Death of a Beauty Queen (19 page)

The incident, so elaborately staged, of the pretended burglary in the building-where Claude Maddox worked seemed to suggest that it was he who occupied in Mitchell's mind the position of chief suspect, and that the missing challenge cup was considered an important element in the case, but, then, why was Bobby set to dawdle about Brush Hill with nothing to do, apparently, but wait for some vague possible development affecting one or other of the Irwins? – or both of them? – or, if not both, then which? – and was it the father or the son who was to be regarded as the principal? That the knife used in the murder had been traced to the door-keeper at the Central Cinema showed every line of inquiry was being carefully followed up, just as, as Bobby was well aware, intensive efforts were being made to trace the mysterious personage who had asked on the night of the murder for a Miss Quin. But probably this unknown was now to be identified with the finder of the engagement-ring, who had given his name in the Regent Street shop as Quin, and who might easily turn out, also, to be the dead girl's step-father. For the notice in the Australian paper of Mr Quin's death did not strike Bobby as being in the circumstances sufficient evidence of the fact.

Only, supposing that this stranger did prove to be Carrie Mears's step-father, was he just hovering on the outskirts of the affair, little concerned in its development, or was he one of the central figures? Roy Beattie and Lily Ellis seemed, Bobby reflected thankfully, to have faded away out of the picture. But at any moment, in a business so bewildering as this they might be prominent again, and anyhow, what had become of Miss Mears's handbag, and why had it disappeared? Why had the murderer taken it – if, that is, it was the murderer who was responsible for its disappearance?

So round and round, to little purpose, went Bobby's ‘thoughts till, tired out with putting to himself unanswerable questions, a little despondent, indeed, of ever seeing the sequence of events made clear in all their tangled interaction, he turned into a public house when presently opening time arrived. In more than one of these establishments in that district he had recently acquired a reputation for incipient lunacy from the fact that, having ordered a drink, he would sit or stand with it before him for long enough, listening to, and sometimes taking part in, the chatter going on around that was so seldom, for his purposes, either interesting or enlightening, and then presently departing again, leaving his drink still untasted. For Bobby, though no teetotaller, believing fervently, indeed, that all good things are for use, had no more intention, while engaged on such a problem as this, of taking off the fine edge of his mentality by the use of the soporific, alcohol, than he would have had of lessening by it his nervous reactions when about, for instance, to compete at a Bisley shooting range, or drive a motor-car through crowded streets.

Brooding over his glass, Bobby still listened intently to the talk going on around. There was naturally a good deal said about the recent murder that had given Brush Hill a sudden notoriety on the contents bills of the evening papers. But there was also a good deal about greyhound racing at a track recently opened not far away, and in this connection Bobby was interested to hear casually mentioned the name of Wood, the Central Cinema door-keeper. Wood was apparently regarded as a knowledgeable man in greyhound racing circles. Once indeed, a twelvemonth or so before, a tip he had given regarding an outsider had been justified by the event, and this was so strange, so rare, so unusual a fact, that it had established his reputation for ever.

This piece of information set Bobby wondering again why Mitchell had as yet apparently made no attempt to follow up the success achieved in tracing the knife used in the murder to the possession of this man. True, Wood's character was good; he had the reputation of being a steady, trustworthy person, but greyhound racing sometimes leads hitherto steady and respectable men into difficulties from which their very dread of losing their position and their reputation may lead them to take strange ways of escape. It was at least conceivable that Wood had thought to take advantage of the confusion and excitement due to the Beauty Competition to see what he could pick up in the dressing-rooms. Suppose it was like that, and Wood, knife ready to rip or force any troublesome purse or handbag, had been caught in the act by Carrie Mears? Then instant exposure might have been averted by an instant, instinctive blow, and Wood could be back at his post without his absence having been remarked.

A possible theory, Bobby thought, as he wandered out of the public house, leaving, to the bewilderment of all, his drink untasted behind him; and one that seemed to cover all the circumstances of the crime.

He was still deep in thought, weighing one theory against another and that against a third, when presently he found himself in the neighbourhood of the Maddox residence, between which and the Irwin house he had been alternating at intervals all day long. He turned a corner into the street where the Maddox house stood, and then, as he dawdled past it, he saw the door open and a man's figure appear on the threshold. To his astonishment, he recognized not Maddox, but young Leslie Irwin.

He seemed to be letting himself out, more as if he were an inmate of the house than a visitor. Interested, even a little excited, for this was the first hint that between the two young men there had been any intercourse of any sort or kind since the crime, Bobby drew back into the shadow of one of the trees that here lined the road. Leslie came down the steps of the house and along the garden path to the gate. There he seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then, one hand thrust deep into the pocket of the light raincoat he was wearing, though the day had been fine and dry, he pushed open the garden gate and walked straight towards where Bobby was standing. It was growing dark now, and Bobby drew back into the shadow made by the tree under which he was standing. He hoped to remain unseen, but Leslie stopped in front of him.

‘I called to see Claude Maddox,' he said, with a kind of excited defiance. ‘Anything wrong in that? He wasn't in, anyhow.'

Bobby thought it best to make no answer, partly because he didn't quite know what to say, partly because he saw that the young man was in an excited, wrought-up mood and needed careful handling.

‘I knew you fellows were following me,' Leslie gabbled on. ‘All day long I've seen you. Well, what have you found out, eh?' He began to laugh, a high shrill laugh with a note in it that Bobby did not like. ‘All day I've seen you,' Leslie repeated, ‘always there – not that I care.' He laughed again, or rather uttered a harsh and threatening sound that was but the caricature of a laugh. ‘But you don't know' what I came for, in spite of all your peeping and watching. And you don't know what I've got in my pocket, either.'

‘What have you in your pocket?' Bobby asked quietly.

‘Find out,' Leslie retorted. ‘Some day you'll know,' he said, and swung away, and then came back again. ‘Going on following me wherever I go? ' he demanded.

His voice ran up and down the scale. He seemed not to have it under proper control. Bobby was half afraid, so threatening, so excited, did the other's manner seem, that a physical assault was coming. And to have to report to headquarters that he had got mixed up in a tussle with one of the suspects would not do him any good. Discreet and competent detectives are expected to avoid such mischances. But he braced himself for a possible attack, as he said, as soothingly as he could:

‘Oh, well, come now, Mr Irwin, you aren't very complimentary, are you? If you had seen me following you all day, I should have been making a mess of my job, shouldn't I? As a matter of fact, I haven't been following you at all, and I don't think anyone else has been, either.'

‘Just a coincidence, your being here, I suppose?' Leslie sneered.

‘Well, hardly,' Bobby answered. ‘I take it you realize we are pursuing inquiries in this neighbourhood? But no one has been following you, so far as I know. I certainly have not.'

‘Expect me to believe that?' demanded Leslie, though in a quieter tone. ‘Every detective's a liar – that's his business.'

‘Yet it is the truth that is his business in the end,' Bobby answered gravely. ‘If we are liars, though that is a hard word, we are liars only as and because we are servants of truth.'

‘Truth? The truth? That's what father's always preaching,' Leslie cried, and again his voice had changed and grown wild and uncontrolled once more. ‘Do you know why his hair's going white?' he asked. ‘Going white every day – more white every day?'

Now there was a kind of deep horror and amazement in his manner, as if he looked on things beyond belief, and Bobby made no answer. Indeed, for the moment he had the impression that he dared not speak.

That's your truth,' Leslie said then – whispered rather, so low had grown his tone. ‘That's your truth done that!'

‘What truth?' Bobby asked, moistening his lips that had gone dry, so dreadful seemed the horror and despair in the young man's words. ‘What truth?' he repeated, and his voice, too, he sank unconsciously to little above a whisper. ‘What is it making his hair go white?'

‘Yes, you would like to know, wouldn't you?' Leslie retorted, with his harsh cackling laugh – or, rather, caricature of a laugh. ‘Well, find out.'

He turned, and began to walk away. Bobby followed, the thought in his mind that the boy was in no mood to be left alone. Leslie did not seem to resent his company. Bobby asked presently:

‘What did you say you had in your pocket?'

‘That's my affair,' Leslie retorted. He added: ‘Nothing to be surprised at – about my going to Maddox's place, I mean. We used to be always in and out. He had a key to our door, so he could come in and mess round in the attic when he wanted to. We turned out some jolly fine work, too. I never had a key to his place, though. Our workshop was in the attic, at home, you see. We did everything there. That's years ago. I don't know why I'm saying all this. I expect you think I'm mad. I'm not.'

‘I don't think you're mad,' Bobby answered. ‘But I do think you're a bit nervy. It's no wonder. Been sleeping all right?'

‘Sleep?' Leslie answered, and again there came that harsh cackle that seemed to mock the very name of laughter. ‘I just lie and listen while dad walks up and down his room.' Suddenly Leslie paused and took off his hat. ‘Is my hair going white like his?' he asked. ‘It might be.'

‘Look here,' Bobby said, ‘you take a tip from me – go and see a doctor, and ask him to give you a bromide, or something else, to make you sleep.'

‘No need,' Leslie answered, chuckling, and in the darkness where they walked, between the feeble glimmer of two street-lamps, this chuckle that he uttered had a dreadful sound. ‘I've something already that'll make me sleep sounder than any bromide. It's in my pocket now.'

‘What do you mean?' Bobby asked, sharply and uneasily, but now when Leslie answered it was in an entirely different voice – soft and slow, as though a new man spoke. ‘I loved her, you know,' he said. ‘We were going to get married – Carrie, I mean, you know. It's funny to think the girl you loved is dead – dead like that. Funny that you loved her; funny that she's dead; it's all funny, isn't it?'

‘This is your street, isn't it?' Bobby asked. ‘I think I remember there's a doctor at the corner. How about dropping in to see him? Wouldn't take a minute. A good sleep would make you a different chap altogether.'

‘I know, but if I slept I should dream, and that's much worse. You haven't got a cigarette, have you? Thanks. Every morning his hair is a little more white than it was before – father's, I mean. Could you see that every morning and keep quite sane, do you think?'

‘Not unless I had had a sleep,' Bobby answered. ‘After a good sleep, a bromide–'

‘If you say “bromide” again, I'll slog you one,' Leslie announced, though quite without emotion. ‘It's because he knows – that's why every morning –' He paused, and, with a slow horror in his tone that shook Bobby to the depths, he said: ‘To-morrow, most likely, it'll be white all over – white as snow.'

‘Why?' Bobby found himself asking.

‘I expect he's back home now,' Leslie said, paying no heed to this question. They went on a few steps in silence, and then halted opposite his home they had now reached. ‘There's no light,' he said, staring up at the house. ‘He can't be back. Mrs Knowles is out, too – her sister's ill or something; she goes to see her; just as well, too. Father's been somewhere preaching – hell fire and the wrath of God, most likely. Only there's things you'll risk it for. But I never heard of anything else. I had a grandfather dad was always scared I should turn out like. You know, dad always thought everything of me – I wonder why? But lie did – nothing he wouldn't do.' The young man broke off what he was saying, and then, with a fresh note of horror in his voice, he muttered: ‘I don't know what I'm saying. That's because his hair's going white the way it is. You watch it day by day, every morning whiter than it was before. And you know' why.'

‘Why?' Bobby asked, once more, letting the word slip dreadfully between his half-closed lips.

‘Yes, you want to know, don't you?' Leslie snarled, with a sudden change of tone. ‘Well, you won't – not from me... Trying to find out, aren't you?... Well, I would put a bullet through you right away if I thought that would stop it... only I know it wouldn't... only make it worse. You want to know why? Well, because of me... it's all through me.'

Bobby did not speak. He did not understand the young man's mood. It was plain some emotional crisis had him in its grip, and yet of the cause he could not be sure. Leslie went on, more quietly now:

‘There's something dad knows – something he's found out. I can see it when he looks at me. He hasn't said a word yet, but he will some day – at least he will if I'm there still. Now– lie's found out, he is more sure than ever I'm my grandfather all over again. But he knows all the time, and you would like to know, too, only you never will.'