Читать книгу The Shop Window Murders - Vernon Loder - Страница 10

THE staff had been turned out of Mr Mander’s room, and Mr Melis sat there in state, a cigarette between his long fingers, and his brown, humorous eyes fixed on Inspector Devenish’s face.

‘Doesn’t seem anything very tangible to take hold of so far, inspector,’ he was murmuring in an agreeable voice, ‘unless it is this business of the gyrocopter.’

‘What interests me more, sir,’ replied Devenish, ‘is the person who financed Mr Mander. I can’t make that out. He seems to have sprung up suddenly from nowhere, and even if he was a genius at this sort of thing, where did he get the money?’

‘Ah, that,’ said the assistant-commissioner, laying down his cigarette and smiling very faintly at some thought, ‘that is not so difficult as it looks. But being simple—at least I think it is, if gossip counts for anything—it does not interest me.’

‘Then you know, sir, who was behind him?’

‘I don’t exactly know, inspector; but one picks up things as one moves about; doesn’t exactly know if they are authentic, you see, but wonders if they may not be.’

‘Then, sir, if I may ask, who do you think, or wonder, may have been behind here?’

Mr Melis began to toy with his cigarette again. ‘Frankly, Dame Rumour hints that Mrs Peden-Hythe was the goddess from the machine. She was the widow of that fellow, you know, who had the shipping company in Buenos Ayres.’

‘About forty-three, and rather handsome,’ said Devenish. ‘I have seen her photographs in the society papers. But why pick on Mander, sir?’

Melis shrugged. ‘Mander was managing-clerk to the country solicitors at Volbury, where her place, Parston Court, is. Fancy is an errant thing, inspector.’

‘So it is, sir,’ replied Devenish. ‘That does put another face on it. But you spoke of the gyrocopter, sir, what is your view about that?’

‘Mine? I thought it was yours. The wide track and the narrow track, you know. It quite seemed to me that you regarded the idea of the machine having landed on the roof last night as more or less—shall we say—a plant?’

Devenish thought that over. ‘You see, sir, it looks like an inside job. Someone who knew Mander and the place thoroughly. But I wouldn’t bank on it all the same. Naturally, it did strike me that the gyrocopter, if it did land on the roof, would make a wider track with its wheels than the track up there. Also, a man who took so much care over the job would hardly leave muddy wheel-tracks.’

‘Since pilots who can fly gyrocopters are rare, and easily identified,’ Melis agreed, ‘the only trouble is the mud. Was that brought in?’

Devenish shrugged. ‘We must find out what kind of mud it is, and where it rained last night, if anywhere. The man would not rise out of a marsh. As a start, I shall inquire if it was wet near Mr Mander’s new country place last night.’

Melis took up the telephone on the desk before him. ‘We’ll get that from the weather people straight away.’ He gave a number, and turned again to Devenish. ‘You have an idea about those spare wheels in Mr Mander’s workshop, eh?’

‘A man could have pushed them along the roof, if he had muddied them first, and cleaned them after, sir. We must remember that, once up in Mander’s flat, the fellow could do anything without being heard or disturbed.’

Mr Melis nodded quickly, then spoke into the telephone.

‘A heavy shower for three-quarters of an hour, eh? At what time? Half-past ten? Thank you. That is all I want to know.’

He looked at the inspector. Devenish looked at him. ‘Just a faint hope?’

Devenish pursed his lips. ‘Who invented this new machine? That is what I want to know. I saw Mr Cane just now—manager of that department—he seems to think Mander’s experiments and workshop-trifling a sort of pose.’

‘Oh, does he? And why should he suggest it? Is he an expert, by any chance?’

Devenish frowned. ‘I wasn’t really thinking of him, sir, but now I do remember reading about him in the paper, when they were advertising this store at first. Well-known flying man to be in charge of aeroplane department, wasn’t it?’

‘I think it was.’

‘Inside the building, been once in Mander’s flat and workshop,’ murmured the inspector, ‘if there is any other link, I ought to look into it.’

Melis smiled. ‘I saw a fat man just lately, who was, I think, the assistant-manager. He is probably a good business man, but he struck me as soft otherwise; sort of fellow we might pump.’

‘Shall I have him in, sir?’

‘May as well.’

Devenish went out, and came back presently with the assistant-manager, Mr Crayte. The man at the desk asked him to sit down, offered him a cigarette, and smiled at him amiably.

‘I am sure you are a very busy man, Mr Crayte, but I know you will help us. We want a little brains on the civil side, and won’t keep you long. It’s just a formal matter of getting a little insight into the relations between the staff here—I mean the executive staff, really. The sooner we get the routine work over and done with, the sooner we can come to grips with the case.’

Mr Crayte was all complaisance. ‘I shall be happy to tell you what I know.’

‘Good! Then we’ll get to it. Mr Kephim now, the manager; I suppose he and the late Mr Mander were on good terms?’

Mr Craye scratched his head. ‘Oh, yes, quite. I should say very good terms. We are, on the whole, a happy family here.’

Mr Melis raised his eyebrows. ‘On the whole? Much as one can expect, I suppose. Can’t expect a dozen different men to be absolutely soul-mates, can we?’

Mr Crayte laughed. ‘But what little friction there has been was nothing to speak of; flashes of temper, no more. You understand that running a big place like this is bound to make one nervy at times.’

‘But it seems to me rather strange,’ said Melis, with his head on one side like a bright bird, ‘rather strange that one of the higher staff even should presume to exhibit temper to his—er—chief.’

Mr Crayte hastened to explain. ‘Oh, they wouldn’t dare to with Mr Mander. I meant among ourselves.’

‘May I ask the names of the antipathies?’

‘Well, it is all over now, but there was rather a scene between the manager of the shipping department and the manager of the furniture. A strictly departmental quarrel, if I may put it so.’

‘Apart from that, may we take it that the rest of the executive staff are good friends?’

‘Well, no. Friends is another thing. Outside our business relations, there may be a certain amount of hostility. I mean to say, men thrown together, as we are, don’t necessarily like each other.’

‘For example?’

Crayte looked at him cautiously, but Mr Melis’s expression was so bland and ingenuous, and his own love for gossip so keen, that he went on to amplify his statement. ‘Kephim and Cane have never hit it off. But I can understand that. Mr Kephim worked up. He has a fine salary now, and is worth it, but he worked up. I will say Mr Cane is a bit of a snob—I mean to say, he rather showed by his manner that he looked down on Mr Kephim.’

‘When, officially, he should have looked up,’ murmured Mr Melis, with a quick glance at Devenish; ‘but after all we are only here to inquire into the murder of Mr Mander. Mr Cane was not on bad terms with the deceased, was he?’

‘Oh, no. Quite the contrary. Mr Mander was rather proud of having a D.S.O. in charge there, and Cane was always pleasant with him.’

Devenish put in a question: ‘Who flew the gyrocopter that time it landed on the roof here?’

‘Who flew it? Let me see? Oh, it was the mechanic who helped Mr Mander with his experiments in the country. What was the name—Wepkin—Weffin—No, Webley. I remember the man very well, since I asked him to explain the way the thing worked, and he appeared to me appallingly stupid.’

‘Although he was able to fly this difficult type of machine?’ said the inspector.

Melis laughed. ‘My dear fellow, when I was in West Africa, I had a negro chauffeur. He was an expert driver, but a complete fool. Some very brainless people have a genius for mechanics. He turned to Crayte, and added: ‘Well, we are very much obliged to you. By the way, do either of these receivers communicate with Mr Mander’s flat above?’

‘This one,’ said Mr Crayte, raising it.

‘Would you mind asking his butler to come down here?’ said Melis. ‘Ah, thank you. Then we shan’t keep you any longer.’

Mr Crayte rang up the butler, told him to come down, and then left the room. Melis stared at Devenish.

‘Now is that a link, or isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘Departmental quarrels apart, we have Cane and Kephim the only dogs that bark and bite.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Devenish thoughtfully, ‘I can imagine that, if it wasn’t for the girl in the case, sir. A man might want to murder one fellow and put it on another he disliked, but he wouldn’t kill a girl to top up, and he couldn’t know that the other fellow hadn’t an alibi.’

‘But suppose the other fellow is Kephim?’ said Melis. ‘And Cane had means of knowing that Kephim was coming here last night. No; that is out of the question, for Kephim wouldn’t be likely to come on a flying machine, and if those marks on the roof do not denote an actual landing, they were put there to suggest that the murderer arrived by air. But, say Kephim determined to do the deed and put it on Cane. Would that go better? As you say, Kephim is a crack shot.’

‘There is still the girl,’ said Devenish. ‘Why kill his fiancée?’

Melis leaned back in his chair, lit another cigarette, and half-closed his eyes. He was a good amateur actor, and carrying that art into official life was the only thing his subordinates had against him.

‘There is a psychological side to this crime that does not seem to have occurred to you, inspector. If it has, I apologise. To put a murdered man and woman in a shop window, where they would inevitably be exposed to the public gaze, what does that suggest?’

‘Revenge; with something personal and bitter in it,’ said Devenish. ‘Not a murder for gain. I see what you mean, sir.’

Melis nodded. ‘Mander is top-dog. With him are promotions, and increased emoluments. He seems—I only say he seems—to have fascinated one wealthy woman, while he was still in a subordinate position. To a poorer woman under him, he might assume the aspect of a little god.’

Devenish bit his lip. ‘The evidence tends that way, sir, but—’

The butler knocked and came in, to apologise for his tardiness. Melis told him to sit down, then bent, picked up a despatch-box, and took from it a slender weapon, the handle covered with tissue paper, and laid it on the table.

‘I suppose there is no chance that this came from your master’s flat?’

The butler suppressed a slight shudder. ‘Excuse me, sir. May I look at it closer?’

Melis nodded, and gently exposed the handle, being careful not to touch it with his fingers. ‘Well?’

I remember it, I think,’ said the butler. ‘I do believe it was the sample Mr Winson showed him one evening at dinner.’

Melis pressed for details, and the butler gave them. A famous Birmingham manufacturer had dined at the flat one night. He and Mander had discussed a contract for a half a million ‘Eastern daggers’, to be made in Birmingham, and sold in the Oriental department for trophies, and paper-knives. The manufacturer had brought a sample with him, and laid it on the table. Mr Mander had kept it, and—

‘Then run up, and see if it is still there,’ said Melis.

‘I’ll go up with him, sir,’ said Devenish. ‘I have locked that part of the flat up. Evidently this telephone connects with the servants’—’

‘With my pantry, sir,’ said the butler, getting up.

‘Where did Mr Mander keep the dagger?’ asked the inspector, as they ascended a minute later.

‘On the ormolu table in the drawing-room, sir.’

Devenish nodded, took the keys of the flat from his pocket, and the lift stopped.

The butler led the way into the drawing-room a few moments later, crossed to the ormolu table, and gave a little cry: ‘It’s gone, sir! It was here yesterday, when I came in after lunch to see that the fire was lit.’

‘You are sure you recognise it?’ said Devenish.

‘I am sure I do, sir. I had an oppportunity to see it on the table, and I saw those curly marks on the blade, and the odd-shaped handle.’

Devenish nodded, and let the man out, telling him he could go back to his quarters. Then he relocked the flat, and went back to the assistant-commissioner.

Mr Melis raised questioning eyebrows, was told that the knife, or dagger, had indeed gone from the flat above, and rose. ‘Well, Devenish,’ he said, ‘I have an appetite for lunch, and an engagement afterwards. Come along and report this evening, will you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the inspector replied. ‘I sent the sergeant to inquire at Miss Tumour’s flat. I think I shall go round myself, after I have had something to eat.’

‘Do!’ said Melis, with his best amateur actor’s air, picked up his gloves and hat—he never wore an overcoat—and walked out.

For some time after he had gone, Devenish sat drumming his fingers on his knee, and thinking hard. He was still at it when his sergeant came in, saluted, and approached.

‘Miss Tumour went out last night at a quarter to ten, sir,’ he told Devenish, ‘but she didn’t say where she was going, so the porter at the flats told me.’

‘And Mr Kephim?’

‘Mr Kephim, they think, left after eleven. But no one heard him come in again.’

‘Any night-porter at those flats?’

‘Yes, sir, but he did not notice Mr Kephim return. I thought it would be best to come back and tell you, without waiting to make any more inquiries.’

Devenish nodded. ‘Quite right. The times are important—one of them, anyway. I am going over myself this afternoon, so don’t trouble again. I want you to go carefully over the ground here, and make me a plan of the route which the murderer might have taken if he carried one, or both, of the bodies into the front window space from the lift.’

‘The goods-lift where the dagger was found, sir?’

‘That’s it. After you have done that, I want you to make inquiries about the night watchman. Go to Mr Crayte for the address. I don’t want the man to know. By the way, have you seen Mr Kephim anywhere in the building?’

‘No, sir. I think he did not come back.’