The Silk Stocking Murders (11 page)

“Do, if you can, Mr. Sheringham,” approved Moresby. “But don’t give anything away, of course,” he added, not without a certain anxiety. “He mustn’t know we’re on his track.”

Roger looked at his collaborator with dignity.

“And don’t start trying to pump him till I give you the word,” added the Chief Inspector, unabashed by the look. “I don’t want him frightened. And remember, we haven’t finished checking yet. There’s the results of that notepaper inquiry to come in first, and that’s pretty sure to knock two of ’em out.”

“Leaving George Dunning in,” Roger retorted. “Very well, Moresby, I’ll try to refrain from telling him everything about us the first time I meet him, and I think it’s very good of you to trust me so far.”

Chief Inspector Moresby beamed paternally.

Leaving shortly after, Roger made his way to the Oxford and Cambridge Club for lunch, feeling that he could not get on Mr. Dunning’s trail too soon. As he walked briskly along he had not the least doubt that the murderer had been identified; now all that remained was proof. And in the collecting of proof Roger was glad not to be hampered by the restrictions set on the professional detective. He saw the glimmerings of one or two pretty little plans to that end which would certainly not have met with official approval.

On enquiring of the porter he learned that Mr. Dunning was not in the club at the moment. Enquiring further, he was told that Mr. Dunning did not come very often, not above two or three times a month. This was discouraging. However, Roger adhered to his scheme, feeling that after all it was quite time he did lunch at the Oxford and Cambridge, not having done so for at least a year, and soon found himself seated in the dining-room in solitary state. He chose a fillet steak and fried potatoes, with a pint of old beer, and looked round for a friendly face. Not one was in sight.

Nevertheless, Roger was not to lunch alone that day. Just as his steak was being set before him ten minutes later a voice hailed him, a little doubtfully, from behind his left shoulder. Spinning round he saw Pleydell standing by his chair and jumped up at once.

“You’ve saved me,” he said swiftly, grasping the opportunity before it could elude him. “I was frightened to death that I’d got to eat my lunch in complete silence, a thing I abhor. If you’re not meeting anyone, come and lunch with me, won’t you?”

“I should be very glad,” returned Pleydell courteously, and took the opposite chair.

“You’re Roger Sheringham, the novelist, aren’t you?” he went on, when they were seated. “I thought your face was familiar to me when I met you at Scotland Yard yesterday.”

“And I had a vague idea I’d seen you before, too,” Roger agreed. “I remember now; it was here, of course, though I didn’t know your name. Didn’t we meet in a rubber of bridge about two years ago? I remember Frank Merriman was playing.”

“That’s right,” Pleydell acquiesced with a smile. “It’s extraordinary how one meets fellows like that for a short time, without gathering their names or anything about them, and then perhaps doesn’t see them again for years, isn’t it?”

They exchanged a few conventional reminiscences, and Roger learnt that his guest had been at Cambridge but had had to leave early owing to the War. Having exhausted reminiscences the conversation hovered uneasily, while the minds of both were full of all the things that were not being said. Roger knew that the other must be wondering how he could tactfully find out how on earth such a person as Roger Sheringham could have come to be mixed up in a police inquiry into the circumstances of his own fiancée’s tragic death; and Roger himself was wondering what in the world he was going to reply when the feeler was inevitably put forth.

Pleydell led up to it gradually. “That Chief Inspector I saw at Scotland Yard,” he remarked, almost carelessly, after the conversation had stumbled, paused, tried desperately to plod on again, and finally halted. “Moresby, his name was, wasn’t it? Is he a sound sort of chap?”

“Oh, yes,” said Roger, with an equally casual air. “Very Sound, I think.”

“He didn’t seem surprised to see me turn up yesterday evening,” hinted Pleydell.

“No,” Roger parried. “We rather thought you might.”

“You’re connected with Scotland Yard,” said Pleydell, framing his remark in the form of an assertion rather than a question. “It must be extraordinarily interesting.”

“Yes, it is,” Roger agreed, accepting the implication, as indeed he could hardly help doing.

Pleydell looked him in the face. “You’re a man of sense,” he said abruptly. “What do
you
think about my fiancée’s death?”

This time Roger refused the advance. “We thought it sufficiently strange to warrant a little investigation,” he replied colourlessly, trying to re-establish the impersonal note.

“It certainly is that,” Pleydell muttered. “You think there’s a man at the back of it?” he attacked again. “At least, that seems the inference from the list Moresby wanted.”

“It’s always possible, isn’t it?” Roger fenced.

“Oh, why not be open with me, Sheringham?” Pleydell said swiftly in a low voice that nevertheless shook a little. “Can’t you see that the whole thing is torturing me beyond endurance? I shall go mad if it isn’t cleared up soon.”

Roger was taken aback. An appeal to the emotions was the last thing he was expecting from the collected, self-contained Pleydell. He realised something of what the man must be suffering to expose his innermost feelings to a complete stranger like himself, and guessed that perhaps no other person in the world had ever been granted such a view of the human fires that were hidden under that cool exterior—except, of course, Lady Ursula.

“You don’t suppose I’d ever have brought myself to go to Scotland Yard and talk to a damned policeman about—about
her
,” Pleydell continued, crumbling the bread on his plate with shaking fingers, “if I hadn’t reached my own limit, do you? For heaven’s sake tell me what they really think, and what they’re going to do about it.”

Roger was alarmed. His earlier conviction, that once Pleydell learned the truth he would be ruthless in his vengeance, returned in doubled strength. Far more formidable because normally so self-controlled, once he reached his breaking-point the man would be dangerous. In his own interest he must be restrained.

And yet, if he stumbled on the truth by himself (as sooner or later he surely must), would he not be even more dangerous, because out of reach of control? Would it not be better to give him an idea of the truth now and bind him not to take individual action? If he really gave his word, Roger was inclined to think that he would abide by it. And in any case Moresby was going to break the news to him on the next day, as he must before putting the further questions that were necessary; it could hardly make any difference to forestall him by twenty-four hours, and it would give the poor devil a certain measure of relief; to know the worst is always better than to fear it.

Roger had to make up his mind in an instant, and be did so.

“What do
you
think about it first, Pleydell?” he asked, in a tone of voice different from the defensive one in which he had spoken hitherto.

Pleydell looked at him quickly, and the expression he read in his host’s face showed that he was to be fenced with no longer. “I?” he said slowly. “I hardly like to tell you what I think. You might call it too fantastic.”

“Then put it this way,” Roger said bluntly, now sure that the other’s suspicions went nearer towards the truth than he had thought before. “Put it this way: do you think Lady Ursula took her own life?”

Pleydell did not flinch. It was as if he had feared all the time the hint conveyed by Roger’s question and so was not unprepared. “Ah!” he said, scarcely above a whisper. “So it
was
murder, was it?”

Roger was relieved. The man was taking it bravely, that Roger had expected; but it was not such a shock to him as it might have been had the idea been a new one. After all, Pleydell was no fool. It was a possibility that must have occurred to him.

“We don’t know for certain,” he said, though in a voice that held out little hope. “But coming after those others, you know.”

Pleydell nodded. Now that suspicion had been changed into certainty he had pulled himself together, and when he spoke it was in tones that were almost matter-of-fact. Roger marvelled again at his self-control.

“Yes,” he said. “I was afraid of it as soon as I realised that. In fact, it was that which sent me to Scotland Yard. But when I got there I hardly liked to say so straight out. It
did
seem fantastic, somehow. Ursula, you know, and the idea of murder.… Incongruous, to the point of absurdity.” He sighed. “But I suppose murder always does seem fantastic when applied to somebody in one’s own circle. Have you got any clues?”

“Precious few,” Roger said ruefully. “We’ll lay our hands on him sooner or later, I promise you; but it’s not going to be an easy job. By the way, Pleydell…” He paused awkwardly.

Pleydell looked up. “Yes?”

“Look here,” said Roger in some embarrassment, “you mustn’t forget the man’s mad, of course.”

“Mad?”

“Yes. A sexual maniac. I mean, it isn’t like an ordinary case of murder, where one can feel as rancorous as possible against the murderer. I don’t know whether the law will hold this man responsible for his actions, but I very much doubt it.”

“Do you?” said Pleydell, with a certain dry grimness. “But I think we’d better make sure of catching him all the same.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But——”

“And I need hardly say,” Pleydell interrupted, as if hardly conscious that Roger was speaking at all, “that if you want anything in the nature of funds to help you do so, you’ve only got to mention it to me. I’m a pretty rich man, but I’d give almost everything I’ve got to see that swine brought to the scaffold.”

“Oh, yes,” murmured Roger, acutely uncomfortable. “Of course.”

“And any other way I can help …”

“Yes!” said Roger abruptly. “There’s one way you can help. Scotland Yard’s got the matter in hand, and they’re the best man-hunting machine in the world. I want you to remember just that. In other words, I want you to promise not to attempt anything off your own bat. You couldn’t effect anything, and you might very easily queer our pitch.” It was remarkable how Roger, now that he was firmly established in an official status, seemed to have imbibed also the official ideas about enthusiastic amateurs and their well-intentioned industry.

Pleydell looked extremely unwilling to give any such under-taking.

“I’ve told you a lot more than I ought,” Roger urged, “and I want you to reciprocate by giving me your word on this point. It’s important, honestly.”

Pleydell appeared to be considering. “Very well,” he said slowly. “I’ll give you my word on one condition, and that is that you keep me closely informed about how you get on and any discoveries you may make. Otherwise I shall hold myself free to employ private detectives, if I want, to supplement your efforts.”

“Oh, don’t do that!” said the Scotland Yard man, with all the correct horror of such a notion. “Yes, I’ll keep you informed all right (unofficially, of course, and you must keep anything I tell you a close secret); but for heaven’s sake don’t go and let a lot of private detectives loose on us. Why, nobody outside Scotland Yard except yourself even guesses that we’re looking into these cases at all. Our great hope is to capture the chap by complete surprise.”

“Very well, then,” said Pleydell briefly. “That’s a bargain. Tell me exactly how the case stands at present.”

As he complied, Roger felt that he had succeeded in turning what might have proved an awkward situation into a helpful one. Without doubt Pleydell, if handled properly and kept within bounds, could help the investigation to a very considerable extent.

Having given his guest a synopsis of the facts and the hopes entertained, he proceeded to his chief reason for asking Pleydell to lunch. “So you see,” he concluded, “that a good deal depends on these three men whose names are on both the lists. That is, on one of them, because in my private opinion both Newsome and Beverley are quite out of the running. By the way, I suppose you know nearly all of the men on your own list pretty well, don’t you?”

“Most of them, more or less, yes. Well, I understand now what the Chief Inspector wanted that list for, which I must say puzzled me; but it’s a great pity that I wasn’t at Monte Carlo myself at the time of that girl’s death. The fellow may have gone before I got there, you see.”

“It’s possible, of course. But I don’t think it’s very likely. There’s a gap of only five days, you see. Of course he may have got frightened and bolted at once, but we can easily find out who did leave during those five days. Personally, I think he would have stayed.”

Pleydell looked grave. “All this is rather a shock to me, Sheringham. It never occured to me that this brute could be actually one of our own friends.”

“It seems as if he must be. And you must remember that the fellow is quite probably sane enough in all other respects, except for this fatal kink. No doubt Jack the Ripper, whoever he was, was regarded in private life as a model citizen.”

“This is rather horrible,” Pleydell murmured.

“Well, anyhow,” Roger went on briskly, “there are sure to be some people on your list whose careers I shall want to look into, and I think the best way of approaching them will be through you. Can you manage that for me?”

“Certainly, if they’re men I know. I only wish you could give me something more difficult to do. I can tell you, Sheringham, I’m just itching to get my hands on that fellow.”

“Well,” said Roger, disregarding his companion’s hands, “I’d like to make a start with George Dunning. Do you know him?”

“Know George? Oh, yes. But it’s evident that you don’t.”

“Why?”

Pleydell glanced at his watch. “You’ll see. I’ll take you round to his rooms directly we’ve finished lunch on some pretext or other, and leave you there. George will never smell a rat. But I warn you, Sheringham,” he added, with a slight smile, “if you really suspect Dunning you’re making a hopeless mistake. George couldn’t put a kink into his brain if he tried with curling-tongs.”