Death of a Beauty Queen (7 page)

‘That's right,' agreed Mitchell. He added to Owen: ‘I don't think we'll do anything about a reward just yet. If the murderer took it for any reason, the offer of a reward will only let him know we are looking for it and he'll destroy it. If any third person has it, it'll be handed over all right without any reward offered.'

‘Anyhow, it's a clue,' the cyclist said.

Mitchell nodded.

‘Even an important one,' he said. ‘Though that's not certain yet. Now, sir,' he continued, ‘perhaps you'll tell us your name – I don't think we know it yet – and any information you can give us that may be useful in any way whatever.'

‘My name is Maddox,' the cyclist answered. ‘Claude Maddox. I'm with my uncle's firm – South American Trades, Ltd. My uncle is managing director. I suppose I shall be that myself some day, when he retires. I worked for the firm in South America for some years – from soon after leaving school, I went out almost immediately. I came back home to take up an appointment in our London office. Miss Mears worked in an office near ours. I used to see her in the lunch-hour. I suppose I fell in love with her at first sight, as they call it. She kept me at arm's length a long time. She thought I hadn't been properly introduced. But I didn't care how much she snubbed me. I managed to get her to let me speak to her at last, and we got friendly. I asked her several times to marry me. She kept putting me off, but this morning she promised. I bought the ring in Regent Street after lunch.'

‘Have you given it her?'

‘Yes. I met her as she was leaving work to hurry home and get ready for this show to-night. You didn't see it? She wasn't wearing it?'

‘I don't think so,' Mitchell said.

‘She told me she wouldn't – not yet; not to-night. I expect it was in her handbag. I expect that's why it was stolen.'

He gave a description of the ring – diamond, set with small seed pearls – and mentioned the shop in Regent Street where it had been purchased. It had cost £5, he said. Bobby took careful note of the details, and after one or two more questions, and after Maddox had explained that he had been cycling most of the evening, Mitchell remarked:

‘Wasn't that a little unusual? If you and Miss Meal's had just got engaged, I should have expected you to be here.'

‘I wanted to be,' Maddox answered. ‘I was rather sick about it. But Carrie asked me not to. I couldn't very well turn down the very first thing she asked.'

‘Had she any special reason for that?'

‘Well, you see' – Maddox hesitated – ‘the fact is... you see she was awfully pretty... and fascinating.' He paused and had some difficulty in continuing. One could see how his deep emotion shook him from head to foot. Mitchell waited quietly, and presently Maddox regained his self-control and was able to continue: ‘There were several fellows who wanted her,' he explained. ‘There was one chap who takes rather swell photographs – his name is Beattie, I think – that handbag of hers was a present from him. And another fellow called Irwin.'

‘Irwin,' repeated Mitchell sharply, and his glance went to the big, broad-brimmed felt hat he had brought with him from the scene of the tragedy.

Maddox followed the direction of his eyes.

‘His father always wears a hat like that,' he said. ‘I don't know if that's his, but it's like it. He runs the Building Society here, you know – the father, I mean; Paul Irwin. His son is Leslie, and he used to boast that Carrie and he understood each other, and their engagement was practically settled, only they were waiting till they could get round the old man. He's very strict in his views – puritan – didn't like her, or think her the right sort for his precious son. Leslie said he would come round in time – he always did. Carrie told me there was nothing in it. She had just been out with him once or twice, and he chose to think that meant more than it did. I think she was afraid there might be a bit of a row if he knew about us, and she wanted to keep us apart. He and I had already had words over it – over his boasting, I mean. I told him he was a cad to talk that way. I expect he only did it to try to warn me off Anyhow, we had a row, and I suppose she was afraid we might have another tonight. So she asked me to keep out of the way till she had had a chance to tell him. I think she thought site could make him reasonable about it and promise to be friends. I suppose it would be rather a shock to him – I know it would to me; it would have made me half mad if I had thought I was going to lose her. Perhaps it made him the same way.'

‘Do you mean you think–?' Mitchell began, but Maddox understood and interrupted instantly.

‘That he did it? Oh, no! Oh, that's impossible!... He's not that sort... he's no pal of mine, but he's not a murderer... impossible!'

‘I hope so,' Mitchell said slowly, ‘but we must consider everything, even the impossible.'

‘Leslie Irwin would never do a thing like that,' Maddox repeated. ‘No one could.'

‘All the same, someone did it,' Mitchell said, in the same slow abstracted tones. ‘The question is, Who and why? What was it made you think of going out on your motorcycle to-night? Anywhere special you wanted to go?'

‘Oh, no. It was just that I was too restless to stop in, knowing all that was going on here and wondering how she was getting on, and all that. I couldn't settle to anything. I could hardly eat any supper, I remember, and afterwards I got out the old bus and went for a spin. I went a good way out – along the Edgware Road, and out into the country somewhere. I didn't much mind where, and I didn't notice particularly. I turned back about half-past nine, I suppose – or perhaps about ten. When I got near London again, I thought that, though Carrie had asked me to keep away, I could ring up the cinema and ask how she had got on. So I stopped at a call box and rang up, and, when I asked for her, I got a reply there had been an accident; and, when I asked what accident, they said, “Stabbed – murdered.” Well, I thought it was a joke or a lie or something, and I didn't believe it. But they rang off, and I couldn't get any reply, so I rang up again from another call box, further on, and this time, when I asked, I was told the police were in charge and then they rang off, too. Well, then I fairly got the wind up. I came along just as fast as the old bus would go. I had two falls on the way – luckily I didn't hurt myself.' He glanced at the mud-stains showing on his clothing. ‘I might have done. That mud's from Brush Hill Common; somehow I came off all right, but it was a bit of a narrow squeak. When I got here, there was a crowd outside. They were saying ' He paused. He got to his feet, drawing himself to his full height: ‘You've got to find who did it, and why,' he said. ‘You've got to find her handbag, too, and then you'll have found her murderer.'

‘We'll do our best,' Mitchell assured him quietly.

There came a knock at the door. Bobby went to open it.

‘Inspector Penfold, sir,' he said to Mitchell.

‘Tell him to come in,' Mitchell answered, and turned to Maddox. ‘I want to hear what the inspector has to tell us,' he explained. ‘You won't mind waiting a little longer, will you? There might be some other points you could help us on.'

‘I will stay as long as you like,' Maddox answered heavily, ‘if there is any chance of helping you find the – the murderer.'

He pronounced the word with difficulty. It was as though the word brought home to him the fact, and that he dared not face it. His lean, cadaverous face showed plainly, in the worn, haggard look it bore, the tension he endured. His walk, even, was not too steady as he left the room, and Bobby looked after him with sympathy.

‘Poor devil. He's feeling it,' he said.

‘Yes,' agreed Mitchell. ‘Yes. Not far from a breakdown, I think.'

‘No wonder,' Bobby observed. ‘Pretty awful, the girl you've just got engaged to murdered the same day.'

‘Yes,' agreed Mitchell again; and went on, half to himself: ‘Which is worse – to be murdered, to be the murderer, or to be the helpless looker-on? Well, Penfold, what have you got to tell us?' he added, to the local man who had just come in.

‘Miss Mears lived at–' Penfold gave the address. ‘It's not more than ten minutes from here. It's a converted flat in a fair-sized, semi-detached house. She and the aunt with whom she lived had the four rooms on the first floor. Miss Perry – that's the aunt – is old and not very strong, and very seldom goes out. Apparently she sits and knits and listens to the wireless all day long. A woman comes in, three times a week, to clean. Other relatives, an aunt and a cousin or two, live in Exeter. Miss Perry is one of those people who believe in keeping themselves to themselves, and they don't seem to have many friends. Miss Mears worked as a shorthand-typist in the City.' He gave the name and address of the firm who employed her. Their offices were close to those of Maddox's firm – South American Trades. Penfold continued: ‘I don't imagine Miss Perry and Miss Mears got on very well. But the girl wanted cheap lodgings, and the aunt found the money she paid useful, so they put up with each other. As a result, Miss Perry doesn't know much about Miss Mears's private life – just disapproves of it generally. But she says she knows she was mad on the pictures – wanted to be a film star – and liked boys running after her. Applies to practically every girl in London, I should say,' Penfold commented, in parentheses, and continued: ‘At least, most of 'em are cracked on the pictures, want to be film stars, and like as many boys in tow as they can get. Miss Mears never brought her boys to the flat, and Miss Perry only knows the names of one or two – the photographer, Beattie, and Leslie Irwin. Miss Perry let me lock the door of Miss Mears's room so it can be examined later. She took it fairly calmly when I told her what had happened. I think she regards it as a natural judgment on a flighty girl, but is quite anxious to see judgment done on the murderer, too. She seems one of those people whose religion chiefly consists in expecting a judgment on others.'

‘Does she know this Leslie Irwin?' Mitchell asked.

‘No. She approves of his father though. Mr Irwin led the local opposition to the Sunday opening of cinemas, and Miss Perry always approves of people who disapprove of what other people want – if you see what I mean,' he added doubtfully.

‘Do you know anything yourself about Mr Irwin – the father, I mean, of course.'

‘He is a lawyer, but he doesn't practise privately. He is secretary and solicitor to the Brush Hill Building Society. It's a big concern – very flourishing now. There were rumours about it at one time, but it's made big progress ever since the war, thanks to Mr. Irwin. He's made it. Mr Irwin's father was one of the founders back in the last century and the general idea is that Leslie Irwin is to follow his father and grandfather. He's an articled clerk to a City firm at present, but acts as his father's secretary, too – in training for the old man's job.'

‘Know anything about him?' Mitchell asked.

‘No, except that he's honorary secretary to the Brush Hill Amateur Dramatic Society, and they say had a big row with his father over taking it on. But he managed it rather well. He joined the Brush Hill Literary Institute to study German – which his father did approve of. Then he joined one or two more classes, added the Literary Institute dramatic class, and worked on to the A.D.S. before the old man quite knew what was happening. In the blood apparently – the grandfather was a friend of Irving's and Toole's, and used sometimes to take a share in dramatic productions.'

‘Interesting family,' observed Mitchell thoughtfully. ‘There was a hat in the room where the girl was murdered,' he went on. ‘It seems it may belong to Mr Paul Irwin.' Penfold looked very surprised and bewildered.

‘That's very funny,' he said. He got up and went across to look at the hat towards which Mitchell had pointed. ‘Mr Irwin usually wears a hat like that,' he admitted cautiously.

‘I suppose he will be on the phone–' Mitchell began, and then paused. ‘No, I think you had better go yourself. Take my car, it'll be waiting. Ask Mr Irwin and the boy to come round here – oh, and, Penfold, the murderer can hardly have avoided getting covered with blood. But the funny thing is there's no sign or trace of any bloodstains outside the room itself, and no one, apparently, has been noticed with anything of the sort on his person or clothing – except the photographer who discovered the poor girl. There's the chance that the murderer covered himself up with a raincoat, or something like that – it's drizzling a little, so a raincoat would seem natural. But just keep your eyes open for anything to suggest that either of the Irwins – father or son – has changed his clothing or washed his face or hands recently.'

‘Very good, sir,' Penfold answered. ‘Ferris asked me to tell you he can't get track of Miss Mears's handbag. They are quite positive at the hospital it was never there. No one here seems to know anything about it. One or two say she had one, and they think it was in crocodile-skin. Mr. Beattie says he noticed it lying on the table while he was taking her portrait. He noticed it because it was a present of his – cost three guineas, he said, it was real crocodile, and he recognized it again at once. I think there's no doubt it's been stolen.'

Mitchell looked a good deal disturbed, and began again his old trick of beating a tattoo on the table with his finger-ends. To him this case had seemed at first to be beyond all doubt what is called a love drama – one of those in which hot primeval passion, breaks through the customs and restraints of ordinary everyday life, and men fall back again into their first savagery of unchecked desire. Every now and again such cases occur to prove how thin is the crust of our sophisticated civilization, to prove how near the surface still boil the primordial instincts, and how easily man can relapse into the animal whose only will is to possess or kill – or both– Odd, how near man is still to the beast, and how easily the pale, routine-ridden city dweller, with his wireless and his cup of tea and penny bun every afternoon, can turn again to the red savagery of the dawn. Such cases are strange and difficult for the philosopher and the psychologist, but not generally difficult for the police officer. Here, for instance, it had seemed at first there would be little difficulty in discovering what ardent and passionate lover the engagement to Maddox had disappointed, and little likelihood there would be any necessity to look further for the culprit. But already there were complications. One had arisen front the evidence of Maddox himself. Now there was this question of the missing, and apparently stolen, handbag.