Death of a Beauty Queen (25 page)

‘Men have hung for less,' grumbled Ferris, ‘and what made his hair go the way it did?'

‘Can't put that into the witness-box,' Mitchell said, and then, after a pause, both his seniors being silent, Bobby said:

‘I remember once hearing Maude Royden say, in a sermon, that when a member of her congregation came to her and said: “God is telling me to do something,” her first thought was always: “Now what crime or folly are you going to commit?”'

‘It works that way sometimes with some people,' Mitchell agreed. ‘It's so easy to take your own wishes for divine – and so convenient, because then you know you're right, you and God against the world. If it got to be like that with Paul Irwin, the whole thing's explained. Only, was it? What do you think, Owen?'

‘I think it might be that, sir,' Bobby answered, ‘though I hate the idea. Only, religion is such a big force, it may twist you almost any way.'

‘Perhaps because it was always fear that was behind him, and fear is only another word for weakness,' Mitchell mused. ‘I hope this fellow Quin will be able to tell us something.'

‘My experience of religious folk,' commented Ferris, ‘is that there are some of them who are always sure they're right, and never are – like my mother-in-law,' he added, somewhat bitterly – ‘and some who are never sure they're right, but generally are.'

‘You're saying the same thing as I did in another way,' Mitchell told him. ‘I don't like religion in murder cases – complicates things so. Here we are. We'll have to see what Quin can tell us, and then it'll be us for knocking Claude Maddox out of bed to see if he can identify that automatic – he won't like being disturbed so late one bit, but I think we are going to do it all the same.'

Bobby knew Mitchell well enough to be fairly sure that this determination not to wait for the morning to get the automatic identified had some deeper reason than a mere impatience. He wondered if it had anything to do with the cable Mitchell had spoken of, since, so far as Bobby knew, no one connected with the case, except Claude Maddox, had ever lived abroad. As they were alighting, he managed to bring in some reference to this cable, and Mitchell looked at him.

‘Don't mind asking questions, do you?' he observed, with a touch of rebuke in his voice. ‘Well, yes, it came all right, but what it's worth now this has happened, I'm not so sure.'

They all went into the inner office, where Quin was waiting, with the evening paper, a good cigar, and a glass of whisky and soda – all thoughtfully provided by the station sergeant. With the appearance of Mitchell he seemed inclined to put himself more upon the defensive, but Mitchell knew well how to handle such moods. Mr Quin had heard of this fresh tragedy? No? Mitchell described it briefly, enlisted the other's sympathy and interest, and then went back to the earlier case. Not that Mr Quin was to imagine he was under arrest in any way. But he was known to have been on the spot when the murder occurred, and his inquiry for a Miss Quin must be taken to have referred to the victim. Further, the missing handbag had been traced to his possession, and it was known that he had returned a certain ring to the shop in Regent Street from which it had been purchased. In his own interests, therefore, it might be desirable for him, if he wished to do so, to furnish his no doubt satisfactory explanations that it was hoped would throw also light on this new tragedy. Naturally he was quite free to consult a solicitor before making any statement, or he would be perfectly within his rights if he preferred to say nothing at all, but in that case Mitchell feared it would be necessary to detain him in custody while further inquiries were made. If, however, he wished to make a statement, Sergeant Owen, an expert shorthand writer, would take it down in his own words.

Quin, who by now had admitted that that was his correct name and that Greggs had been adopted in the hope of avoiding the too-pressing attention of certain creditors, interrupted with the assurance that he was only too willing and eager to tell everything he knew. It had all been troubling him greatly. More than once he had been on the point of coming forward to tell what he knew. But then he had an innate dislike for all kinds of notoriety or publicity, or for any attempt to push his nose in where it wasn't wanted. Besides, he was engaged in certain very important and delicate business negotiations that might be prejudiced by any association of his name with a notorious murder (incidentally these important and delicate negotiations proved to be a somewhat hopeless attempt to float a company to engage in pearl fishing off the Australian coast). And, thirdly, it did happen that certain unreasonable people who considered that he owed them money might, if his name appeared in the papers, take steps to render themselves unpleasant – indeed, one of them had even gone so far as to make references to a horse-whip and a good kicking, and other such vulgarities. Fourthly, finally, and conclusively, he had no new light whatever to throw upon the problem of his step-daughter's death.

Mitchell made no comment upon the sufficiency or otherwise of these reasons, and Quin continued with what amounted to a re-telling and a confirmation of Miss Perry's story. Then he explained that when making inquiries about his wife, of whose death he had not been aware, and from whom he had evidently hoped to borrow more money, he had heard that his step-daughter, now living with her aunt, was competing in a beauty show she was expected to win, with the prize of a possible engagement at Hollywood. Since to Quin, as to many others, the mere whisper of the magic word Hollywood suggested ready, immediate, unlimited cash, the opportunity had instantly seemed heaven-sent for the securing of a much-needed pound or two – a born borrower, Quin had in his time turned far less favourable opportunities, in circumstances of far less desperate personal need, to profitable use.

‘I knew she might turn out a hard case,' Quin explained, with the tolerance of one aware that it takes all kinds to make a world. ‘Her ma was like that. Often she wouldn't turn up a penny till I showed I meant it – why, if you'll believe me, more than once I've had to put my razor to my throat to get as much as the price of a glass of beer out of her. But I hadn't thought of her changing her name – Quin being what she always went by. The porter at the door said there wasn't any Miss Quin there, and while we were talking a young lady came in to ask for a box she was expecting. A boy brought it along while she was asking, and she wanted to open it to see if it was all right, but couldn't get the string undone. So, as there was a knife lying handy on the desk near, I used it to cut the string for her, and afterwards, without thinking, I slipped it in my pocket, just as anyone might. Well, the porter stuck to it there was no Miss Quin, and I knew there was, so I thought to have a look round for her on my own.'

He paused for a moment to take a sip of his whisky and soda, and Bobby took the opportunity to make a note on a separate slip of paper:

‘Probably means he wanted to get away with the knife before Wood discovered it was gone.'

Quin continued:

‘It wasn't long before I spotted Carrie and the room she had. I can't pretend she showed any natural feeling at seeing her daddy again,as she always called me when she was a kiddy. She did get as far as opening her handbag once, when I told her a single one-pound note might stand between me and the river. But then she shut it again, and gave a heartless sort of snigger, and said: “Right-oh, make it the river, then.” Her very words, gentlemen, I assure you, spoken to one who was as good as father to her, and had guided her baby steps and guarded her infant cradle, and the way she snapped her handbag made me sure there was more in it than she wanted to be seen – there's a lot in noticing little things like that. So when she said that about the river, I said: “ Perhaps you would rather I cut my throat this minute,” and I got out my knife and put it to my throat. Now, her mother, she could never bear that – never. If you were driven to the razor, it was good for something every time, no matter how little she had. But Carrie – you'll hardly believe it – hard as nails she was, and what do you suppose? I give you my word she snatched up a ruler from the desk and cracked me with it on the elbow-joint! I had to let the knife drop, and then she had the face to tell me all she wanted was to save a mess on the carpet, and if I didn't clear out right away she would call the manager and have me put out.

‘Well, when a girl can be that hard to practically her own daddy, there's no good talking. So I took the dignified line, told her it was all right, but she mustn't blame me for the consequences, and I retired without another word, and her with her hand on the bell, if you'll believe me. But I made up my mind I would see what she had in that handbag made her shut it so quick when she remembered, and when she came out to do her bit on the stage I just slipped in to see if it was there still. It was on the table, and, for fear of being misunderstood if anyone happened to come in, I took it outside to have a good look; and there, first thing that happened as I was crossing the road was that some fool of a motor-cyclist nearly as possible ran me down. We had a few words, but I must say in the end he did the gentleman and gave me a pound note.'

‘Would you know that motor-cyclist again?' Mitchell asked quickly.

‘Anywhere. You don't forget a man who gives you a pound note when you're as hard up as I was that night. Besides, there was a rummy thing happened after, with the same man. I had had a shock with such a near escape, and I felt I needed a little drop of something to put my nerves right. There was a pub round the corner, so I popped in to have a drink, and as I was coming out there was that same cyclist chap pelting off down the street the way they do, and as he passed I saw him, plain as could be, throw something into a dark doorway across the road. A bit funny, I thought, and I went across to look, though thinking very likely it was only an empty cigarette-case. But it wasn't.'

‘What was it?' Mitchell asked, when Quin paused for dramatic effect. ‘The ring you took back to Regent Street?'

‘That's right,' Quin answered. ‘At the time I thought it queer, chucking away a thing like that, only I thought perhaps he hadn't known what it was. You do chuck away things without meaning to at times. Well, I thought what to do, and then I took a peep inside Carrie's handbag, and – well, I couldn't hardly believe it, a great fat wad of notes there was. No wonder she had been in such a hurry to snap the bag up again. Very awkward position for me, you'll understand. That girl was every bit capable of declaring I had meant to steal her bag, and I made Up my mind at once I would simply give it her back again, just as it was. Besides, I could see some of the notes were fivers and tenners that are easy traced. And then if I put it to her I had saved her bag for her, which practically I had, and but for me she would have lost it, I didn't see how she could turn up less than ten per cent on that two hundred – you would do as much for any perfect stranger who brought you back your bag you thought you had lost. But when I got it settled clear in my mind what was the right thing to do, and went round the corner back to the cinema to do it, there was everyone running about and excited, and crowds rushing up, and people telling each other one of the competitors, Carrie Mears, had been murdered.

‘Gentlemen,' continued Mr Quin impressively, ‘you can see at once what a very awkward and unfortunate position I was in, through no fault of my own – pure bad luck, and all the worse for that. I admit I was scared so bad my nerves got the better of me. Anyone would have felt the same. I wanted to help, but I didn't feel I was called on to put my head in a noose through acting too precipitate. There was the girl murdered, and me with her bag with two hundred in it in notes. Shivery, it made me, and my nerves the way they were, and, acting on the impulse, before I knew what I was doing, with my mind all a blank, so to speak, there I found myself in the motor-coach going back home again. But my nerves were all anyhow still, and there was a big fellow sitting opposite looking at me in a curious sort of way that made me go all cold. I was in such a state I was carrying poor Carrie's handbag under my arm instead of having the sense to wrap it up, which just shows what my nerves were like. I suppose he thought it queer to see a man carrying a lady's handbag, especially one that was worth money – crocodile it was. Anyhow, I lost my head a bit more, and, seeing the way he looked, like a fool I told him a lady must have lost it and I had just picked it up. One of the interfering sort, he was, and he nodded to the conductor. A pity some people can't mind their own business, but most likely he wasn't honest himself and couldn't believe others were. Anyhow, up came the conductor, and I had to hand the thing over, and, to tell the truth, I don't know that I was so sorry to get rid of it, now my nerves were a bit calmer. And the ring the motor-cyclist chap had thrown away, I took back next day to the shop it came from, according to the name on the box. I felt it would be just as well to let people understand I was straight and honest through and through, even if, thanks to that interfering meddling fellow in the coach, I hadn't had the chance to prove it by taking back Carrie's two hundred same as I had meant to. And where the girl got all that money from, is another thing I should very much like to know.'

Quin was now allowed to depart on his promise to return on the morrow to read over and sign the statement he had just made and that by then would be written out in due form.

‘Probably, too,' Mitchell told him, ‘we shall have to ask you to see if you can identify the motor-cyclist you told us about. Do you think you will be able to?'

‘Know him anywhere,' asserted Quin, with confidence, and, since it was as well to keep him in good temper, he was driven back to his address in a police car. Then, when he had gone, Mitchell looked gravely round at the grave faces of his companions.