence, the interview that lay before him. A newspaper van dashed past him, and by the time he got to the top of Regent Street he was able to buy and read Le Clerq’s story. The heavy captions stared him in the face as he opened the paper:
DEATH IN THE FRESCO
BIRCHGATE MURDERS
JOURNALIST CLEARS UP THE MYSTERY
Duplessis grinned. The advertisement would do him no harm, anyhow.
In Oxford street he debated as to whether he should take a cab or walk.
During the early part of the day, in the intervals of elucidating the mystery to the Scotland Yard authorities, he had looked forward to this evening. Now he found a certain reluctance possessing him. Once or twice he stopped uncertainly as if he would retrace his steps and go home. But, on second thoughts, this idea was impossible. Considering the matter impersonally, he realised that his diffidence was due to the fact that he did not know what the attitude of Anne de Guerrac might be, and he was not too keen to admit to himself that he was perturbed by this thought.
Eventually, with a half-shrug of the shoulders, he hailed a passing taxi-cab, and drove to the nursing home. Arrived there, he handed his paper to Harding, in whose room he was seated.
‘There’s the story, Harding,’ he said. ‘Just how it applies to the Vicomtesse I’ll tell you some other time. By the way, how is she?’
‘Not too bad,’ said Harding. ‘I’m afraid you rather exaggerated her case. She’ll be all right quite soon. She’s not at all a good specimen of a drug addict. She has a good constitution, and I don’t think she’ll be here very long — unless,’ he continued with a smile, ‘this kidnapping business is to go on indefinitely.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Duplessis. ‘It’s quite safe for her to go out any time she’s fit now. By the way, Harding, can I see her? I want to talk to that lady.’
‘Why not?’ said Harding. ‘It would probably do her good.’
He rang a bell.
It was only when Duplessis saw the pale face of Anne de Guerrac framed by the ruffled pillows that he realised her beauty. In his previous interviews with her his mind, torn by suspicion and doubt, had failed to recognise the perfection of her features. She opened her eyes wearily, but they brightened perceptibly as they recognised him. He sat down by the bedside.
‘Well, M’sieu Duplessis?’ she said.
Duplessis grinned.
‘Well, Mademoiselle?’ he said. He paused, finding it rather difficult to talk.
‘I expect you have come to ask me to forgive you for kidnapping me,’ she said. ‘Is that right?’
Duplessis shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not in the remotest degree sorry that I kidnapped you. In fact, I’m very glad.
‘Aren’t you foolish? Haven’t you been the most foolish woman? And there isn’t any necessity to ask me why. It was, obviously, so silly of you to plan a revenge on Sardonin which could only bring you very near to death or, at least, imprisonment for life, whilst all the time the law was quite prepared to do what you’d have done.’
She paled. ‘You mean — ?’ she asked.
‘I mean,’ said Duplessis, ‘that they’ve brought Sardonin from prison this afternoon; that this evening he’s being charged with the murders of Nirac. Dupont and Ragosin. Nothing can save him. He’ll be sentenced to the death which he so richly deserves. What a pity that Ragosin didn’t take your letter seriously. He would have been so much better if he’d stayed in France.’
She leaned back. Duplessis saw the relief in her eyes.
‘How did you find out?’ she said?
‘I was just lucky,’ said Duplessis: ‘I put two and two together without making five out of them. But you guessed it before me, you know. Tell me if I am right. Wasn’t it when Dupont died that you suspected Sardonin?’
She nodded.
‘And,’ continued Duplessis, ‘you suspected him because you remembered that the idea of placing the frescoes on the walls was his. That’s why you were so remarkably careful to tell me that it was Vowles’ idea. I knew Vowles wasn’t the sort of man to pull the clever stuff like that, and I wondered why you were so careful to endeavour to implicate Vowles. Then the explanation came to me. Obviously, you couldn’t say it was Sardonin because you wanted to get Sardonin out of prison so that you could kill him yourself, which, after all, is a very dangerous process for so charming an individual as yourself to indulge in.’
‘Then,’ he continued, ‘you made me certain. One remark of yours definitely put me on the right track. When you said, ‘Who else could have done it?’ you started my mind on a train of thought which could only lead in one direction. Mind you, I was an awful ass. I argued with my friend, Le Clerq, right at the beginning of this business that the probability was that you didn’t know the notes were counterfeit, and I was too much of a fool to apply the same argument to Vowles, poor devil. He didn’t know they were counterfeit, either. Directly I realised this I knew that Sardonin had put those counterfeit notes in that envelope, sealing it down so that nobody but yourself could open it without detection for one purpose.’
‘What was that?’ she asked.
‘It’s quite obvious,’ said Duplessis, ‘Sardonin knew that you were under the influence of this drug. He had told you to come, take this money, and get some reliable person to help you get him out of prison — at least, he wrote this to you. Sardonin believed that that individual, receiving those counterfeit banknotes, would promptly inform you of the fact, and refuse to do anything to assist you. He also imagined that, under the influence of the drug, and being thoroughly enraged, you would believe, as you did believe at first, that Vowles had changed the notes. Sardonin thought that you would kill Vowles, which was exactly what he wanted. Vowles knew too much. Anyhow,’ said Duplessis, ‘I think it’s all pretty clear now.’
She turned her head towards him.
‘Is it all clear?’ she said.
‘Oh, I think so,’ said Duplessis. ‘I think I can guess the first part of the story, more especially as I took the opportunity of writing last week to a friend of mine in Paris — a man who knows what’s going on; he’s a journalist; they always know the bad side of life — and asking a few questions about you.’
‘So you know all about me, M’sieu?’ she said.
Duplessis thought he saw her lips tremble.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘I think I can guess — and I guess something like this. There was once a rather foolish young woman. She was without relations. Her father had died shortly before, leaving her far too much money. His death upset her, and when she met a rather unattractive Englishman — one Etienne Sardonin — she believed that she loved him. Women always believe that they love the wrong man first of all,’ said Duplessis, with a grin.
‘Anyhow, in her Sardonin saw a means of easy wealth. It wasn’t the first time he’d used his method. His business was to get in touch with the rich ne’er-do-wells who frequented the better-class night clubs in Paris, and to introduce to them different drugs through his associate, Vowles, a common Englishman. Poor little Dupont, the journeyman tailor, was probably the man who actually delivered the stuff, wasn’t he?’
She nodded.
‘I thought so,’ said Duplessis. ‘Some time towards the end of last year,’ he continued, ‘things got too hot for Mr. Sardonin. None of you suspected that he was the man who was really responsible for your taking this drug. He came to England, having obtained possession of very nearly everything which you, Nirac, Ragosin and Baourdat had in the world. From England he wrote you that letter telling you that he was afraid that Vowles would implicate him in something which would land him in prison. In point of fact, as you well know, he had arranged that Vowles would put him in prison, because he considered that that was the only place where he would be safe. He had heard that Dupont had squealed, and that you, at least, knew that Sardonin was the man responsible. But I imagine our friend to have been very clever. Before he left France he had told you that he would make it his business to see that your finances were put right. Under an oath of secrecy he had told Nirac, Baourdat and Ragosin the same thing. Dupont, also, was promised a certain reward for behaving himself. Then, in order to keep you quiet for a little while, Sardonin sent you that worthless certificate for a hundred thousand pounds worth of shares in the Bealthorpe-Birchgate Estate Company. I don’t wonder Vowles laughed when he heard of it, because Vowles knew nothing about it. The agreement under which the company issued you these shares, which were signed by Vowles and Sardonin, had never been seen by Vowles. His signature was a forgery, Sardonin being responsible. When you came over to England you came over with the idea of getting Sardonin out and killing him. Luckily for you, the notes were counterfeit. Had they been real, who knows? I might have succeeded in forcing some sort of confession out of Vowles — something which would have got Sardonin out. But how unfortunate that would have been for you. You’d probably be in a cell at the moment. And you saved me this trouble. You got the confession from Vowles.’
‘How did you know that?’ she asked.
‘It was obvious,’ said Duplessis. ‘When you came back after your last interview with Vowles you said that you had succeeded. What could success mean to you? Only that you had achieved something which would get Sardonin out of prison. Well, logically, there was only one way you could get him out. That was by taking a confession from the man who was actually responsible to Scotland Yard. You got that confession from Vowles.
‘You got more. You got the whole story from Vowles. How Sardonin had arranged that this pseudo-forgery should take place. Vowles was jolly glad to get an opportunity of getting clear of the country. He’d have given twenty confessions to have got out of that mess at Birchgate, especially when he knew that Sardonin was a murderer — although neither he nor you knew exactly how he was a murderer, and how the deaths were achieved. Neither did I at the time. I expected it had something to do with the fresco, but it was only when I got the six months’ old letter, which had been posted by Vowles to Ragosin just as the other letters had been kept and posted by him on the dates given him by Sardonin, that the whole thing became clear to me. Sardonin had probably promised Vowles that when these four men came over and bought their houses Vowles would have some additional share of the loot — the loot consisting of your money in the main I take it, and the balance he’d got from the other three unfortunates. But he was clever enough not to let Vowles know where this money was, although it was obvious.’
‘Was it obvious?’ she said. ‘Where was it?’
‘It was obvious enough to me,’ said Duplessis. ‘There were five houses, and four men to be killed. The Old Mill Cottage was the place which Sardonin had taken steps to ensure should remain in his possession. I went there very early this morning I found a spot with the plumb-line from the fifth man in the fresco, and, as I expected, Mr. Sardonin’s wall safe opened. In it were what I expected to find — bearer securities belonging to you, bearer bonds, money.
