Delphi collected works o.., p.581
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 581
“Exactly,” murmured Krasinsky. “Precisely.... It was for this reason that I told you of this happening. History,” ruminated Krasinsky, “would appear to repeat itself, and I happen to know that the Countess Eriane — his wife — will be visiting in Bedford Square about this hour. If, by any chance, you happened to that way at this time .. . who knows...” murmured Mr. Krasinsky, “who knows? Surely anything might happen on a night of this description....”
But the seat was empty at the far end. And Lucien Grey was already running, breathing quickly, in the direction of Bedford Square.
KRASINSKY stretched himself and sighed. Then he rose from his seat, and wiping his mouth delicately with a suède glove which he produced from his waistcoat pocket, walked softly in the direction of some trees.
On a seat under these trees sat a young and unsuccessful poet, immersed in a dream. His name was Arnault d’Esperance, and he looked up with an annoyed expression as Krasinsky sat down with a bump.
“Consider, my Arnault,” murmured Krasinsky reflectively, “consider... this dream of yours....”
Of Perfume and Sudden Death
I
THOSE PEOPLE WHO are interested in the meteorological influences on crime will know of the effect of bad weather upon potential criminals. Just as any young policeman with a year’s service knows that it is upon wet and foggy nights that individuals, leaving the welcome shelter of the public house and experiencing the inclemency of the weather outside, proceed to fight upon the pavement on the slightest provocation; their numbers being as three to one compared with those on the days when the weather is dry and mild.
It may be considered therefore that the fact that the Christmas of 1927 produced much snow in England had something to do with the murder which took place in “The Cloisters” and which was known as the Perfumed Murder for reasons which will presently be obvious. “The Cloisters” was, I should explain, a short and attractive passage — since pulled down — in the neighbourhood of Gordon Square, not far from the University College Hall, at the end of which, turning the passageway into a cul-de-sac, was the charming two-story house occupied by one of the characters in the episode which I am about to relate.
It will be remembered that two days before Christmas the snow lay very thick in London, and it was at eight-thirty o’clock in the evening that Mr. Everard Forsythe, who had eaten a light but satisfying dinner, left his apartment in Bedford Square for the purpose of keeping an appointment to talk to his friend Mr. Hugo Melander.
I have always believed that an expert writer is able to show by the actions of the characters in his story the mentality and psychiatric processes of the people who pass across his pages, but in this case doubting my own ability I propose, in order that the purpose of the visit of Everard Forsythe may be made plain, to show what was in his mind and to give some indication of the backgrounds of both himself and Hugo Melander.
These two were very good friends, but just what being good friends mean to you or to me is a matter which only we ourselves know. In some friendships there exists a tinge of dislike, envy or jealousy, some secret mental reservation existing in the mind of one or other of the friends which introduces a humour of spite into an otherwise perfect friendship.
The fact remains that there had come upon Everard Forsythe, during the two weeks previous to this time, such an accumulation of small jealousies, worries and suspicions, that he had felt it necessary to arrange to discuss his feelings with Hugo Melander in order that this mildly malevolent aspect should be eradicated from their friendship.
They were both about the age of thirty-five, both good-looking and both sufficiently blessed with this world’s goods not to have to worry about the more mundane aspects of existence.
Forsythe was a composer of sorts, best described as a good amateur. Some of his work had been successful, and I believe his Chanson Jeunesse gave great pleasure to many radio listeners during the years 1925 and 1926.
Hugo Melander was a poet, and I think a good one. He published his own work in slim green and gold volumes (privately subscribed), most of which seem strangely to have disappeared. I believe one of the few complete sets in existence at the present time is in my possession.
The essential difference between the two men was the peculiar and almost magnetic attraction which Melander possessed, and which seemed to Forsythe to have such an uncanny effect upon his women friends. This attraction may not truly have existed, because the majority of women who knew Melander were not inclined to discuss him intimately after the events which I am about to relate had happened. But the idea that he had this attraction was strong in Forsythe and was I have no doubt responsible for the jealousy which existed in his mind.
It is not suggested that Melander possessed any of the attributes of a Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He was slim, charming and good-looking. He possessed a mentality of the first order, but there was a lurking cynicism in the twisted smile which he adopted on certain occasions, a caustic expression of tongue and a cynical gleam of humour which Forsythe had noticed showing in his eyes on such occasions as they had talked together about women, especially certain women.
Had Forsythe been wiser, had he possessed the ability correctly to analyse himself, he would have realised that the one rift in the lute between himself and Hugo Melander was the fact that he was essentially jealous of the open admiration which Carola Cheshunt showed for his friend. He would have admitted that he was deeply in love with this charming girl and desired above all things to marry her.
He would have admitted too that the only reason he had not taken some steps in this matter or given any voice of his sentiments to her was the fact that there lurked in his mind a suspicion that she possessed more feeling for Melander than is usually evidenced between men and women who are merely friends.
Then again this suspicious side of Forsythe’s nature questioned whether a friendship of an ordinary sort was possible between a man of the type of Melander and a girl of twenty-five, as charming, as open and as natural as Carola Cheshunt.
As Forsythe walked down Bedford Street, the snow crunching under his thin evening shoes, he experienced a certain mental satisfaction, due no doubt to the fact that he had eventually summoned up sufficient courage to decide to talk straightly to Melander. If it is wondered why it had not been possible for these two men, who were friends, to discuss such a situation casually and openly on some previous occasion, it must be remembered that the business of deciding just who finds most favour in a woman’s eyes is more delicate and more difficult when the two men concerned are as close as Forsythe and Melander were.
And, thought Forsythe, it was not really a matter only of Carola. Two other feminine personalities intruded themselves on the canvas with which his mind was busy. They were Mrs. Vanessa Lorenzo, a dark, junoesque and passionate beauty, and a Mrs. Robina Gallery, a charming, poised and superficially casual lady whose fascination was so much greater than her forty years, and whose ability to charm is too well known to anyone who has met her to need further discussion here.
It had seemed to Forsythe that there existed between both these ladies and Melander that same odd dropping of the voice in conversation, the same whimsical and almost too affectionate smile on parting, the same something which, he desired ardently, should not exist where Carola was concerned.
But insofar as both Mrs. Lorenzo and Mrs. Gallery came into the question he had no qualms but merely curiosity. Both ladies were well able to look after themselves. They were both truly experienced. Vanessa Lorenzo had buried two husbands and Mrs. Gallery one. Their knowledge of life — and love could be described as superb.
In other words Forsythe had not the remotest objection to Melander using — if he wanted to use — his peculiar and charming technique on these two ladies, who could either accept it if desired or rebut it with their own equally charming wisdom. But the situation, he considered, was very different in the case of Carola.
If Melander desired to marry her, well and good. Let the point be established and let both contestants for her hand start from scratch. But if he did not and was merely amusing himself — as Forsythe feared — by languidly working up to some innocent climax desired by what might be described as an over-developed sense of the theatre, a climax which, interesting as it might be to Melander, could bring nothing but unhappiness to Carola, then this mischievous process must stop. Forsythe had made up his mind to this.
By now he was in Gordon Square, and turned into “The Cloisters”. At the end of the passage, through a crack in the curtains behind the upper floor windows, he could see the light shining in the dining-room. He stopped and stood silently for a moment contemplating the charming exterior of the odd little house, bestowing a more than grudging admiration for the superb manner in which Melander, with his developed sense of the artistic, had furnished and decorated his home.
At this moment, thought Forsythe, Melander, with dinner over, would be sitting at his dining-table. The softly shaded wall lights would be reflecting on the carved oak panelling that formed the sombre background of the dining-room. Probably the gramophone would be playing softly.
Moving towards the door of the house Forsythe congratulated himself on having selected this evening for his discussion with his friend. Melander had sent his housekeeper away for Christmas and his man Sparkes was at the theatre with a ticket supplied by Forsythe. Melander was alone and no visitor would disturb the conversation, so important to Forsythe, which was about to take place.
On the doorstep he stamped the snow from his shoes and opened the door of the house with the key which, as Melandcr’s friend, he had been given two years before. Inside, appreciative of the warmth and comfort of the hall, he took off his coat and muffler and hung them up. Then, lighting a cigarette, he walked slowly and quietly up the stairs.
Now and for the first time he began to feel a little afraid. Supposing Hugo was not inclined to be serious, supposing he was to treat Forsythe’s case in the evasive, nonchalant and semi-humorous manner which he chose to adopt on occasion? Forsythe shrugged his shoulders and opened the door of the dining-room. As he thought, Hugo was sitting at the head of the antique refectory table.
“Good evening, Hugo,” said Forsythe, and stopped in his tracks. A little gasp came from him, for he saw that Hugo Melander was no longer of this world. His two hands were on the table before him. His handsome face was twisted in a grotesque mask of death, and the slim triangle of his once white dinner shirt showing between the lapels of his black velvet coat was soaked darkly with his own blood.
Forsythe, with a coolness that surprised himself, walked to the top of the table and stood looking down at his friend. He saw that Hugo was able to sit upright because the arms of the high-backed carved oaken chair in which he was sitting supported his elbows, and that his slim white hands lay flat on the table before him. Forsythe saw too the handle of the long stiletto protruding at an angle from under the right shoulder blade of his friend, and almost simultaneously looked towards the spot on the wall where ii was usually kept.
Quite suddenly he realised that the gramophone in the corner was still playing Debussy, and with a little despairing shrug of the shoulders he walked across the room and turned it off.
I SUPPOSE there must be a great number of people in this world who think that they have a flair for the detection of criminals. Everard Forsythe was one of these. For a long time he had considered himself to be an amateur detective of no ability, had had, in fact, words upon this very subject with Hugo Melander who, with a characteristic lift of one cynical eyebrow, had said that so far as he was concerned his sympathies were invariably with criminals, against whom the dice were so unfairly loaded in these boring days.
And whilst Forsythe found himself profoundly shocked by the death — in its nastiest form — which had so suddenly come to his friend, yet almost in the same breath he experienced a strange delight in being the discoverer of the crime; in being in a position in which he could begin an exclusive examination into the circumstances surrounding the death of his friend, an examination which, he hoped, would eventually bring the killer to the gallows.
Having turned off the gramophone (which was one of those instruments which re-winds itself and supplies itself with new records from time to time without much attention), Forsythe looked about the room in search of some clue or indication which would set his mind working on the right line. But he had hardly done this when he stood still and began to sniff, because there was in the atmosphere, quite distinct to his sensitive and appreciative nostrils, a definitely attractive odour — that of an exquisite, but rather heavy, perfume.
He sat down in the chair at the end of the table opposite his dead friend and began to smile to himself. It seemed to him that the police would not have to look very far for the murderer. At the same time he realised that by the time he had summoned them the smell of the perfume would have disappeared and the only witness to its ever having existed would be himself. He thought with a rather grim smile that counsel for the defence would soon make short work of him and his perfume clue.
He realised too that no English jury would, in a thousand years, consent to find a murderer guilty merely because someone arriving soon after the crime had thought that he could recognise a perfume worn solely by the killer.
The “other side” would, no doubt, produce the manufacturer of the perfume who, in the witness box, with a self-satisfied smirk, would indicate the thousands of bottles of his particular perfume that were sold in the world each year, taking good care (having been carefully coached beforehand) not to mention that very few of these bottles were sold in England. No, thought Forsythe, there was no reason for him to mention the perfume to the police. He knew it was there; he knew the woman who wore it, and he knew that he must now prepare, by other and independent evidence, to build up a case against her, a case which would eventually be so strong that she would pay the penalty for the death of Hugo.
Sitting there, looking at the poor corpse who sat so straightly at the top end of the table, Forsythe was certain that he knew just how Hugo had come to die in that odd position. Someone whose presence in the house did not surprise him, someone who had been in his bedroom, the door of which was set in the wall directly behind his chair, had stolen out and, with a little affectionate laugh, placed one arm round his head, and over his eyes, asking him to guess who it was. Hugo had placed his hands flat on the table as children do when their eyes are covered, and was probably waiting quite cheerfully to be kissed when the point of the dagger, already taken from the wall by the murderess, had been deftly inserted under the right shoulder blade and pushed easily and straightly into Hugo’s heart.
But the murderess — for Forsythe was, of course, aware that Hugo’s killer had been a woman — had made the mistake so very common to the inexperienced criminal. Being used to wearing the perfume she had accepted it as part of her physical make-up; had forgotten that it was as much a part of her as her gloves or hand-bag. She would have been too clever to her gloves or hand-bag behind, but she was not sufficiently astute to realise that for a certain period a suggestion of perfume might remain to definitely establish her presence in the room.
Forsythe sniffed again. It seemed to him that the odour was almost stronger than before. He got up and walked round the table and into the bedroom. There he stood in the darkness, sniffing. Yes, the perfume was there too. He switched on the light and moved about the room trying to find some position in which the scent would be perceptibly stronger. Eventually he came to the conclusion that it hung equally on the air, and went back to his chair in the dining-room somewhat disappointed.
It was obvious to him that there was too much perfume. And then, with a sudden smile, realised that he was right in this supposition and that there was too much. Someone had deliberately planted perfume in the room, had sprayed scent about the place or dropped a spot or two from a bottle with the deliberate intention of establishing the presence in the room of the person who normally wore the perfume.
Forsythe knew that the usual wearer of the scent wore just the right amount — just enough to be attractive when one approached near enough. Her mere passage through the room, or her presence there for a little while, would not implant this scent upon the air in the strength which, at the moment, assailed his nostrils.
His smile became broader. Because he knew the murderess was still the same person. Knowing her and her agile mentality, Forsythe understood perfectly well how she would reason. She would say to herself that it was possible that some time during the evening — but only after dinner (therefore she knew his, Forsythe’s, dinner time, and that he would not be with Hugo until after dinner, and she could only have learned these facts from Hugo himself) he would be coming to the house. She had thought it possible that Hugo might have informed Forsythe that she was coming and so had definitely over-established her own presence there by spraying or dropping some of her scent about the dining-room and the bedroom.
She knew that he was intelligent; that he would recognise that there was too much perfume; that he would come to the conclusion that some other woman, someone who had reason to be jealous of her, someone who would be infuriated at knowing that she had been with Hugo, had deliberately sprayed the place with her rival’s perfume in order that she might be suspected.
And in order for this plan to be successful she would have put herself in a position wherein she knew that the other woman possessed a bottle of her perfume which had been used for this illicit plan and had been obtained for the sole purpose of throwing suspicion upon her.
“Very clever...” murmured Forsythe to himself. “Very clever... but too clever. And all that remains for me to do now, dear Vanessa, is to establish the fact that you have given — possibly as a Christmas present — a bottle of your own particular perfume to the woman you desire me to suspect.
“And,” he concluded, selecting a cigarette from his case, “I shall find that the lady to whom you gave it is Robina Gallery. I am certain of that, dear Vanessa, as I am that you murdered Hugo. But I’m not going to tell on you yet.”
