The Silk Stocking Murders (28 page)

He had only just completed these arrangements when the front-door bell rang, and he excused himself.

George Dunning was the first arrival, puzzled but good-humoured as ever, and Roger took him at once into the study, where Newsome had now materialised, from his lurking place in Roger’s bedroom. In the spare bedroom Anne was completing her document, a little frightened now, but determined not to show it, and watched over anxiously by a far more frightened Moira, who was under orders to stand by to render such first-aid as might prove necessary, but otherwise to put in no public appearance.

In the study Roger, Newsome and George Dunning were exchanging stilted conversation, the last far too well-mannered to ask what on earth the strangely urgent invitation he had found waiting for him when he got home on the previous evening, might portend.

The next arrival, however. Sir James Bannister, was less diffident.

“Mr. Sheringham?” he asked, as Roger opened the door to him (his man had been sent out for the morning).

“That’s right,” Roger agreed cheerfully, allowing him to enter.

“I received a message from you asking me to call here this morning on a matter affecting not only my personal honour and reputation, but my actual physical safety, Mr. Sheringham,” said Sir James weightily. “These are serious matters, sir. May I ask you to explain yourself?”

“Certainly, Sir James. Take off your hat and coat and come inside. I shall explain things to you in a few minutes.”

Sir James raised his heavy black eyebrows, but consented to do as he was requested. Roger took him at once into the sitting-room and sat him down on one of a semi-circular row of chairs which had been set out across the end of the room facing the door. Newsome, as had been previously arranged, brought Dunning in at the same time and the two of them took other chairs.

It was now a minute or two past twelve o’clock, and the rest of the audience arrived almost together, the first, a stranger to Roger, in a beautifully cut blue overcoat, the effect of which was marred only by a too bright tie and a pair of patent-leather boots with cloth uppers, proving to be the great Billy Burton himself, most popular of whimsical stage humorists, whose yearly earnings amounted to just about five times as much as the Prime Minister of his country. Almost on his heels came Arnold Beverley, and with him Pleydell.

The last Roger detained for a moment in the hall. “Haven’t got time to go into it with you, Pleydell, but I want you to back me up. I couldn’t get hold of you last night, but I think I’m on the verge of great things.

All I want you to do is to sit tight (you’ll see my idea in a minute) and remember that all the responsibility is mine. Come along, and I’ll show you where to sit.”

Pleydell looked surprised, but there was no time to explain anything further, and Roger hurried him into the vacant chair at the end of the arc, just in front of the corner where Sir Paul was sitting. “Be ready to back me up if I want you,” he whispered, a little anxiously. Stepping past him, he dropped a note unostentatiously in Sir Paul’s lap before making his way to the middle of the room.

Roger drew a quick little breath as he glanced at his audience. Among those seven men facing him was, he felt utterly convinced, the callous but unbalanced brain that was responsible for the deaths of at least four girls and was probably planning already the murder of others. And now the crucial moment had arrived, by which he was to stand or fall. Roger was not often nervous, but his heart beat a little irregularly as he thought of the tremendous responsibility which the next few minutes must bear.

“Gentlemen,” he said, in an ordinary, conversational voice, “most of you know why I have called you together this morning so urgently. Let me explain. You may have seen in the newspapers recently the reports, from time to time, of a novel form of suicide in which the victim, always a girl, hangs herself with one of her own stockings. Quite unofficially I have been looking into these cases, in an amateurish way, and the conviction has been forced upon me that they are not cases of suicide at all, but of murder.

“If this is the case, gentlemen, a very serious state of affairs has arisen. In the middle of our community there is a man at liberty with a brain so unbalanced that his supreme joy in life is the killing of defenceless girls. He is worse than a homicidal maniac, for in all other respects he may be quite sane. I will not trouble you now with the way in which this conclusion has forced itself upon me, though I shall be ready to give anybody any information on this point later; but the important thing is that there is not a jot of evidence, in the legal sense, to support it. Not one jot! I am, therefore, as you will see, in a very difficult position. I
know
that these deaths are not suicides, but murders; but if I went to Scotland Yard and told them so they would, on the only kind of evidence I could produce, simply laugh at me.

“It has therefore occurred to me to form a committee of respectable citizens drawn from representative lines of our national life, to relieve me of the responsibility of my knowledge and consult as to what should be done. You, gentlemen, are the committee I have, quite gratuitously, selected. It is up to anyone to refuse to have anything to do with it, as I need not say; but first, I ask you to hear me a little further.” Roger paused and moistened his lips. The audience were quite still, and their intense interest was evident.

“To discover the means by which these unfortunate girls met their deaths has necessitated a long and arduous inquiry,” he resumed, encouraged. “The many details had to be worked out or deduced each by itself, much had to be imagined, much was only brought to light after weeks of work. To explain all these steps and enumerate the various points in detail would take far too long. I therefore propose to give you here and now a representation of how this man goes about his work.

“I warn you, the thing will not be easy to watch. It is my intention to bring home to you the gravity of the state of affairs by showing you exactly how these girls have died. There will be no faking or rigging. A lady has kindly placed herself at my disposal, and I am going to bring her within an inch of death before your very eyes; and I should tell you that, so strongly does she feel on the subject, that she has told me that if the experiment results in her actual death (as I am bound to confess that it may) she will consider the sacrifice worth while if only public opinion can be stirred up to hunt this brute down. That is all I have to say, except to ask you to sit absolutely still and silent while the representation is being performed, and to remember that any well meant attempt at interference when matters have reached a critical stage will almost certainly have the opposite effect and result in causing the lady’s death. Please use every ounce of self-restraint you possess!”

As Roger had anticipated murmurs of protest rose the moment he had finished speaking, but disregarding them he went to the door and threw it open. At once Anne walked in, pale but perfectly collected. Roger had coached her well in the time at his disposal, and she began to speak at once.

“I want to add to what Mr. Sheringham has said,” she said, in her rather precise tones, “that the responsibility for what is going to happen is entirely mine. I want nobody to interfere or do anything at all except sit quite still, even if I scream for help or seem to be quite at my last gasp. If you do, you will spoil everything. Thank you. I’m quite ready, Mr. Sheringham.”

Roger turned to the audience. “What you are now going to see,” he said, “is an exact replica of what must have happened each time one of those girls died. You must imagine that you are in the room of a flat belonging to one of the girls.” He hurried out of the room.

Anne picked up a book and, seating herself in a chair, began to turn the pages. In a moment Roger entered the room again, and she jumped up.

“Why, hullo, Mr. Sheringham!” she said, in a pleased voice. “You’re quite a stranger.” They shook hands.

“I was passing,” said Roger, “and thought I’d like to look in and see you. Where’s Phyllis?”

“She’s gone out to do some shopping, and then she’s going on to lunch with a friend.”

“I see. You’re all alone, then?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Good. I was wondering if you’d come out and have some lunch with me, perhaps. You haven’t any engagements, or anyone coming round to see you?”

“No, nobody. I’m quite free till the theatre this evening.”

“Excellent. Well, what about getting your hat on and coming out?”

“Yes, I’d love to. Will you wait here?” She turned towards the door, and Roger drew a black object from his pocket shaped not unlike a small pestle, and concealed it behind his back. “I’ll open the door for you,” he said, following Anne.

“Thank you.” She stood aside while he opened the door. “I won’t be a minute,” she said, and began to walk out. Immediately her back was turned, Roger made believe to strike her on the back of the head. Without a sound she sank back, and he caught her in his arms, lifted her off her feet, and laying her on a settee near by, tiptoed to the door.

A little gasp had sounded from the audience as Anne collapsed, but a tense silence now prevailed.

With infinite caution Roger stole just outside the room and stood for a moment listening. Then, drawing a small hook from his pocket, he screwed it quickly into the top of the further side of the door, opening the latter wide so that the audience could see exactly what he was doing. Closing it again, he walked over to the settee and, slipping off her shoe, began to unfasten one of her stockings, which were of pale-coloured silk. Stripping it from her leg, he proceeded to tie the two extreme ends tightly together, testing the strength of the knot with his knee. He placed the loop over her head so that it was lying loosely round her neck, and put the shoe back on her foot.

Somebody in the audience pushed a chair back sharply, but otherwise there was no sound.

Taking no notice of them, without even a glance in their direction, Roger picked up a chair and placed it squarely in front of the half-open door, its back towards the door, shifting its position as if at some pains to get it exactly right. Satisfied at last, he strolled back to the settee, his hands in his pockets, and again stood looking down at its occupant.

Anne began to show signs of returning to consciousness. She moved her head more freely, and made little fluttering motions with her hands. Immediately Roger picked her up and carried her over to the door.

There, amid a tense silence, he propped her in such a position that she was half-sitting on the chair-back, her feet on its seat, and holding her there he gave the loop round her neck three or four twists, passed it over the top of the door and slipped the other loop so formed over the hook. Then he lifted her up in both arms, pushed the door shut and, dragging the chair up to it with his feet, replaced her in the same position as before; but now that the door behind her was firm she could be so balanced as to remain there without being held. He stepped away from her.

Slowly Anne’s eyes opened and she gazed round the room as if dazed, her hands gripped the chair-back under her, her lips fluttered, she seemed to be trying to speak.

Roger waited till it was clear that she had practically recovered all her faculties, then darted forward and, lifting her up, kicked away the chair. “Darling Anne!” he whispered, his face as white as hers. “Be brave, my dear!” And lowering her with slow deliberation, he stood back. Her head well above the top of the door, her feet at least eighteen inches above the floor, Anne hung by her neck. A little choking cry had broken from her as Roger lowered her, but now she was plainly incapable of uttering a sound.

There were stifled noises from the audience. Some were leaning forward in horror, others had half risen. A voice, low but authoritative, said: “Keep still, everyone, please.” It was Newsome; who had risen from his chair at the other end of the arc from Pleydell and was standing with his back to the screen, his face deadly pale, but gallantly doing what he had been told.

All eyes were fixed upon Anne in horrified fascination. She had been hanging there only a few seconds, but already her face was crimson and contorted; the veins were swelling rapidly as if they were going to burst through the skin, her lips were drawn back in a hideous grin; her feet scrabbled on the door as if trying desperately to find some lodging-place, one hand was tearing at the stocking round her neck, the other clutching at the air in front of her.

It was a horrible spectacle, and normal flesh and blood could hardly bear it. Everywhere there was the sound of chairs falling as their occupiers pushed them back in rising. Cries of protest began to fill the room. Though he was trembling himself in every limb, Newsome had to restrain Sir James Bannister by sheer force from rushing forward.

Disregarding entirely the din, Roger strolled forward nonchalantly, his hands in his pockets, towards the corner occupied by Sir Paul. In front of the latter still sat Pleydell, the only one still remaining in his chair.

“That’s how you do it, Pleydell, isn’t it?” Roger asked easily.

Pleydell looked up at him with bright, mad eyes. “No,” he said in a thick voice. “I hold them up every now and then, to stop them——” He broke off abruptly.

“Hold him, Graham!” shouted Roger, and hurled himself towards Anne.

Just as he reached her, the convulsively struggling body went suddenly limp.

R
OGER
leaned back in his chair and drew in two or three satisfying lungfuls of smoke. “So the good old French method, of reconstructing the crime in the presence of the suspected person, can claim one more triumph,” he said.

“It’s a pity Scotland Yard is so conservative, isn’t it?”

“For all that, Mr. Sheringham,” observed Superintendent Green, “conservative methods pay all right, in most cases.”

“But they never would have in this,” Roger retorted, “and so I’ve said from the very beginning. Haven’t I, Moresby?”

“You have, Mr. Sheringham,’’ Moresby agreed. He could not help himself; Roger certainly had said that. More than once.