Death of a Beauty Queen (5 page)

‘Who is she?' asked the policeman.

But the commissionaire didn't know that, either, and, within, the very last competitor flatly and thankfully now refused to appear. She had been pushed into the competition by a proud mamma; she had been dreading the ordeal for weeks; funk had kept her awake the last night or two, she knew she was looking a ‘perfect wreck,' and she knew, too, that the frock her mother had chosen for her didn't suit her in the least. Joyfully she was able to point out that it was evidently useless for her to go on.

‘No one's looking; no one noticed that last poor thing a scrap,' she said. ‘Something's happened to Carrie Mears.'

‘What's all this?' demanded Mr Sargent, appearing suddenly. ‘Carrie Mears? What about her?'

‘Better go on and try to quiet 'em down,' said Martin, the time-keeper. ‘There'll be a panic in a moment – Lord knows why.'

‘What's the matter?' Sargent repeated. ‘What's happened?'

‘Nothing – that's why it may be serious,' Martin answered. ‘Old Paul Irwin went running off after that boy of his he's dotty on, saying something about Carrie Mears making a public show of herself and the judgment of heaven he thinks he has in his pocket, and I suppose that started people talking. You had better stop it before trouble starts too. Tell 'em Carrie Mears is the winner – she is all right. None of the others had a chance after Lily Ellis did for herself.'

Sargent walked out in front. People were already on their feet, puzzled and anxious. His appearance produced an immediate hush. People turned to look and listen. He began:

‘Ladies and gentlemen, you'll be glad to hear that the last bus hasn't gone yet, there are still taxis to be had, and the tube is still running. I've just sent round to inquire, as some of you seem in such a hurry.'

That made some people laugh, faintly puzzled others, and quietened them all. He went on:

‘In a few moments the name of the winner will be announced. The judges' committee is now engaged in confirming its decision. As you are all aware, the prize is nomination as Brush Hill Queen of Beauty. [Loud cheering.] The winner will be crowned Queen of Beauty on this stage, next week, by a very distinguished film star and actress – one you all know and admire, and who is a tremendous favourite not only with you here in Brush Hill [more applause], but all over the world. [Renewed applause at this intimation that the world was following the Brush Hill lead.] I won't announce her name to-night. [Signs of disappointment.] I'll keep that for you as a little surprise – and it will be a surprise.'

He paused and beamed. As a matter of fact he kept the name secret because as yet he did not know it. Up to the present the luminaries of the cinema world he had approached had declined, not thinking Brush Hill sufficiently important to be worth the shedding upon it of the light of their countenances. But he was sure to be able to get someone or another, and the smaller her renown the bigger the letters in which he would announce her. He went on:

‘And, then in addition to that very great honour, there'll be the very substantial prize of a month's engagement with the Colossal Film Company, whose splendid picture, “The Sheik's Own Darlingest,” you all enjoyed so much last week. Almost – I say almost advisedly, for there are exceptions – but almost every favourite film star began her career with the Colossal Film Company, and I think you may be quite confident that what we are really doing to-night is selecting a future star whose fame will soon be on a level with that of – of Greta Garbo herself.'

His voice had taken on a note of real awe and reverence as he pronounced that wondrous name. His hearers gave a little gasp, and looked at each other with new respect. They had not quite realized that that was what they were really doing, and it seemed so dazzling and important to them that they all felt quite dazzled and still more important. It is not every day you have the chance to put out your hand and elevate someone hitherto unknown to a Greta-Garbian fame. Sargent, who was really a clever man and knew his job, saw, with satisfaction, he had produced his results, and that all danger of a panic was over. He went on:

‘The final judgment rests with the committee. But I believe their choice has been made. I wonder if you can guess it? If you can, and guess right, why, then, we can all take that as a very important and impressive confirmation of the committee's decision.'

There was a momentary pause. Then someone muttered ‘Carrie Mears,' and someone else repeated it, and then a third called it aloud. It was taken up at once; it became a general cry; from the whole auditorium one universal name was uttered:

‘Mears! Mears! Mears!'

Mr Sargent beamed on them.

‘I'm inclined to believe you're right,' he announced. ‘Most gratifying if it turns out, as I think it will, that the verdict of the committee and the verdict of the audience coincide. I will ask the genial and popular chairman of the committee, so well known to all of you, whether he can confirm that.'

The ‘genial and popular' gentleman in question stood up. He, too, beamed upon the audience. He adored hearing himself described as ‘genial and popular.' He adored, equally, making speeches. He began:

‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is with the utmost pleasure that I am able to announce, on behalf of myself and my esteemed colleagues, that Caroline Mears–'

He paused, for Martin had just come hurrying on to the stage. He was ghastly pale, and the hand he held out towards Sargent was shaking violently. He said, in a shrill high whisper:

‘Carrie Mears has been murdered... she's lying there stabbed... ask if there's a doctor in the house.'

But Sargent only gasped and stared. He heard, but he did not believe. He could not. He remained standing there, mute and staring. Everyone waited. Even the chairman waited, silent. Martin himself called out, addressing the audience:

‘I'm sorry... it's one of the competitors taken ill... is there a doctor here?'

By good fortune there were, as it happened, two or three doctors in the house, and there was also one, a Dr Bryan, who was a member of the judging committee, though this fact both Sargent and Martin had, in their agitation, forgotten for the moment, Now it was Dr Bryan, who, hurrying from the box, and guided behind by an excited attendant, reached first Sargent's office where the victim lay.

The policeman who had been kept on the spot by the lucky foresight of the commissionaire was already on guard at the door. He had, too, sent a phone message to the Brush Hill police station, and inside the room he had allowed no one but two women attendants, of whom one, fortunately, had some knowledge of first aid. Near by, the ‘art' photographer, Roy Beattie, was standing, leaning against the wall for support, and looking very pale and excited, and a little as if he might be sick at any minute. His clothing was stained with blood; his face and hands were dabbled with it. He was explaining, confusedly and incoherently, to everyone near that he had entered the room to speak to Miss Mears, and had found her lying on the floor behind Mr Sargent s big roll-top desk with a knife sticking in her throat.

‘I pulled it out... it bled awfully... a great spurt... then it stopped,' he said again and again, and the policeman notebook in hand, busily writing, would look up, and remark from time to time:

‘Don't you say nothing... don't you say nothing just yet awhile.'

Then he would resume his writing, and Beattie would always answer:

'No, that's right... I won't,' and then, almost in the same breath, would begin telling his story all over again to the next new-comer he saw staring at his blood-stained clothing.

The policeman, who knew Dr Bryan by sight, drew back to allow him to enter. The unfortunate girl was lying supine, the fatal knife on the floor near by where Beattie had thrown it down, the two attendants, bewildered, scared and useless, kneeling by her side. The wound at the base of the throat had bled with a dreadful profusion, and the horror of the scene was heightened by the triple contrast between it, the dying girl's festive attire in the latest and most extreme style, and the drab office surroundings, the letter files, card index, deed boxes, and all the other appurtenances of modern business.

One was aware of a ghastly incongruity – it seemed murder had no place in this decorous, conventional apartment, and violent death no claim on youth that had gone so bravely, richly, gaudily, attired.

Dr Bryan's diagnosis was swift.

‘She's still alive,' he said. ‘It's not the wound so much – it's shock and loss of blood. The only chance is to rush her to hospital for blood transfusion, and most likely it's too late for that to be any good.'

A colleague, who had just arrived, agreed with him. An urgent call was put through to the nearest hospital. The policeman looked worried, for this was a sad departure from the ‘nothing must be touched' principle firmly implanted in his official mind; and, though the message to the police station had gone through first, it was the ambulance that first arrived.

Shortly afterwards the officers from the local police station appeared, and then, in swift succession, Superintendent Mitchell of Scotland Yard, summoned from home just as he was taking his usual nightcap – a modest whisky and soda – before retiring to bed, Inspector Ferris, who had chanced to be on duty at the Yard when the Brush Hill message came, the usual experts – finger-print, photographic, and so on – and two or three assistants, including a young sergeant named Bobby Owen, who stood very much in Mitchell's good books, but was held by his critics to be really rather dense, even if somehow or another he showed at times an odd capacity- for blundering on the truth.

‘Oh, you just keep on making one silly-ass blunder after another till at last one of them turns up trumps,' he had once explained, when asked to account for a success that had made him stand well with his superiors. ‘Facts always stick together, and mistakes never do, so, when you find things begin to fit in, you know all you've got to do is to peg along.'

As Mr Sargent's office was not a large one, and as Mitchell was anxious that it should be as little disturbed as possible until a complete examination had been made, there was at first some confusion. One zealous subordinate, for instance, was only prevented just in time from clearing away a broad- brimmed black felt hat lying on one of the chairs. Finally Mitchell turned out everyone, except the local C.I.D. inspector, a man named Penfold, and the young sergeant, Bobby- Owen. The photographers and the finger-print experts, and the rest of them, he promised should have their turn afterwards, but first he himself wanted to have a good look round.

‘The girl was using it as a dressing-room?' he asked. ‘Is that it? Funny idea to use the manager's office for a dressing-room. Is she any connection?'

‘No, sir,' answered Bobby, who had already made one or two swift inquiries. ‘I understand it was the only room left; all the ordinary dressing-rooms were crowded out.'

Mitchell looked as if he thought this was an explanation that itself required an explanation. He was staring all round the room, his slow intent glance passionate in its intensity upon every item in turn. There came a knock at the door. It was to say a message had been received from the hospital reporting that the patient had passed away, almost immediately upon arrival, before there had been time for any attempt to save her by blood transfusion.

‘A bad business,' Mitchell said slowly, and one could almost see his body stiffen with the intensity of his resolve to bring to justice the perpetrator of so abominable a crime. ‘The doctor said there wasn't much chance,' he added. He looked at the big, broad-brimmed hat lying on a chair near. ‘I wonder who that belongs to,' he said. ‘The manager perhaps, as it's his office. I suppose the murderer wouldn't be so kind as to leave it – he must have got covered with blood, that ought to help. Looks like a love quarrel someone she's turned down, perhaps. Have to check up on that. Owen, ring up the hospital and ask them to be careful of all her personal belongings – her handbag, and so on, it doesn't seem to be here. Tell them I'm sending a man round to get them. See to that, will you? Jones might go.'

‘Very good, sir,' said Bobby, and left the room to carry out his instructions.

Mitchell followed, surrendering that room to his assistants, and asking if another could be placed at his disposal.

‘A photographer, going in to take her picture, found her, I think?' he asked. ‘Was that it?'

The policeman beckoned to Roy Beattie, who was still waiting near, to come forward. Mitchell, after giving a few other directions, asked Beattie to accompany him to the little cubby-hole of a room that the distracted Martin had managed to discover for his accommodation. Bobby followed, to report that the hospital had answered his phone message by declaring that there had been no handbag or any other personal belongings brought with the dead girl – nothing but the actual clothing she had on.

‘She must have had a handbag – they all have,' Mitchell said. ‘Tell Ferris to have a search made. If it can't be found, someone must have pinched it. Tell him to make all possible inquiry, and then come back here. I want you to make a note of what Mr Beattie has to tell us.'

Bobby was back from his errand, with his notebook open and ready, before Mitchell and Beattie were settled.

‘Did you know Miss Mears?' Mitchell began by asking.

‘She came to my studio about a year ago,' Beattie answered. ‘I made some pictures of her. She was hoping to get an engagement as a film actress, and she wanted photographs to send with her applications. I don't think she succeeded, but she came back once or twice, and we became friendly.'

‘Anything more than friendly?' Mitchell asked.

‘No, no,' Beattie answered, flushing. ‘She was awfully pretty... you couldn't help feeling... there was nothing between us, if that's what you mean. Of course, I liked to be with her. I admired her tremendously.'