Death in High Heels (22 page)

“Why in the world should she wipe the glass clean and then put a full set of prints clearly upon it? A child would know better than that in these days of the public’s interest in crime.”

“Well, you have me there,” acknowledged Smithers, thoughtfully. “However, I’m not obliged to explain everything, while she can explain nothing. I suppose, like any woman, she wiped the glass, got Mrs. Best to use it, and then got a bit panicky, forgot all about finger-prints, and picked it up again. Same with the key. If she hadn’t left that on the table I should probably never have thought of her, till the finger-print complication cropped up … but I’d have been on to her then. It’s a clear case, Charlesworth, ol’ man, and you can’t talk your way out of it.”

“It isn’t clear to me,” said Charlesworth, stoutly. “Why should she want to kill the girl? The whole thing’s absolutely pointless.”

“Doesn’t it occur to you that she might have had another crime to conceal, that was becoming dangerous to her? Perhaps Mrs. Best had found out more about the murder of Doon than you have!”

“Oh, don’t be a damn fool, Smithers,” cried Charlesworth, furiously. “Mrs. David no more killed Doon than you or I did. Mrs. David didn’t even know that Doon was going to be in to lunch; she thought she was going out with Bevan.”

“But she did have ample opportunity for getting the poison?”

“Earlier this evening you were convinced that the original poison brought into the shop wasn’t used in the murder of Doon; you’ve even discovered that Mrs. Best bought some more poison on that day. What about that, may I ask?”

“The chemist says a small girl, very pretty. That describes Mrs. Best, but it also describes Mrs. David. He may have got mixed up in the photographs. He doesn’t remember the transaction at all clearly, only that the girl was small and pretty.”

“Good lord, man, you’re just twisting the thing to suit yourself. When do you suggest that Mrs. David can have got it? She was in the company of several other girls during the entire morning; you don’t imagine it was a concerted plan, I suppose, got up between the lot of them?”

“I haven’t worked that out yet; I daresay we shall find that it fits in somewhere—if we aren’t afraid of fitting it in,” added Smithers, with a superior smirk for his heartsick colleague.

“Anyway, you can’t get away from the fact that Victoria David thought that Doon was going to be out to lunch; she was never in the dining-room after Bevan had changed his mind and said he was taking Gregory.”

“Now, Charlesworth, don’t start that all over again. Look here—you won’t deny that the plate of food was actually served out, or partly served out, by Mrs. David?”

“Yes, but not for Miss
Doon
, Smithers,” cried Charlesworth, weary and exasperated. “It was served out originally for Miss Gregory. Victoria thought that Doon was going out. Surely you can see that—Victoria thought that the plate was being served out for Miss Gregory!”

“And how do you know,” asked Smithers, sweetly, “
that your precious Victoria didn’t intend to murder Miss Gregory?
”

3

A detective sat solemnly beside Irene’s bed and made meticulous notes of her incoherent babblings. Gradually she came out of her coma, but no sense was forthcoming until well into the morning. Then, after a long period of silence, she suddenly sat up in bed and made the usual inquiry as to her whereabouts.

“You’re in hospital, miss,” said the constable, who had dealt with this question a number of times. “You’ve been rather ill but you’re better now. You lay down and keep still, miss, and I’ll get the nurse for you.” He made a solemn note in his book and rang for assistance.

Irene lay very quiet again. She had taken a sleeping draught and gone off to sleep and now here she was in a different place; it was all very puzzling. She dozed off again, and when she woke there was a different young man beside her. She closed her eyes and gave herself gradually up to more lucid thought.

Inspector Smithers got very little help from her when she finally came to. She had had something in Gregory’s flat to make her sleep and Gregory and Victoria had put her to bed and that was all she could remember. They had been ever so kind—
ever
so kind, repeated Irene, and drifted off to sleep again.

Twelve

1

T
HE
Dazzler, having concluded his appeal to Charlesworth, rang up his mamma, who was a lady of title, and besought her to pull some strings. The lady of title reminded him that she had always known what would come of his mixing with that terrible artist lot, and marrying a girl who actually worked for her own living (“And for mine,” put in Bobby Dazzler, blinking his sleepy brown eyes), but ended by replying that she would see what she could do. She then had recourse to a bottle which was kept hidden in her bathroom, a close secret from all but her husband, her servants and most of her acquaintances, and, fortified by this unfailing friend, proceeded cheerfully to disturb the midnight slumbers of the great. Whether it was the whisky or the title or a combination of both, a promise was finally extracted that her daughter-in-law should be treated with every consideration consistent with the rigours of the law; and should, moreover, be released as soon as her questioning was over, and not detained under any pretext whatsoever.

This was no more and no less than Smithers had originally intended, but it enabled him to make a tremendous favour of Victoria’s release. He obtained an undertaking that she would hold herself in readiness to return for further questioning if required and, in the early hours of the morning, permitted her to return to her home.

The Dazzler put his wife to bed and the next morning rang up Bevan and informed him that Victoria would not be returning to the shop; he glanced in at the bedroom door and, seeing her sleeping quietly, let himself, with something of an air of mystery, out of the flat.

Half an hour later Charlesworth rang the bell, and Toria, once more wrapped in the blue dressing-gown, opened the door. “Oh, Mr. Charlesworth, I
am
so glad to see you; all this is too ghastly, it’s the most awful mistake…. Of course I didn’t kill Irene—how could anyone think I would do such a thing? Mr. Charlesworth, you don’t believe all these terrible things, do you? Do say that you don’t believe them! I couldn’t bear it if you were against me too.”

She caught his arm and dragged him into the studio. “Do come and sit down; I can’t tell you how glad I am you’ve come.…”

Charlesworth struggled hard against a longing to take her small, forlorn figure into his arms. “Of course I don’t believe a word against you, Victoria,” he said. “I ought not to say so, I’d get the sack if anybody knew—but nothing on earth would make me believe you were a murderess; in fact,” he added, belligerently, “I’d chuck up my job before I’d be party to such an idea!”

“Oh, you are kind, Mr. Charlesworth; now do tell me, I’m so worried about this confession they’ve found: what on earth was in it?”

“That I can’t tell you, Toria. Smithers has got a bee in his bonnet about not revealing the contents and as it’s his own particular bit of fun and games I can’t very well refuse. It’s perfect nonsense, but I suppose it can’t do any harm; the important thing is this: was it there when you went into the room?”

“But I didn’t go into the room,” said Victoria, avoiding his eyes.

“My dear, you must have. Smithers has proved that you went in. I’m on your side, Victoria, and I’m doing all I can to clear you, but I can’t do a thing if you don’t tell me the truth.”

She looked at him wistfully. “I do want to tell you the truth, but—well, I put the key through the letter-box. I didn’t go into the flat.”

“Toria,” said Charlesworth, patiently, “I
know
you went into the flat. I’m not asking you—I know it. What I want you to tell me is: why did you go in and what did you do while you were there?”

“I didn’t go in.”

“My dear, look. The key which you say you put through the letter-box was found on the table. How did it get there, if you didn’t go into the place?”

“Somebody might have gone in afterwards and picked it up and put it on the table,” said Victoria, as he himself had argued so short a time before.

“But your finger-prints? You and Miss Gregory left Irene with a glass full of water which you yourself say you hadn’t touched. When Smithers found her, the glass was empty and there were no prints on it but hers and yours. And yours were what’s called superimposed—they were on top of hers. In other words, between the time you and Miss Gregory left her and the time Smithers found her, Irene had drunk the water and you had handled the glass. Nobody can deny that.”

“I don’t see why only my marks were on it. Gregory put it on the table and it was she who filled it with water; she didn’t wipe it then, because I was there with her the whole time. Not that I mean to suggest anything against Gregory … personally I think that Rene tried to commit suicide and there was no question of murdering her at all.”

“That doesn’t explain the finger-marks.”

“Then why weren’t Gregory’s on the glass?”

“The glass had been wiped clean, Victoria, after you and Gregory left the room.”

“Well, there,” cried Toria, triumphantly. “Doesn’t that just show—why should I have wiped it clean and then put my own marks on it? It doesn’t make sense.”

“My dear, I’ve argued all this out before,” said Charlesworth, patiently. “There isn’t any answer to that, but it doesn’t make a bit of difference. Victoria, tell me, I implore you, why did you go into that room? Don’t pretend to me: can’t you trust me? You ought to know that I’m your friend.”

“How can I know that?” said Victoria, sadly, lifting her lovely eyes to his. “You’ve always been very nice, Mr. Charlesworth, and awfully kind and sweet—but, after all, you
are
a detective and you may be saying all this to get something out of me that I don’t want to tell you.…”

“You don’t believe that?” he said, staring at her.

“How am I to know?” said Toria again. “I never thought of it till this moment, but, after all, how am I to know?”

“Because I happen to be in love with you,” said Charlesworth, crossly. He leant against the mantelpiece, looking down at her as she sat perched on the arm of a chair. “I have no right to say this, Victoria, and I wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t driven me to it: but I
must
make you believe that you can trust me and the plain and simple answer is that I’ve been in love with you ever since I first met you. I don’t say that if I thought you were guilty, I would let it make any difference; as you say, I’m a police officer and I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do. But you aren’t guilty and I know it; and I’m not going to see you suffer, not if it costs me my job.”

There was a little silence, and he looked at her anxiously; but she came and stood beside him and smiled up into his eyes. “Well, Mr. Charlesworth, it’s very sweet of you—and thank you.…” She hesitated, and then said, reluctantly: “After that, I can’t possibly go on telling you lies. I’m not very good at it, anyway, am I? I did go into Irene’s room, of course, and I did pick up the glass, and I suppose I put the key on the table, if that’s where it was found; I was in such a panic that I didn’t know what I was doing, and I’m not much used to crime! But I didn’t—didn’t even speak to Irene, I didn’t touch her, and I didn’t give her anything, and God knows, I didn’t forge a confession and put it under her pillow. Anyway, I can’t see why you think it was a forgery. Perhaps it isn’t.”

“That would mean that Irene was the murderer of Doon,” said Charlesworth, “but, if so, why did somebody try to murder
her?
”

“I can’t see why you’re so sure that somebody did, unless you still think that I did.”

“I never thought that you did, Toria, and I don’t think so now. But you’ve got a lot more to explain—why did you go into Irene’s flat in the first place, and what did you do while you were there?”

“I simply can’t answer that, Mr. Charlesworth. Perhaps I just thought I would like to see how she was getting on—wouldn’t that do?”

“Well, hardly, as you don’t even pretend that it’s the real answer.”

“It’s all the answer I can give. I suddenly thought that I would like to see if she had gone off to sleep all right; I went in and looked at her, and—and went out again.”

“And was she all right?”

“She was asleep,” said Victoria, abruptly.

“Are you sure, Toria?”

“Yes, I am. She was asleep. I stood beside the bed and I—I idly picked up the glass and—and put it down again. Then I went away.”

“Didn’t you see by the empty papers on the table that she’d taken a very big overdose?”

“There weren’t any,” said Victoria, quickly.

“There weren’t any bits of paper? My dear, are you sure of that?”

“Of course I’m sure. There was nothing on the table except the glass and the little box. I didn’t touch the box. Have they looked at that for finger-prints? They’ll see that I didn’t touch the box.”

“You had it in your hand when you were upstairs in the other flat.”

“Yes, but Gregory had it afterwards, and either she or Irene carried it downstairs. Their marks would be over mine, as Mr. Smithers is so keen on his superimposing and stuff.”

“They may be, but it doesn’t help us much. You could just as easily have put the stuff into the glass of milk she had upstairs. Victoria, you didn’t, did you? I mean, you don’t think you could possibly have made a mistake about the dose? You didn’t go into Irene’s room to make sure that you hadn’t made a mistake?”

“Oh, Mr. Charlesworth, no! I swear there was nothing like that about it—I’d tell you if there were. I only wish it were as simple. Don’t ask me any more, Mr. Charlesworth—I can’t tell you any more than I have; and whoever else asks me, and whoever asks you, I shall stick to my story and you must too, that I put the key through the door.”

He begged and badgered and bullied, but all in vain. Not another word would she say, and to all his protestations she simply replied that they couldn’t pin it on her in the end; they couldn’t find the slightest motive for her to kill Irene, whom she loved; and they would have to let her go in the end.