Читать книгу The Wedding-Chest Mystery - A. Fielding - Страница 3

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MR. SCHOFILD frowned as the door opened. He was busy sorting papers. His confidential clerk murmured apologetically:

"Mr. Farrant to see you, sir, Very urgent. Mr. William Farrant."

The private inquiry agent smoothed his forehead and nodded as he glanced at a calendar of social events which his clerk prepared for him daily. A moment later a young man was shown in. He was of big build, but moved with a step so noiseless that even now, when he came forward and shook Schofild's outstretched hand, no footfall could be heard, and the room had parquet flooring.

Schofild waved his guest to a chair, and pushed forward a box of cigars—his best ones. Mr. Farrant, as one of the private secretaries of Boyd Armstrong, the Australian mining magnate, was to be treated en prince. But Farrant declined both the chair and the cigar. He had a plain but very intelligent face, and curiously veiled light eyes.

"I'm late for an engagement with a lady as it is," he explained hurriedly in a low voice, naturally low—that mark of a subtle character—"but I quite forgot to give you a very urgent message yesterday. Mr. Armstrong wants you to meet him without fail at his house in Charles Street at five today. There's a function of some sort on—"

"Chinese tea party," murmured Schofild a little blankly, looking again at the social calendar.

"Tea not to be taken literally," said Farrant, with a fugitive smile, a smile that struck the private investigator as curiously false. "Any amount of men will be there."

"Naturally, hoping for some hint about the expected Westralian Exploration cable," murmured Schofild, who made a point of a certain show of bluntness, and almost of indiscretion, at times.

Farrant nodded.

"Just so. Well, the point is, can Mr. Armstrong count on your being there at five or a little before?"

This time it was at the clock that Schofild looked. The hour was almost precisely three.

"He wants you to go up to the Chinese suite," Farrant went on, "where he will meet you beside the Wedding-Chest, a gift of Major Hardy to the Armstrongs for the occasion. You can't possibly miss it. It's pretty nearly the size of this room. Mr. Armstrong may be delayed, but if so, he asks you to wait for him. You will manage to be there? Good. I can't think how it slipped my mind yesterday. Goodby for the present, then. No, I'm off duty for the afternoon. Going to spend it on the links." And with another flash of his white even teeth, that again suggested no merriment, Farrant was out of the room.

Mr. Schofild stood a moment wondering what had happened to Farrant's tie. It was virtually under one ear, and looked as though it had been tugged or caught in something. Then the investigator turned back to his papers. He had just finished his last case. He was free. Armstrong might have something big to offer him. Mr. Schofild expected big things. In person he was stout and middle-aged, with quite a bald spot, but also with young, alert eyes. Physically he was lazy. The only exercise he took was getting into and out of armchairs. The only walk, one to his car. But mentally, he would wrestle all night long with a knotty problem. He was very intelligent, absolutely reliable, and immensely conceited.

Yes, he decided again, reaching for some pink tape, to be asked to give up everything he might have on hand, and meet Mr. Boyd Armstrong at five o'clock sounded promising—very. He had worked on a case for Armstrong, or rather for the powerful syndicate of which he was the leading spirit, only some months before, and had scored a great triumph. One thing he knew, if it was anything like that problem, an intricate question of embezzlement, he would insist on Scotland Yard being called in. Schofild liked Scotland Yard. They were there to do the spade work, letting him save himself for the mental work, which was, naturally, just a little beyond their powers.

His papers finished, he clasped his hands across a middle whose girth would have pained an enthusiast for physical fitness, but the acquiring of, which had given Mr. Schofild much pleasure, and that, he claimed, was more than could be said for the slim outline. His mind passed from speculations on the coming interview, to running over the one with Farrant just now.

Odd that one of the secretaries of a great financier should have forgotten to arrange for an interview which apparently was so important—or rather since it was an interview with himself, Schofild, which evidently was so important. But then, Farrant was odd, in some way that Schofild felt rather than saw. Schofild did not care for the young man, whose laugh was as quiet as his voice, who talked freely to no one, not even to Armstrong, as far as Schofild had seen when he had stayed with the two at one of Armstrong's country houses while working on his previous case. Schofild thought Farrant deep. And there was a glint occasionally in his light eyes that made the inquiry agent think of a fox. But what Farrant was really like, no one seemed able to say. Unassuming in manner, Schofild had often heard him referred to as shy. The idea amused the astute Schofild. If Farrant talked little to people, it was because they interested him very little. Armstrong believed that Farrant was devoted to him. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he wasn't. Farrant went by the name of confidential secretary, but interpreter would be the better label, for he was a really remarkable linguist. For which reason alone Armstrong said that he considered him invaluable. He had seemed to have a very pleasant position in the household, Schofild recollected.

So Armstrong was going to meet him, Schofild, apparently in full view of every one, as an ordinary, guest. That, too, was odd, for Mr. Schofild's occupation was well known, though perhaps, not so well known as he fancied.

He had once been an all but starving barrister, when some articles of his on how to size up potential criminals had caught on, and he had found himself listened to for a while with great attention. Then other names eclipsed his, and he turned his attention to the solving of unusual cases.

He was a bachelor—almost a necessity, he maintained, for a crime investigator, as he called himself—and was rather popular in his own quiet way, for he was a genuinely kindly man, and very discreet.

Again his mind turned to the coming interview and its possibilities. Westralian Exploration shares—"Westrex" in the stock market lingo—were much to the fore just now. Seven geological parties were working in the tract leased by Armstrong's group, from any one of which it was rumored that an all-important cable was about to be sent, sent in some code that would protect it while on the way, and after its arrival too.

Armstrong had once told Schofild that the codes he used were based on Australian native dialects which none but Farrant and the man who sent it would have the power to read even when decoded. There was a hint abroad that the cable would be unfavorable, but there were also whispers of a remarkable bed of deposits, so the shares, though quivering, were waiting—like the speculators.

Idly Schofild wondered how much Sir Ellis Herbert, for instance, would give to read it. Herbert, the Great Basemetal Bear, as he was called, would he be at the Armstrongs' Chinese tea party this afternoon? Schofild knew all about the party. It was his business to have such things at his fingers' ends. The Armstrongs had bought the Charles Street house from Lady Nunhead on the death of her husband a few months ago, with its wonderfully fitted-up Chinese suite, and in it Mrs. Armstrong had decided to give her first reception at their new address. As to the "wedding-chest" of which Farrant had spoken, and which had been chosen by Armstrong for the place of meeting, it would evidently be easy to find. As Major Hardy had given it, it would certainly be worth seeing. Like Schofild, the great explorer and Armstrong's closest friend, went in for big things.

Schofild was at the house well before five o'clock and found a crowd. Mrs. Armstrong had been a popular girl before her marriage some ten years ago, and had never lost touch with her old world. She was a very pretty woman. Her mother, Lady Blanche Callard, had taken great care, and consulted the best publicity expert of the day to have her established as a beauty, and Phyllis had been well launched. There had even been an expectation at one time that—however, setting on one side what might have been, Boyd Armstrong was a very wealthy man, and expected to be still wealthier. Most, if not all, of the men who came today were distinctly aggrieved at his absence.

Sir Ellis Herbert was not present, Schofild noted with surprise.

"Boyd was called away unexpectedly this morning. It's a secret, of course, but it really, was a command. Something to do with Westralian Explorations," his wife murmured, with an air of imparting a confidence, "but I expect him every minute."

People looked about for Farrant. He, too, was absent, and most of the guests were trying to bet with themselves as to whether this double absence was a bull, or a bear, point. The trouble was, you could take it either way.

As for the presence of Percy Callard, that was no help. Only natural, said those who knew that Mrs. Armstrong was his sister, and did not know of the strained feelings between him and his brother-in-law.

Only a piece of his infernal cheek, said those who, like Schofild, did. As always, where he was, however, the cocktails were excellent, and Percy himself, sleek, imperturbable and good-looking, though his mouth reminded Schofild of a cat's, sauntered among the guests as though he were the master of the house. Schofild looked at his watch. Close on five o'clock.

At last the move was made for the Chinese suite. The big temple doors that led to it were flung open with a noise like a great muffled gong; tea was served in the first room for those who still cared for that old-fashioned beverage. There were some wonderful blends provided. Such Lapchang Souchong as was not to be easily matched with its true tarry flavor. Such Chang Wong as might have come from a Mandarin's plantation, with piles of almond cakes and great heaps of Gum Lu from a Chinese caterer's. Hidden behind a pair of red lacquer doors inset in the side wall of the farthest room, Chinese musicians played Chinese airs. The rooms, there were three in line, each opening out of the other, were scarlet-lacquered, with dull gold dragons half-revealed, half-dimly glimpsed over walls and ceilings. Schofild found them distinctly frightful.

Suddenly there was a little stir. Every one made way for six coolies supporting, or appearing to support, a scarlet Chinese wedding-chest, huge and handsome and wonderfully carved. Schofild looked about for the giver. Then he recollected that the Travelers was holding a great reception in honor of a returned ambassador, and that Major Hardy was to make the speech of the afternoon.

The coolies chanted as they marched. Six London actors who played their parts well. The Chinese orchestra managed to be only half a bar behind, as they finally left the chest in the center of the end wall in a place that was marked off by cords of gold and crimson stretched from gilded spears.

The head coolie stepped forward and unfastened the huge key tied by more scarlet and gold cord to the dragon handles.

Schofild looked about him. No sign of Armstrong. Mrs. Armstrong was standing just outside the gilded spears enclosure beneath a pagoda-like dovecote of inlay work which topped a jade colored column that rose high above her head. She was dressed in black, and made quite a charming figure against her gaudy surroundings. Not even a Chinese lady could be more painted, Schofild thought, nor more successful.

All around came laughter and guesses as to what was coming.

His eye was caught by a woman across the wide room who, like himself, stood near the chest. It was Lady Grail, supposed to be Mrs. Armstrong's social rival in thinking out new ideas with which to amuse people. At the moment, odd to say for her, she was neither talking nor laughing. Instead, her eyes were fixed on the chest with a look of intense anticipation. True, it was being whispered about the room that the chest contained charming little gifts for all the guests, but Lady Grail's expression was quite unlike any other of the glances around him, Schofild thought. She was a handsome woman, but at this moment she looked very ugly.

Callard was standing beside her, and suddenly Schofild saw that Percy's lips were moving, though his head was turned away from her, and though there was nothing in his lounging attitude to suggest that they were talking together. Schofild could read lips. Callard said, "Now for it!" And Lady Grail, without turning her head either, replied, "Do be more careful!" and moved away.

The Chinese orchestra ended with a last miaow as the head coolie—Mr. Buck of the Gaiety in reality—unlocked the chest, hung the key in place again, and signed to the "coolies" to lift the lid and hook it back against the wall.

Half in real curiosity, half to keep the ball rolling, every one craned forward. There came a sort of muffled gasp from the room. Mrs. Armstrong shrieked, and collapsed where she stood in a dead faint. One of the coolies nearly dropped the lid again at the thud of her fail.

Schofild had hold of it before it quite closed. In another second a dozen hands took it from him and fastened it open. Inside the great chest lay a man at full length. He was quite dead. The face was distorted in a half grin, but it was the face of Boyd Armstrong. An ugly, powerful face. The face of a man of strong passions.

Her brother carried Mrs. Armstrong out. The slender figure in its clinging draperies looked like a child in his arms. Way was made for him in a silence of quite unusual quality, then came what was practically a hubbub.

Schofild lowered the lid after touching Armstrong's cheek. "Until the police come," he murmured to Mr. Buck, then he took a step forward and raised his voice. "If there is any doctor here, will he be kind enough—?" No one stirred, so Schofild continued, "There's been an accident to Mr. Armstrong. No one should leave the house for the time being. But any one can leave these rooms, of course. In fact, I think every one should do so except you, Mr. Buck, and your assistants. I'll telephone to Scotland Yard."

"Wait a moment," came in Percy Callard's languid yet metallic voice—he had just re-entered the suite—"not quite so fast, please. It may be a case for a doctor. A fit, you know, or a stroke...or drugged. I don't know who you are," he fixed a supercilious stare on Schofild, "to be talking of bringing in the police."

Schofild mentioned his name and that he was here to keep an appointment with the man who now lay dead inside the great red chest.

"And it's not a fit, nor drugging, I'm sorry to say," Schofild went on. "Mr. Armstrong's dead. Been dead some hours, I fancy. That's why I don't want to lift the lid again."

"I see." Callard spoke more civilly. "Then will you go now and telephone? And you needn't wait, Buck, nor your friends either in this ghastly room. I'll stay here until the police come."

"No thanks—eh—Callard, isn't it?—I'll wait here." Buck had caught Schofild's eye and gave the latter a reassuring nod. The actor as well as the inquiry agent knew Percy Callard by reputation, or the lack of it, and quite patently had no intention of leaving the grim chest in his sole charge, though the rest of the white-faced visitors were glad enough to avail themselves of Schofild's suggestion, and broke back for the stairs in a body. Soft sibilants and hisses came from the Chinese musicians. They could not see into the suite unless they peered through the key-hole, but evidently this was just what they had done, and evidently too they could hear what went on beside them as clearly as their music had reached the visitors. After further quick cluckings and dickings they swept from the room in a body, like a flock of black crows. Passing down the back stairs, they were out of the tradesmen's entrance before the servants had even noticed their passing.

Upstairs in the Chinese suite no one spoke for a few minutes. Then the actors drew together and spoke in low whispers. Callard sat in a ceremonial chair, his eyes unwinkingly fastened on the chest.

Within a remarkably short space of time a young man, tall, erect, and bronzed of face, walked quickly into the suite. Schofild was beside him. Behind them came four other men from the Yard. Schofild introduced his companion to Callard as Chief Inspector Pointer. Percy got up languidly, but there was nothing languid in the glance he gave the officer. Buck came forward at the same time. He knew Pointer, and, in common, with all who were acquainted with that typical specimen of the Yard, liked him. Now together, now in bits, the account of what had just happened was given. The lid of the chest was lifted again, and this time remained open.

"You definitely recognize the dead man as Mr. Boyd Armstrong?" Pointer asked. He himself knew the face by sight, and from photographs.

"Definitely," came from Buck.

"Positively," from Callard.

"Unmistakably," from Schofild.

"And which of you gentlemen last saw Mr. Armstrong alive?"

"I suppose I did," Callard said doubtfully, as Buck murmured something about some days ago. "Last night. My sister and I went to the Bat, after dining with some friends, and Armstrong joined us there. But I heard him about the house this morning at some unearthly hour. He's an early-rising fanatic. They rarely come to a good end, in my experience."

Callard spoke with the air of a virtuous man condemning vice.

"Look here, chief inspector, we've got to get away," Buck said in a pleading tone, "will you take my deposition, or whatever it's called, about the chest now? I know all about it. Or rather—good God, no!—not as much as that! But I know a good deal about it. I'm in a fearful rush."

"Sorry, Mr. Buck, but I must first find out when Mr. Armstrong was last seen in the house."

Pointer had a brief preliminary interview with the dead man's butler and valet. He was told that Mr. Armstrong had left the house this morning around nine, and had said that he would be away until the evening, mentioning eight as the earliest possible hour of his return. What suit was he wearing? What hat? What gloves? The information duly noted, Pointer telephoned a question, a guarded one, to Mr. Armstrong's office. Mr. Armstrong had left around eleven, he was told. No, he would not be back at all today. He had said that he was going out of town for the afternoon. "Did he leave his hat and gloves there?" Pointer went on, "this is Charles Street speaking." A miracle, which seemed to cause no astonishment to the office. No, Mr. Armstrong had only rushed in at eleven for a minute, going into his private room and hurrying out again at once. He had not taken his hat off, and his gloves had been still in his hand when he left.

Pointer gave very strict injunctions to his men to let no one leave the house until it was absolutely certain that the missing articles were not in his possession. For, though the suit in which the corpse was clothed seemed to be the same one that Armstrong, according to all accounts, had worn when, he left the house, there was neither hat nor gloves in the chest upstairs. A woman detective, who had accompanied Pointer to the house on the chance that she might be wanted, would attend to the women guests. This was only routine, the chief inspector had no expectation of finding Armstrong's missing articles of clothing among Armstrong's guests of that afternoon, so that he bore with fortitude the news that the Chinese musicians had gone before he had arrived at the house, though it was a pity. Pointer asked where Armstrong's bedroom and study were, and promptly placed them in charge of one of his men. After, which he returned to the impatient Mr. Buck, who ran quickly over the facts that accounted for his presence and those of the other "coolies" today. He had been dining with the Armstrongs three nights ago, and Mrs. Armstrong had told him of a Chinese wedding-chest that Bob Hardy—all London called Major Hardy "Bob"—was giving them. Mrs. Armstrong had spoken of her intention of distributing gifts from it to her guests. These were to be birch trees from Szechuan, stunted to a size not, so far, seen in England.

"I suggested coolies to carry the chest in," Buck went on, "and we discussed it as giving an amusing note. As the weight of the trees and the chest might have been a bit too much, it was finally decided only to seem to drag it, on a little trolley table, from the side of the room to the center. I sent up the trolley yesterday. Bits of teak carving were nailed to it, as you see, to hide the rubber wheels. We ourselves all got here at a quarter to five, had a cocktail or two, and a chat with Mrs. Armstrong, and took up our positions in a little sewing-room that's behind those." He pointed to the carved lacquer doors in the side wall near them. "The Chinese musicians were already in there. At a few minutes past five we marched in through the big doors at the other end of this suite, and picking up the gilt staves of the chest which was waiting behind a curtain there, trundled it along to the middle of the wall. As for the rest, well, we've just told you it."

"Where was Mrs. Armstrong standing when the chest was opened?" was Pointer's next question. That, too, was promptly settled. She had stood at the foot of the pagoda dovecote, and the pillar was fastened to the floor.

"Did she seem as usual before the chest was opened?" Pointer asked Buck confidentially.

"Just as usual."

"And how was the key tied on? With elaborate loops, or simply?"

"Very simply. Like this." Buck illustrated how the key had hung in place, and the other "coolies" agreed with him. After showing him where the chest had stood in a little alcove behind a scarlet curtain, the actors were asked if they minded having their fingerprints taken, and were delighted at the idea. That done, they hurried out, promising to come and "depose" later on at Scotland Yard.

"Do you, know when this chest came to the house?" the chief inspector asked Callard.

"Today. Around two, I think. I know it had just arrived when I got in at that hour. Major Hardy could tell you more about it. He was here when it came, helping the men get it into place."

Pointer knew that the major was at the Travelers, but one of his men was sent to telephone him, asking him to come to the house as soon as possible, as an accident had happened to Mr. Armstrong.

Only the police were allowed to use the telephone for the present. Downstairs, the guests were leaving in droves, after submitting to the very mild form of searching requested by the police, and giving their names and addresses.

Their accounts of what each had seen, when compared with those furnished by the "coolies," added nothing to the known facts surrounding the discovery of the body. None of them seemed able to suggest any possible motive for a murder, least of all a possible murderer.

The private inquiry agent had told Pointer how he came to be at the house, and had ended up with the statement that, being there at the dead man's wish, by his especial request, he considered himself doubly bound to help find his murderer.

"My specialty is explaining things," Schofild had continued, "probing into motives, reading people. Yours is, of course, the noting of facts and the gathering of information. I always work well with Scotland Yard. Together we ought to solve the problem, thought it may be a difficult one."

Pointer replied that he would be very glad of his help.

"Where is this Mr. Farrant?" he then asked.

"Playing golf, unfortunately. As he lives in the house, he might have been of the greatest use just now. While I waited for you to come, I telephoned Armstrong's offices in Queen Victoria Street, and asked them if they knew where he could be found. They don't. Incidentally, of course, I made no mention of what has happened. I left that to you. Theories and combinations are province."

Apart from the people in the house, the thing that interested both Pointer and Schofild most for the moment was the room and the chest. The latter was photographed from every angle, fingerprints were taken, collected, and numbered. Unfortunately they were few in number and very blurred, as the chest was elaborately carved.

The stretcher was now placed on the floor beside it, and Armstrong's body was lifted out, after its position against, the walls of the chest had been outlined with chalk. Schofild noticed the great care that Pointer took to ensure that this should be done with accuracy and detail. He had milk brushed over the chalk marks to keep from smudging. The cause of death was quite clear. Armstrong had been shot through the head from a little behind one ear, the bullet was still in the head. The weapon had, almost touched him, for it had singed his thick, curly hair.

"In my opinion," Schofild said to Pointer, with quite unconscious stress on the 'my' that he always gave to that phrase, "the wound in itself does not absolutely preclude the idea of suicide. But he couldn't have shot himself lying down in that wooden chest, nor could he have been accidentally, or intentionally, shot by any one else while in it. Suicide, and spite that tries to stage a crime? Quite possible in my opinion. Quite possible."

There were definitely no marks of a struggle. Each garment as it was removed was examined. Any articles that could possibly retain a fingerprint were tested. Over the letter-case Pointer for the first time paused a long moment. Then he glanced up at Schofild, who was scrutinizing it too.

"Been what the Americans call 'frisked' in my opinion," said the crime-expert promptly. "Wonder what they were searching for?" He asked the question of himself. Quite definitely of himself.

Pointer thought that the search had not been for anything definite. He based his idea on the fact that the contents of all compartments, even the one with a few of. Armstrong's cards in it, had—to his keen eyes—been taken out, flipped over, and hurriedly replaced, which would not have been necessary had a definite paper of known size been wanted. He thought that the search had been merely to make sure that nothing incriminating was in the case, or had been left in the case. There were many fingerprints on the various papers inside, but nothing else that promised any help. Pointer motioned to his men to cover up the body, and began his search of the Chinese suite itself. As has been said, the three rooms of which it consisted, opened each out of the other in a straight line. There was no way into or out of the suite except through the one main doorway, since the small lacquer double doors inset in the side of the end room were, Buck had told them, purely ornamental.

Investigation with Pointer's tiny surgeon's mirror showed the dust of many years thick in the keyhole. On the other side was the room, almost empty of furniture, which Buck had called "the sewing-room," where he and the other "coolies" had waited before their entrance, and where the small Chinese orchestra had been stationed. Here, too, as in the suite, the most careful scrutiny showed no spot of blood, no smear, or stain. Everything went to show that the body had been placed in the chest before the latter had been set in the alcove. Schofild said as much.

A question put to Callard, who was drinking cocktails below, confirmed the statement that there was no key in existence to the lacquer side doors. Lord Nunhead had brought them and the large entrance doors from a nobleman's house in China, and even at that time the smaller pair had been without a key, but as Nunhead intended to use them for the place they occupied as part of the wall decoration, this was immaterial.

"Rufus will give you all the details about them," Callard said indifferently; "he got my sister to keep the suite unaltered and go in for Chinese things. Rufus Armstrong, Boyd's cousin."

"And where is Mr. Rufus Armstrong?" Pointer asked.

"God knows. Not here. That's all I can say."

"Who is this cousin?" Pointer asked Schofild as they left the young man, "do you know anything about him?"

"Only that he's in existence," Schofild replied, "and that he's a well-known collector, especially of Eastern things. Wealthy man. I seem to remember that he has a beautiful old house off Fitzroy Square—" Schofild was groping in his recollection of chance remarks and idle gossip. A glance in the telephone directory gave his number, but apparently the household of Mr. Rufus Armstrong, as well as the master, were out, for they got no reply.

Too much, however, depended on whether the small side doors could have been opened, for there to be any mistake made, and Pointer promptly telephoned for one of the Yard's best locksmiths to come at once to Charles Street.

As for the windows in the suite, they were covered with wrought iron ornamental gratings cemented into the walls, which permitted the windows to be raised or lowered in the usual way, but absolutely precluded the idea of any entrance through them.

By this time the police surgeon had arrived. All he could say was that, to the best of his belief, death had occurred over six hours ago—though he could not be positive. But of two things he was sure. The first was that the body had been placed in the wedding-chest very shortly indeed after death had taken place—within half an hour. And he gave as another thirty minutes the probable time between the shot and the moment that Armstrong had actually died.