Death of a Beauty Queen (12 page)

‘You know what has happened?' Mitchell asked.

‘Carrie's been murdered,' Leslie said, staring at him. ‘Murdered,' he repeated, as if trying to understand the significance of the word. More collectedly, and even with a certain dignity, he added: ‘I loved her, and some day we were going to marry.' Then, in the same jerky manner, he turned to his father. ‘Well, now then, it won't happen now,' he said very bitterly. ‘So that's all right, isn't it?'

But not so much as the quivering of an eyelash showed that Paul Irwin had heard. Mitchell asked:

‘I believe you left the cinema before the discovery was made. Do you mind explaining how and when you heard.”

‘Good Lord,' retorted Leslie impatiently, ‘all Brush Hill heard within two minutes. I heard some people going by outside here talking about it. Then my father came in and told me.'

Almost simultaneously Paul said:

‘I was walking home. Someone passing called out to me – it was someone who knew me; more people know me in Brush Hill than I know. He called out that a girl at the Central Cinema had been killed. I went back. There was a crowd outside, talking about it. I came back here and told Leslie.'

When they had spoken, father and son exchanged strange glances; both Mitchell and Bobby saw, and wondered what might be their meaning. Leslie noticed how they were looking at him, and looked back angrily:

‘Well, now then, if you want to run me in, why don't you?' he demanded.

‘We are only making preliminary inquiries,' Mitchell answered. ‘There is not sufficient evidence as yet to justify action. But I am bound to say that refusal to answer questions, refusal to help–'

‘Who is refusing to help you?' Leslie interrupted angrily.

‘I'll help you all I can. I'm perfectly ready to tell you everything. You can believe it or not, just as you like. I don't care. Everyone knows I wanted to marry Carrie. I called for her to-night in a taxi. I took her to the cinema. Heaps of people saw me. I hadn't told father. He thought I was going to a lecture at the Birkbeck. Well, I didn't. That s all. I went to the Central instead. Then I saw dad there. So I thought I had better clear out. I didn't want another row just then, and I rather hoped he hadn't noticed me. I told Carrie, earlier on, I should have to get away quick so as to turn up at home as if I had come straight from the Birkbeck, so I knew she wouldn't be surprised if I didn't stop.'

Do you mind telling me where you were, and what you were doing, when Mr Paul Irwin saw you?' Mitchell asked.

‘I was just opening the door of Carrie's room. I wanted to see her. Some of them were saying things about her.'

‘What sort of things?'

‘They were all jealous of her; it was all a lot of lies just because of that. But I wanted to ask her about it. They said she had let one of the other girls down somehow. I went back to her room to ask her.'

‘You knew which was her room, then?'

Of course I did. I couldn't have gone there if I hadn't. It was Sargent's own private office. They had managed to forget her somehow when they were assigning accommodation to the competitors, and they had to ask her to make shift with Sargent's office because there was no room anywhere else. The whole thing was a muddle. Sargent couldn't run an afternoon-tea-party without messing it up. I was just going in to speak to her when I saw dad, with Mr Sargent, at the other end of the passage. It was a bit of a startler, because dad never went near places like that, and he and Sargent had been going for each other over the Sunday-opening question. Well, I didn't want a row there, with Carrie and everyone listening, so I cleared out home – that's all. Then dad came, and told me...'

He paused, nearly breaking down. Mitchell waited till the boy had gained his self-control once more, and then asked: I understand that was the first you had heard of what had happened?'

‘Yes, it was. Except that I heard some people talking outside here, but I didn't know what they meant. Of course, if I had done it I should have known all about it, shouldn't I? Only I didn't.'

Mitchell took no notice of this outburst, but continued: ‘You tell me you hoped Miss Mears would consent to marry you. Does that mean there was an understanding between you, but no formal engagement?'

‘Yes. We were waiting. She said we must wait till I was more settled, and she was, too. She wanted to get a start on the films, and, then, I don't get my money till I'm twenty-five. If she had once got a start she would have made a big hit – couldn't help it, not with her looks. Our idea was I would be her manager, and write things for her and produce them.' He was looking at his father as he said this, angrily and defiantly. Evidently it was the first time he had ventured to tell of such hopes and ambitions for the future, only now that they could no longer be realized. He added: ‘I had to wait till I was twenty-five before I got my money, and, besides, she said I must pass my final, too. She thought it would be such a help, when I was manager for her, if I had been admitted a solicitor.'

‘No doubt,' agreed Mitchell. ‘This money you speak of... is that a legacy?'

‘Yes – two thousand; an uncle left it me – mother's brother. I get it when I'm twenty-five. I haven't a farthing of my own till then. I ought to have had it when I came of age, of course,' he added, still staring defiantly at his father, who neither confirmed nor denied, but remained as before, impassive, unmoved, and attentive.

‘There had been some sort of discussion about this legacy?' Mitchell suggested.

‘Dad wouldn't let me have it, if that's what you mean, Leslie answered sullenly, and again his father neither confirmed nor denied. Leslie continued: ‘Dad's Trustee. There's a clause about my having it “for good and substantial cause, at the trustee's discretion,” any time after I came of age. Dad said there was no “good and substantial cause.” When I'm twenty-five, I get it all right – only, he can still hold it back for the same “good and substantial cause.” Of course, that's all right; no one could call it a good and substantial cause for keeping me out of my money that I want to get married. But it was enough to prevent my getting any advance on it from the bank or anyone. And Carrie said we must just wait, and it wouldn't be fair to either of us to be formally engaged. But we were going to be – she promised that – if she won the competition and was able to go to Hollywood.'

‘Was that part of the prize?' Mitchell asked. ‘A trip to Hollywood?'

‘No,' answered Leslie, hesitating, and uncomfortable in a way Mitchell noticed but did not understand. ‘No. But that was the idea. If she went there as the Brush Hill Beauty Queen, she would have been sure of a trial, anyhow – and that was all she wanted. She would have managed it somehow – getting there, I mean.'

Mitchell was beginning to look worried again, and his fingers started once more their drumming, this time upon the arm of his chair. He said:

‘Do you know a Mr Claude Maddox?'

‘Claude Maddox? Yes, of course – everyone does, the way he splashes his money about. We were at the grammar-school together, and then he went out to Brazil or somewhere. He s got a good job, and he had his money given him all right the very day he came of age.'

‘Liberal, extravagant young gentleman?' Mitchell asked.

‘1 suppose he can afford – all the girls fall for him – the way he stands treat. Carrie didn't, though.'

No? He wasn't at the cinema to-night, was he?'

“ No. Carrie had just turned him down, so I expect he felt a bit sick and kept away. Treated some other girl to a supper at the Savoy, most likely.'

‘Is it likely he and Miss Mears were engaged?'

Good Lord, no! Didn't I tell you she had just turned him down? Of course, he tried to cut everyone else out with her, but it didn't work that time. His office was near where she worked, and he used to see her sometimes in Town. That's all.'

Miss Mears was a young lady with many admirers?'

‘Of course – everyone almost; quite middle-aged, old chaps sometimes. She used to tell me about them. But Maddox was only one of the crowd.'

‘Do you mind telling me what makes you say Miss Mears had just turned him down?'

‘Well, she had, that's all. She told me so herself. To-day. She met him in the dinner-hour in Town, and she told him right out she didn't want anything more to do with him.'

‘Was Mr Sargent one of her admirers?'

‘I dare say. I don't know. Everybody was.'

‘Do you know if he had promised to help her get a start acting for the films? Or if they ever had dinner together in Town?'

‘No, I'm sure they hadn't. Of course not, Carrie wouldn't – not Sargent. Besides, he's married already. Got kids, too. Someone been telling you that? Well, you can take it from me it's a lie.'

‘You and Mr Maddox were at school together,' Mitchell went on, ignoring this. ‘Did you keep friendly afterwards?'

‘Yes, we were pals all the time till he went abroad for his firm. He used to come here a lot, and do carpentry and so on in the attic. He had no place at home, and I had a workshop upstairs. He used it like his own.'

‘I was glad to see the two of them keeping out of mischief,' Paul Irwin interposed now. ‘Young Maddox had a key of his own, and used to let himself in and out as he liked. Both of them learnt how to use tools. They did some good work up there – quite first class.'

Mitchell turned to him.

‘Mr Irwin,' he said, ‘your son has been frank and open with us. Don't you think it would be wise if you were to reconsider your own attitude? If you continue to refuse to answer questions, you must not be surprised if we put our own interpretation on your silence?'

‘I have nothing to say,” answered Mr Irwin once again, and then there came, suddenly and rather startlingly, a knock at the door; so absorbed had they been in question and answer, that quiet knock made them all start.

‘It'll be Mrs Knowles. She can't stand it any longer. She's wondering what's happening,' Mr Irwin said. ‘My housekeeper,' he explained to Mitchell. ‘She came to me from a friend three years ago, when he left London, and Miss Temple, who had been with me since before my wife died, felt she was getting too old for the work.'

‘Have you other servants?' Mitchell asked.

Only a daily woman,' Paul answered, and went across to open the door.

An elderly woman, in a dressing-gown, was standing there. Paul told her everything was all right – they wanted nothing – she must go back to bed. She said something about Mr Leslie, and Leslie got up and joined them, saying loudly:

‘It s all right; they've only come to run me in for murdering Carrie, only they aren't quite sure.'

Left alone for the moment, the three police officers waited, and Penfold leaned across and said to Mitchell, in a growling whisper:

‘What do you think the old 'un's holding back on us? There's something.'

‘Shouldn't wonder,' agreed Mitchell, and added: ‘He looks older than you said, I think. I should take him to be fifty at least.'

‘Yes,' agreed Penfold. ‘It must have been the light, or something. I can generally tell a man's age pretty near, but he does look older now than I thought before. I thought his hair was all black, too, but there's streaks of grey showing if you look close. Don't know how I missed them before.'

The two Irwins, father and son, having pacified their housekeeper, came back into the room. Mitchell asked a few more questions of but small importance, and told Leslie that the statement he had made would be written out and brought to him for signature. He added that probably they would have to question him further, but that considering the lateness of the hour they wouldn't trouble him any more just then.

With that they took leave, and, as they were making their way to the waiting car, Mitchell said:

‘I almost believe that boy was planning to elope to Hollywood with the girl. Only it seems he has no money, and then Maddox claims she got engaged to him only this afternoon. A pretty tangle to find out where the truth lies.'

It was when they were all three safely in the car that Penfold's smouldering indignation burst forth.

‘I tell you what it is, sir,' he said angrily, to Mitchell. ‘Old Mr Irwin knows something he doesn't mean to tell. Deliberate concealment.'

‘Yes, that's pretty plain,' agreed Mitchell.

‘Defeating the ends of justice,' declared Penfold. ‘He ought to be made–'

‘Difficult,' observed Mitchell, ‘to make a man speak when he doesn't want. Once upon a time they used to put him on the rack, and then he probably told lies; or else tie him down on the floor and pile fresh weights on his chest every day, and then he generally died first.'

‘Oh, well,' said, a little doubtfully, Penfold, who had. never heard before of the
peine forte et dure
.

‘Because,' explained Mitchell, ‘if he didn't talk, then he couldn't be found guilty, and, if he wasn't found guilty, then his property couldn't be confiscated, and his wife and family kept it still. Rummy what a man will do for his wife he spends half his time quarrelling with, and for his children he's on bad terms with because they won't do just what he thinks they ought.'

‘Oh,' said Penfold, thinking this over, and Bobby, quicker to discern what was in Mitchell's mind, said:

‘You mean, Mr Irwin's silence is his way of protecting his son?'

I'm told,' Mitchell said without answering this directly, ‘Mr Paul Irwin is a very religious man. Is that right, Penfold?'

‘Well, sir, if you ever heard him preaching about hell on Brush Hill Common, you would think so,' Penfold answered. ‘Seems to think that's where we're all bound.'