The Silk Stocking Murders (17 page)

“Really?” said Pleydell, much interested. “I had no idea the records were as thorough as that.”

“Yes,” said Roger, “but when the police have to deal with the other sort of murderer, the man about whom they know nothing in advance, you’ll find that, unless he’s left some very definite clue or there crops up some quite direct evidence, he simply isn’t caught. That he nearly always is caught, by the way, simply means that he nearly always does leave such a clue or such evidence.”

“I suppose the average murderer is a bit of a fool,” nodded Pleydell. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be a murderer at all.”

“Quite so. In a word, if you examine the unsolved murder mysteries of the last fifty years, you’ll find they are all in this last category; there was no direct evidence and no clue, or the one clue on which the police seized didn’t lead to anything. Well, I ask you—if that notepaper clue doesn’t turn up trumps, doesn’t this case fall quite definitely into this category?”

“I should say so, decidedly.”

“Exactly. And the police are going to fall to the ground over it. In a word, if we want this man caught we’ve got to catch him ourselves.” Having, reached his climax Roger relighted his pipe, which had gone out during this harangue, and proceeded to smoke in impressive silence.

They sat looking into the fire for a few minutes.

“I’m glad you’ve invited my co-operation, Sheringham,” Pleydell observed at last, “because I’ve got an idea which I think is really worth considering. I wouldn’t have bothered you with it otherwise; I should probably have followed it up myself. But now I’d like to hear what you think about it, though most probably there’s nothing in it at all.”

“I’d very much like to hear it,” said Roger, with truth; any idea of Pleydell’s was bound to be worth consideration.

“Well,” Pleydell said slowly, “has it ever occurred to you that we might get at this man through his profession? If we could narrow him down to a doctor, for instance, and then look up the visitors’ lists to the Riviera last February and pick out the doctors, we should have gone a very long way towards identifying our man.”

“We certainly should,” Roger agreed warmly. “Why, do you mean that you know what he is?”

“Oh, no; nothing as definite as that. It has only suggested itself to me that he might possibly belong to a certain profession. I wonder if you’ll see it if I put the facts to you in this way. Leaving the woman at Monte Carlo out of it, Unity Ransome was an actress, Dorothy Fielder was an actress, the night-club woman had been on the stage, I gathered; at any rate, she probably mixed with the shadier elements of the profession. Add to this that it seems most likely that the murderer was personally known to his victims—and doesn’t it occur to you what he might have been?”

“An actor!” Roger cried promptly.

“Precisely.”

They smoked again in silence for a minute or two.

“This,” said Roger, “is interesting.”

“So I thought,” Pleydell agreed modestly.

“We must follow this up.”

“I’m glad you say so. I was going to myself in any case. And as it happens, I’m in rather a good position to do so.”

“That’s more than I am,” said Roger, thinking of Miss Carruthers, one of his few links with the theatrical world.

“Yes,” Pleydell explained, “I’m financially interested in one or two productions, and so is my father. I could certainly get any introductions we might want, and possibly some useful inside information as well.”

“That’s excellent. Well, the first thing to do is to get hold of the list of English visitors on the Riviera. I can get a copy of that from Moresby; but till it comes I don’t see what we can do on these lines.”

“No, I’m afraid nothing, except perhaps make a few inquiries about the actor friends of these girls.”

“I’ll mention that to Moresby. The police can do that sort of thing far better than we ever could. Their inquiries cover all the possible ground, you know, and without missing a single person who might have information to give. They’ll begin that in earnest now, I expect. Every single intimate friend of the murdered girls will be examined, and every single person as well whom they happen to mention, and then everyone whom
they
mention, and so on and so on till something does turn up. The patience of the police is amazing. Moresby tells me that sometimes they examine dozens of people, in a big and particularly difficult case, perhaps even a hundred, before any vital information is elicited; but when they do get hold of a bit they’re on to it like bulldogs.”

“You make it unpleasantly graphic,” Pleydell said, with a little smile. “I hope I never murder anyone and have the pack of bulldogs on to me.”

“I’ve often thought that,” Roger concurred. “It must be most disturbing to one’s night’s rest. The description of that man whom the porter saw, by the way, will be in the hands of every station in London and the country by now, I expect, sent out over the telephones, as soon as the Superintendent got back to Scotland Yard. The London railway termini are being watched for him; at every port they’re on the
qui vive
for him, every policeman on every beat is keeping a sharp look-out for yellow wash-leather gloves and the rest the hue and cry is in full throat. By Jove, I wouldn’t like to be in that man’s wash-leather gloves.”

“And you think he’ll be caught?”

“That’s different. I’m not at all sure about that. If he’s got any sense at all, he won’t be. The description’s too vague; it applies to too many people. Alter one or two details, and you’ve got an entirely different man. No,” said Roger weightily, “I do
not
think he’ll be caught, on that description. But I wouldn’t like to be in his gloves for all that!”

“And we’ve got his finger-prints,” Pleydell pointed out, with grim satisfaction, “thanks to you.”

“That,” Roger agreed, “is perfectly true.”

They sat on talking into the small hours, but the case remained unadvanced.

I
NDEED
, so far as Roger was concerned, the case remained unadvanced for some days. In response to questions about his researches, Moresby became more and more reticent. From being amused Roger became hurt, from being hurt, angry, and from being angry, resigned, but in none of these states of mind could he induce Moresby to discuss the affair frankly with him as in the early stages. Roger thought he knew the reason, and blamed Superintendent Green with a good deal of bitterness. The divergence he had anticipated became a fact.

He was allowed to take a copy of the list of English visitors staying on the Riviera at the crucial date, however, when in due course this arrived, and he handed it over to Pleydell, who undertook to have the actors on it picked out by a competent authority. The latter, informed him moreover, that no friends of Lady Ursula seemed to figure in it who were not already on his own lists. Roger was also allowed to see the report from the French police on the Monte Carlo death, though he was subtly given to understand that this was no longer a right so much as a favour. In any case it did not help him in the least. The French police had had no doubt at the time of its being suicide, and apparently they thought so still; all the facts pointed to suicide, and they could see no cause to suspect anything else.

Certainly, if the case was to be considered as an isolated one, the French police had reason; as usual there were no signs of a struggle, no bruises either on the body or the wrists, and the farewell letter had been a good deal more explicit than the English ones, signed and, it seemed, perfectly convincing. A copy of it was attached, and Roger had to admit that, though a little vague, it might quite well have been genuine. In short, the French police not only still thought their own case one of suicide, but hinted with considerable delicacy that the English ones too might quite possibly (they were tactful enough not actually to write “probably”) turn out to be the same, and they added a few helpful remarks about neurotic women and suggestion.

“Which I did much better in my own article,” commented Roger disgustedly. “Well, there certainly doesn’t seem to be much help there.”

On the principle of returning good for evil, Roger mentioned to Moresby the theory that the wanted man might be an actor. Moresby received the suggestion with gratitude, but spoilt the effect by adding that such an idea had already occurred to Superintendent Green and himself.

“Then I suppose you’re making your inquiries on those lines?” asked Roger.

“We’re making inquiries on
all
lines, Mr. Sheringham,” said the Chief Inspector politely, and went on to talk about the weather.

“Damn the weather,” said Roger, not at all politely, “and you too, Moresby.”

On another occasion Roger tried to find out how the clue of the notepaper was progressing.

Moresby was as evasive as ever. “We haven’t got all the reports in yet, Mr. Sheringham,” he said,

“Well, can I see the ones that are in?”

“Better wait till they’re all in; then you can look at them all together, can’t you?”

“Well, hang it, tell me if you’ve found out
anything
from it.”

“I’ve always said we should get results from that notepaper in the end, Mr. Sheringham,” beamed Chief Inspector Moresby.

Roger went away in a naughty temper.

But his temper did not remove his powers of thought. Moresby
had
found out something, and something rather important too. And he very much did not want to share his information. Why not? There must be something more in all this than the whims and preferences of Superintendent Green.

He sought out Sir Paul and demanded to know why he was being shouldered out of the inquiry. Had Scotland Yard held out the sop of official recognition to him merely in order to pick his brains and, having discovered from him all they could, thrown him aside like a sucked orange? demanded Roger, not without warmth.

“Nothing of the kind,” replied Sir Paul, with manifest uneasiness. Oh, no; oh, dear, no: he mustn’t think anything like that.

“Well, what am I to think, then?” Roger wanted to know.

Sir Paul hedged. The investigations were just reaching a very delicate stage; the official detectives had thought it best to keep things in their own hands just at present; the Home Office had enjoined particular secrecy for the moment; if Sheringham wouldn’t mind keeping in the background for just a very few days…

Sheringham did mind, very much; but there was clearly nothing else for it. In the background, then, a distinctly fuming but undeniably helpless figure Sheringham remained.

One morning, three days after his conversation to be precise, the telephone bell in the background rang. Answering it, Roger heard a feminine voice and groaned, for feminine voices on his telephone almost invariably meant invitations to dinners, dances or some other form of social torture, which Roger would give large sums of money to avoid; and that meant the manufacture on the instant of a credible excuse.

“Hullo!” said the feminine voice. “Is that Mr. Sheringham?”

“Yes,” groaned Roger.

“This is Anne Manners speaking,” said the voice.

Roger stopped groaning. “Miss Manners? Good gracious, are you speaking from Dorsetshire?”

“No, from London; about half a mile away from you. Mr. Sheringham, are you busy this morning?”

“Not in the least,” Roger replied promptly, and with perfect truth.

“Well, I’m very sorry to bother you, but I want to see you. In fact, I’ve come up to London especially to do so. Could you meet me somewhere, where we could have a cup of coffee perhaps, and talk?”

“I should be delighted,” said Roger. “Where do you fancy?”

They arranged a place, in the restaurant of a big stores near Piccadilly Circus (the choice was Anne’s), and agreed to meet there in a quarter of an hour.

Roger was a firm bachelor. He knew very little about women in general, and cared less; his heroines were the weakest part of his books; the idea of meeting a girl in the restaurant of a big stores held not a single thrill for him.

But even Roger, when brought face to face with her fifteen minutes later, had to admit that Anne Manners was a pleasant person to meet, even in the restaurant of a stores catering entirely for women. She was wearing a dark-grey tailored coat and skirt, and a close-fitting little grey felt hat without any ornamentation; in the enormous restaurant she looked smaller than ever. Roger discovered that he rather liked small women. They gave him a pleasing feeling of male superiority and capabilities of protection.

Not that Anne Manners appeared to need any protection at all. If anything, it was Roger who needed the protection; for, as soon as the waitress had brought them their coffee and biscuits, Anne proceeded to attack her companion with calm vigour.

“Why haven’t you written to me about Janet, Mr. Sheringham?” she demanded. “You promised.”

Roger met the attack bravely. “I know. I ought to have done.”

“You certainly ought,” Anne agreed with severity.

“But I was waiting till a few more details were cleared up,” Roger continued, a little lamely.

Anne pounced on this. “Oh! So you have found out something, then?”

“A—a certain amount, yes,” Roger almost stammered. Really, this was going to be very difficult. What was he going to tell the poor child? Hardly the truth. At any rate, not yet.

“What?” fired Anne, point-blank.

“Oh, well, not very much, you know. Nothing quite definite. We haven’t—I mean, I haven’t been able to identify the man at the back of it yet.”

“There was a man at the back of it, then?”

“Oh, I think so. At least, it seems probable, doesn’t it? That is to say— well, I always thought that the most likely explanation.” It was not often that Roger found himself ill at ease, and to some persons (one Alexander Grierson, for instance) the sight would have been an enjoyable one. If he had been present in the restaurant department of those stores at this particular moment, Alec might have considered many old scores wiped out.

Anne looked her blethering
vis-a-vis
in the eyes. “I’m not a child, Mr. Sheringham,” she said, the knuckles of her small gloved hand beating an impatient tattoo on the table. “Please don’t play with me in this silly way. I want you to tell me straight out—was my sister murdered?”