They Do It With Mirrors (12 page)

“I see. Well, thank you very much, Dr. Maverick.”

As Dr. Maverick went out, Inspector Curry murmured to Lake that psychiatrists gave him a pain in the neck.

“We'll get on to the family now,” he said. “I'll see young Walter Hudd first.”

Walter Hudd's attitude was cautious. He seemed to be studying the police officer with a slightly wary expression. But he was quite cooperative.

There was a good deal of defective wiring in Stonygates—the whole electric system was very old-fashioned. They wouldn't stand for a system like that in the States.

“It was installed, I believe, by the late Mr. Gulbrandsen when electric light was a novelty,” said Inspector Curry with a faint smile.

“I'll say that's so! Sweet old feudal English and never been brought up to date.”

The fuse which controlled most of the lights in the Great Hall had gone, and he had gone out to the fuse box to see about it. In due course he got it repaired and came back.

“How long were you away?”

“Why, that I couldn't say for sure. The fuse box is in an awkward place. I had to get steps and a candle. I was maybe ten minutes—perhaps a quarter of an hour.”

“Did you hear a shot?”

“Why no, I didn't hear anything like that. There are double doors through to the kitchen quarters, and one of them is lined with a kind of felt.”

“I see. And when you came back into the Hall, what did you see?”

“They were all crowded round the door into Mr. Serrocold's study. Mrs. Strete said that Mr. Serrocold had been shot—but actu
ally that wasn't so. Mr. Serrocold was quite all right. The boob had missed him.”

“You recognised the revolver?”

“Sure I recognised it! It was mine.”

“When did you see it last?”

“Two or three days ago.”

“Where did you keep it?”

“In the drawer in my room.”

“Who knew that you kept it there?”

“I wouldn't know who knows what in this house.”

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Hudd?”

“Aw, they're all nuts!”

“When you came into the Hall, was everybody else there?”

“What d'you mean by everybody?”

“The same people who were there when you went to repair the fuse.”

“Gina was there … and the old lady with white hair—and Miss Bellever … I didn't notice particularly—but I should say so.”

“Mr. Gulbrandsen arrived quite unexpectedly the day before yesterday, did he not?”

“I guess so. It wasn't his usual routine, I understand.”

“Did anyone seem upset by his arrival?”

Walter Hudd took a moment or two before he answered, “Why no, I wouldn't say so.”

Once more there was a touch of caution in his manner.

“Have you any idea why he came?”

“Their precious Gulbrandsen Trust I suppose. The whole setup here is crazy.”

“You have these ‘setups' as you call it, in the States.”

“It's one thing to endow a scheme, and another to give it the personal touch as they do here. I had enough of psychiatrists in the army. This place is stiff with them. Teaching young thugs to make raffia baskets and carve pipe racks. Kids' games! It's sissy!”

Inspector Curry did not comment on this criticism. Possibly he agreed with it.

He said, eyeing Walter carefully:

“So you have no idea who could have killed Mr Gulbrandsen?”

“One of the bright boys from the College practising his technique, I'd say.”

“No, Mr. Hudd, that's out. The College, in spite of its carefully produced atmosphere of freedom, is none the less a place of detention and is run on those lines. Nobody can run in and out of it after dark and commit murders.”

“I wouldn't put it past them! Well—if you want to fix it nearer home, I'd say your best bet was Alex Restarick.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He had the opportunity. He drove up through the grounds alone in his car.”

“And why should he kill Christian Gulbrandsen?”

Walter shrugged his shoulders.

“I'm a stranger. I don't know the family setups. Maybe the old boy had heard something about Alex and was going to spill the beans to the Serrocolds.”

“With what result?”

“They might cut off the dough. He can use dough—uses a good deal of it by all accounts.”

“You mean—in theatrical enterprises?”

“That's what he calls it?”

“Do you suggest it was otherwise?”

Again Walter Hudd shrugged his shoulders.

“I wouldn't know,” he said.

1

A
lex Restarick was voluble. He also gestured with his hands.

“I know, I know! I'm the ideal suspect. I drive down here alone and on the way to the house, I get a creative fit. I can't expect you to understand. How should you?”

“I might,” Curry put in drily, but Alex Restarick swept on.

“It's just one of those things! They come upon you there's no knowing when or how. An effect—an idea—and everything else goes to the winds. I'm producing
Limehouse Nights
next month. Suddenly—last night—the setup was wonderful …
the
perfect lighting. Fog—and the headlights cutting through the fog and being thrown back—and reflecting dimly a tall pile of buildings. Everything helped! The shots—the running footsteps—and the chug-chugging of the electric power engine—could have been a launch on the Thames. And I thought—that's it—but what am I going to use to get just these effects?—and—”

Inspector Curry broke in.

“You heard shots? Where?”

“Out of the fog, Inspector.” Alex waved his hands in the air—plump, well-kept hands. “Out of the fog. That was the wonderful part about it.”

“It didn't occur to you that anything was wrong?”

“Wrong? Why should it?”

“Are shots such a usual occurrence?”

“Ah, I knew you wouldn't understand! The shots fitted into the scene I was creating. I
wanted
shots. Danger—opium—crazy business. What did I care what they were really? Backfires from a lorry on the road? A poacher after rabbits?”

“They snare rabbits mostly round here.”

Alex swept on:

“A child letting off fireworks? I didn't even think about them
as
—shots. I was in Limehouse—or rather at the back of the stalls—looking at Limehouse.”

“How many shots?”

“I don't know,” said Alex petulantly. “Two or three. Two close together, I do remember that.”

Inspector Curry nodded.

“And the sound of running footsteps, I think you said? Where were they?”

“They came to me out of the fog. Somewhere near the house.”

Inspector Curry said gently:

“That would suggest that the murderer of Christian Gulbrandsen came from
outside.
”

“Of course. Why not? You don't really suggest, do you, that he came from inside the house?”

Still very gently, Inspector Curry said:

“We have to think of everything.”

“I suppose so,” said Alex Restarick generously. “What a soul-destroying job yours must be, Inspector! The details, the times and places, the pettifogging
pettiness
of it. And in the end—what good is it all? Does it bring the wretched Christian Gulbrandsen back to life?”

“There's quite a satisfaction in getting your man, Mr. Restarick.”

“The Wild Western touch!”

“Did you know Mr. Gulbrandsen well?”

“Not well enough to murder him, Inspector. I had met him, off and on, since I lived here as a boy. He made brief appearances from time to time. One of our captains of industry. The type does not interest me. He has quite a collection, I believe, of Thorwaldsen's statuary—” Alex shuddered. “That speaks for itself, does it not? My God, these rich men!”

Inspector Curry eyed him meditatively. Then he said, “Do you take any interest in poisons, Mr. Restarick?”

“In poisons? My dear man, he was surely not poisoned first and shot afterwards. That would be too madly detective story.”

“He was not poisoned. But you haven't answered my question.”

“Poison has a certain appeal … It has not the crudeness of the revolver bullet or the blunt weapon. I have no special knowledge of the subject, if that is what you mean.”

“Have you ever had arsenic in your possession?”

“In sandwiches—after the show? The idea has its allurements. You don't know Rose Glidon? These actresses who think they have a name! No, I have never thought of arsenic. One extracts it from weed killer or flypapers, I believe.”

“How often are you down here, Mr. Restarick?”

“It varies, Inspector. Sometimes not for several weeks. But I try
to get down for weekends whenever I can. I always regard Stonygates as my true home.”

“Mrs. Serrocold has encouraged you to do so?”

“What I owe Mrs. Serrocold can never be repaid. Sympathy, understanding, affection—”

“And quite a lot of solid cash as well, I believe?”

Alex looked faintly disgusted.

“She treats me as a son, and she has belief in my work.”

“Has she ever spoken to you about her will?”

“Certainly. But may I ask what is the point of all these questions, Inspector? There is nothing wrong with Mrs. Serrocold.”

“There had better not be,” said Inspector Curry grimly.

“Now what can you possibly mean by that?”

“If you don't know, so much the better,” said Inspector Curry. “And if you do—I'm warning you.”

When Alex had gone Sergeant Lake said:

“Pretty bogus, would you say?”

Curry shook his head.

“Difficult to say. He may have genuine creative talent. He may just like living soft and talking big. One doesn't know. Heard running footsteps, did he? I'd be prepared to bet he made that up.”

“For any particular reason?”

“Definitely for a particular reason. We haven't come to it yet, but we will.”

“After all, sir, one of those smart lads may have got out of the College buildings unbeknownst. Probably a few cat burglars amongst them, and if so—”

“That's what we're meant to think. Very convenient. But if that's so, Lake, I'll eat my new soft hat.”

2

“I was at the piano,” said Stephen Restarick. “I'd been strumming softly when the row blew up. Between Lewis and Edgar.”

“What did you think of it?”

“Well—to tell the truth I didn't really take it seriously. The poor beggar has these fits of venom. He's not really loopy, you know. All this nonsense is a kind of blowing off steam. The truth is, we all get under his skin—particularly Gina, of course.”

“Gina? You mean Mrs. Hudd? Why does she get under his skin?”

“Because she's a woman—and a beautiful woman, and because she thinks he's funny! She's half Italian, you know, and the Italians have that unconscious vein of cruelty. They've no compassion for anyone who's old or ugly, or peculiar in any way. They point with their fingers and jeer. That's what Gina did, metaphorically speaking. She'd no use for young Edgar. He was ridiculous, pompous, and, at bottom, fundamentally unsure of himself. He wanted to impress, and he only succeeded in looking silly. It wouldn't mean anything to her that the poor fellow suffered a lot.”

“Are you suggesting that Edgar Lawson is in love with Mrs. Hudd?” asked Inspector Curry.

Stephen replied cheerfully:

“Oh yes. As a matter of fact we all are, more or less! She likes us that way.”

“Does her husband like it?”

“He takes a dim view. He suffers, too, poor fellow. The thing can't last, you know. Their marriage, I mean. It will break up before long. It was just one of these war affairs.”

“This is all very interesting,” said the Inspector. “But we're
getting away from our subject, which is the murder of Christian Gulbrandsen.”

“Quite,” said Stephen. “But I can't tell you anything about it. I sat at the piano, and I didn't leave the piano until dear Jolly came in with some rusty old keys and tried to fit one to the lock of the study door.”

“You stayed at the piano. Did you continue to play the piano?”

“A gentle obbligato to the life and death struggle in Lewis' study? No, I stopped playing when the tempo rose. Not that I had any doubts as to the outcome. Lewis has what I can only describe as a dynamic eye. He could easily break up Edgar just by looking at him.”

“Yet Edgar Lawson fired two shots at him.”

Stephen shook his head gently.

“Just putting on an act, that was. Enjoying himself. My dear mother used to do it. She died or ran away with someone when I was four, but I remember her blazing off with a pistol if anything upset her. She did it at a nightclub once. Made a pattern on the wall. She was an excellent shot. Quite a bit of trouble she caused. She was a Russian dancer, you know.”

“Indeed. Can you tell me, Mr. Restarick, who left the Hall yesterday evening whilst you were there—during the relevant time?”

“Wally—to fix the lights. Juliet Bellever to find a key to fit the study door. Nobody else, as far as I know.”

“Would you have noticed if somebody did?”

Stephen considered.

“Probably not. That is, if they just tiptoed out and back again. It was so dark in the Hall—and there was the fight to which we were all listening avidly.”

“Is there anyone you are sure
was
there the whole time?”

“Mrs. Serrocold—yes, and Gina. I'd swear to them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Restarick.”

Stephen went towards the door. Then he hesitated and came back.

“What's all this,” he said, “about arsenic?”

“Who mentioned arsenic to you?”

“My brother.”

“Ah—yes.”

Stephen said:

“Has somebody been giving Mrs. Serrocold arsenic?”

“Why should you mention Mrs. Serrocold?”

“I've read of the symptoms of arsenic poisoning. Peripheral neuritis, isn't it? It would square more or less with what she's been suffering from lately. And then Lewis snatching away her tonic last night. Is
that
what's been going on here?”

“The matter is under investigation,” said Inspector Curry in his most official manner.

“Does she know about it herself?”

“Mr. Serrocold was particularly anxious that she should not be—alarmed.”

“Alarmed isn't the right word, Inspector. Mrs. Serrocold is never alarmed … Is that what lies behind Christian Gulbrandsen's death? Did he find out she was being poisoned—but how could he find out? Anyway, the whole thing seems most improbable. It doesn't make sense.”

“It surprises you very much, does it, Mr. Restarick?”

“Yes, indeed. When Alex spoke to me, I could hardly believe it.”

“Who, in your opinion, would be likely to administer arsenic to Mrs. Serrocold?”

For a moment, a grin appeared upon Stephen Restarick's handsome face.

“Not the usual person. You can wash out the husband. Lewis Serrocold's got nothing to gain. And also he worships that woman. He can't bear her to have an ache in her little finger.”

“Who then? Have you any idea?”

“Oh yes. I'd say it was a certainty.”

“Explain please.”

Stephen shook his head.

“It's a certainty psychologically speaking. Not in any other way. No evidence of any kind. And you probably wouldn't agree.”

Stephen Restarick went out nonchalantly, and Inspector Curry drew cats on the sheet of paper in front of him.

He was thinking three things. A, that Stephen Restarick thought a good deal of himself, B, that Stephen Restarick and his brother presented a united front; and C, that Stephen Restarick was a handsome man where Walter Hudd was a plain one.

He wondered about two other things—what Stephen meant by “psychologically speaking” and whether Stephen could possibly have seen Gina from his seat at the piano. He rather thought not.

3

Into the Gothic gloom of the library, Gina brought an exotic glow. Even Inspector Curry blinked a little at the radiant young woman who sat down, leaned forward over the table and said expectantly, “Well?”

Inspector Curry, observing her scarlet shirt and dark green slacks said drily:

“I see you're not wearing mourning, Mrs. Hudd?”

“I haven't got any,” said Gina. “I know everyone is supposed to have a little black number and wear it with pearls. But I don't. I hate black. I think it's hideous, and only receptionists and housekeepers and people like that ought to wear it. Anyway Christian Gulbrandsen wasn't really a relation. He's my grandmother's stepson.”

“And I suppose you didn't know him very well?”

Gina shook her head.

“He came here three or four times when I was a child, but then in the war I went to America, and I only came back here to live about six months ago.”

“You have definitely come back here to live? You're not just on a visit?”

“I haven't really thought,” said Gina.

“You were in the Great Hall last night, when Mr. Gulbrandsen went to his room?”

“Yes. He said good night and went away. Grandam asked if he had everything he wanted and he said yes—that Jolly had fixed him up fine. Not those words, but that kind of thing. He said he had letters to write.”

“And then?”

Gina described the scene between Lewis and Edgar Lawson. It was the same story as Inspector Curry had by now heard many times, but it took an added colour, a new gusto, under Gina's handling. It became drama.

“It was Wally's revolver,” she said. “Fancy Edgar's having the
guts to go and pinch it out of his room. I'd never have believed he'd have the guts.”

“Were you alarmed when they went into the study and Edgar Lawson locked the door?”

“Oh no,” said Gina, opening her enormous brown eyes very wide. “I loved it. It was so ham, you know, and so madly theatrical. Everything Edgar does is always ridiculous. One can't take him seriously for a moment.”

“He did fire the revolver, though?”

“Yes. We all thought then that he'd shot Lewis after all.”

“And did you enjoy that?” Inspector Curry could not refrain from asking.

“Oh no, I was terrified, then. Everyone was, except Grandam. She never turned a hair.”