Death of a Beauty Queen (6 page)

‘I see,' Mitchell said gravely. ‘Now tell me about tonight. It was you who made the discovery, wasn't it?'

‘Yes,' Beattie answered. ‘I went to her room and knocked. I didn't get any answer.'

‘One moment,' Mitchell interposed. ‘You are here taking photographs, aren't you? Is that for a paper, or for the management?'

‘For myself,' Beattie explained. ‘I'm in business for myself. I only do special work – not ordinary studio work, I mean. I got exclusive permission to come behind to-night. I was going to make pictures of the winner and the runners- up; there was to be a big group picture on the stage as a wind up.'

‘Were you about to take photos of Miss Mears, then?'

‘No, I had done that before,' Beattie answered, with a certain hesitation that made Mitchell look at him sharply.

‘You have them, I suppose?' he asked.

‘I gave them to the stage-door-keeper to look after for me,' Beattie explained. ‘I didn't want them mixed up with the others I had taken. Here were special, you see. Everyone thought she was sure to be the winner.'

‘Yes, so they tell me,' Mitchell agreed. ‘Winner – and then this instead. You had some reason for wanting to see her again?'

Beattie looked more hesitating and more uncomfortable still. Bobby's pencil paused, hovering over the page. Mitchell waited, very quietly, and yet with a kind of formidable patience that made his very stillness impressive. At last Beattie burst out:

‘There was a story going about – someone else is sure to tell you. I don't suppose it's anything to do with it. Some of them were saying she had played a mean trick on one of the other girls.'

‘What was that?' Mitchell asked.

‘It's a Miss Ellis – Lilian Ellis,' Beattie explained uncomfortably. ‘She's very pretty too – not like Carrie Mears, but... well, everyone thought she had the best chance after Carrie Mears, and some thought she might turn out winner. And it got about Carrie had told her the rules were she would be disqualified if she stopped on the stage too long, and Miss Ellis believed her, and ran off again before the judging committee had time to give her any marks.'

‘And you were going to ask Miss Mears about it?'

‘Yes.'

Mitchell hesitated, and drummed lightly on the table with his finger-tips, as was his custom when he was worried or perplexed. He said quietly:

‘Well, let's leave that for the moment. Will you tell us exactly what happened after you knocked? Oh, by the way, there's a hat here.' He showed the big, broad-brimmed felt hat he had brought with him from the manager's office. ‘Isn't yours, is it?'

‘No,' Beattie answered, shaking his head.

‘Don't know whose, I suppose?'

‘It looks like one Mr Paul Irwin wears sometimes,' Beattie answered. ‘I don't know if it is.'

‘Have to ask,' observed Mitchell carelessly, putting it down. ‘After you knocked, what happened?'

‘There wasn't any answer,' Beattie continued, ‘so I opened the door and looked in, just to make sure there was on one there. All the lights were out except a reading-lamp on the desk. I thought the room was empty, and I was just going away again, only I thought it funny the reading- lamp on the desk was lighted, and then I got the feeling... I can't describe it exactly... I felt uneasy somehow, as if something was wrong... I didn't know what... and I saw the room was empty, and, all the same, I thought it wasn't... I called her name and there wasn't any answer, and then I thought I heard a faint sort of breathing sound, as if someone was asleep, only not very comfortable – a sort of half breathing, half choking. The switch is near the door, and I turned on the electricity and went further into the room. I could see her then, lying on the floor behind Sargent's big desk. It had hidden her before.'

‘I noticed that,' Mitchell agreed. ‘I saw behind the desk would be hidden from anyone standing in the doorway. Go on, please.'

‘I thought at first she had fainted or something. I went across to her. I was hurrying, and my foot slipped in something.' He paused and shuddered, remembering what that something was. He continued. ‘I went down on my knees. I tried to lift her. She was looking at me, and I think she knew me, but I'm not sure. She didn't say anything. I saw a knife just at the bottom of her throat. I caught hold of it and pulled it out. That made the wound bleed worse than ever for a moment, and then it stopped suddenly. I tried to stop it with my handkerchief, but it stopped itself. I didn't know what to do. I think I hardly believed it. There was blood all over me. I got up and ran to the door and there was a man passing, and I shouted out to him that Miss Mears had been murdered. I think he thought I was mad. Someone else came, and I told him, and he looked inside the room and then he ran off, and I think I went faint or something – I only remember leaning against the wall and trying to tell a policeman, who had turned up somehow, all about it, and his keeping on telling me not to say anything.'

He paused and then, after an interval, he added abruptly:

‘I had got myself all over blood.'

Mitchell took no notice of this remark. He was again drumming with his finger-tips on the table before him. He said:

‘Was Miss Mears alone when you were taking the photographs you spoke about? Was there no one with her?'

‘No, she was quite alone.'

‘Isn't that rather peculiar? Hadn't she any friends with her? I should have thought all these girls would have been running in and out of each other's rooms all the time?'

‘Well, you see,' Beattie answered, ‘there was this story about the trick she had played on Miss Ellis. Some of them were rather indignant about that. I think Miss Mears knew what they were saying, so she stopped in her own room. It was because she was all alone, and I thought it funny, that I asked what was up, and some of them told me about the trick she had played Miss Ellis.'

‘Is that why you went back to see her again?'

‘Well, yes, in a way. I thought it was a dirty trick if it was true. I thought I would ask her. I thought if it was true I would scrap her photos and not show any of them – I had exclusive rights.'

‘By way of punishment?' Mitchell asked gravely.

‘Well, to pay her out, if you like. That's really why I gave those I had taken of her to the door-keeper, so as not to mix them up with the others I was getting developed right away.'

‘You are friendly with Miss Ellis?' Mitchell asked.

‘Yes, in a way – yes,' Beattie answered, flushing slightly, just as he had done before when asked the same question about Miss Mears, and again Mitchell looked at him slowly and gravely.

‘You were angry at the trick you heard had been played upon Miss Ellis?' he asked.

‘I wanted to know if it was true what they were saying,' Beattie answered uncomfortably. ‘I didn't believe it,' he added.

‘Perhaps I had better not ask you any more questions just now,' Mitchell said slowly. ‘If there is anything more you wish to say, well and good.'

‘My God,' Beattie cried out at that. ‘You don't mean you think I did it?‘

‘We are trying to find out what to think,' Mitchell answered. ‘You don't wish to make any further statement?'

I think I've told you everything I know, and it's the truth,' Beattie muttered.

‘If you don't mind,' Mitchell said, ‘I'll ask you not to leave here for the present. Owen,' he added, to his assistant, tell Mr Penfold that Mr Beattie has kindly promised to wait a little in case he can give us any further information.'

I suppose that means you are going to arrest me,' Beattie said moodily.

Neither of them answered. Bobby went out into the corridor with him. A tall young man was hurrying down it towards them. He had on the leather jacket and overalls motor-cyclists often wear, and behind him a policeman was following, calling to him to come back. He took no notice, and his thin gaunt face, his blazing eyes, his mouth half open with twitching, nervous lips, all seemed to show that he was in a very excited condition. His clothes were muddy down one side, as if recently he had had a fall, and indeed his whole appearance seemed a little wild. The policeman caught him up and laid a hand upon his shoulder, and he shook it off with a fierce, powerful movement of his whole body.

‘I tell you, I've got to know – I must know,' he almost shouted.

‘What's all this?' Bobby asked.

‘Is it true? Is it true what they're saying outside?' the stranger asked him. ‘God, is it true?'

‘Is what true?' Bobby asked, and the other answered:

‘Is it true Carrie's murdered?'

‘I am afraid so,' Bobby answered. ‘Did you know her?'

The stranger stood still. He covered his face with his hands, and one could see his body shake with his emotion. He said, not very loudly, but very distinctly:

‘It can't be true. It's only this morning she promised to marry me.'

Mitchell, whose keen ear had caught the note of emotion and excitement in the voice of the new-comer, came out into the corridor. The motor-cyclist, by an apparent effort, straightened himself, and yet still kept one hand against the wall, as if for support. His lean, cadaverous face, too, was quivering with the agitation he was trying to control; his eyes were wild and dreadful. One had the impression that his self-control might give way at any moment, and that lie knew this and was using all his nervous energy to prevent it. He said hoarsely:

‘Where is she? I must see her.'

‘Miss Mears's
fiancé
,'' Bobby explained to Mitchell. ‘He says they were engaged this morning. He has just heard–'

‘I can't believe it,' the motor-cyclist interrupted. ‘It's not possible... Is it true?' he asked, almost as if hoping that, even now it might appear there was some mistake or misunderstanding. Then: ‘Who did it?' he shouted fiercely.

‘We are only beginning our inquiries,' Mitchell answered. ‘Possibly you can give. us some information. So far we haven't got much to go on. Owen, carry on, and then come back here – oh, and tell Penfold again to concentrate on that handbag. Every woman has a handbag – you must if you've no pockets. It must be somewhere. Tell Penfold to report the moment he has any information.'

The cyclist drew a long breath. He said to Mitchell, quickly and eagerly:

‘Her handbag's missing... Carrie's handbag? Then it's been stolen... then the murderer's got it... find it and you've found him.'

‘Yes,' agreed Mitchell thoughtfully. ‘Yes... quite so... so far we haven't much information about Miss Mears's identity. I take it you can help us there?'

‘Yes, but I must see her. I must see her first,' the other answered. He looked at Mitchell, and said, quietly and steadily: ‘Is she dead?'

Mitchell made a sign of assent. The other turned and walked the length of the corridor. He stood at the further end of it for a moment or two, and then came back. He seemed quieter now, more composed, as if he had braced himself to greater self-control.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I'm sure you will understand... I can hardly realize even now... it's so awful.' He paused, shuddering, and continued: ‘How did it happen? Have you no idea who did it?'

‘Not much at present,' Mitchell answered. ‘It will be our duty to find out... we always do in the long run.'

‘Always?' the other repeated. ‘Always?' he said again, and mentioned a recent sensational case at Brighton concerning which, up till then, little had been discovered.

Mitchell made no attempt to justify his ‘always.'

‘I suppose there's nothing you can tell us... no one you suspect for any reason?' he asked.

‘No, no. I can't believe... I can't imagine anyone doing such a thing... it seems, so... so unnatural, incredible... could it have been an accident... or?'

‘Or what? '

‘Nothing... it's only that murder seems so... so incredible.'

‘I think you were going to say something, or make some suggestion,' Mitchell insisted, and, when the other still shook his head, Mitchell said: ‘You were thinking of the possibility of suicide?'

‘No, I wasn't – not thinking; it just came into my mind, only because it all seems so impossible, and then she said something once. She didn't mean anything; it was only just talk.'

‘What was it?' Mitchell asked.

‘It wasn't serious; it was because she was so keen on becoming a film star. She burst out once she would kill herself if they wouldn't give her her chance on the pictures. Of course she didn't mean it. I told her not to talk rot. She never said anything like it again – at least not that I ever heard.'

‘It may be important,' Mitchell said, and led the way back into the room, where almost immediately they were joined by Bobby.

‘Mr Penfold has gone to complete inquiries about Miss Mears's identity,' he reported. ‘There don't seem to be any friends or relatives of hers here. I gave Mr Ferris your instructions about the handbag. He says there is no trace of it so far. He is sending round to the hospital, to make special inquiries there, and, of course, continuing to look here. He wants to know if he should offer a pound or two reward for its recovery.'

‘You ought to – more. I'll stand it, if you like – ten pounds – twenty – as much as you want,' the cyclist interrupted excitedly. ‘It must have been stolen. Find it, and you've found the murderer.'

‘Seems an odd thing for a murderer to steal,' observed Mitchell thoughtfully. ‘Unless she had jewellery in it. But she seemed to be wearing all her trinkets, and she would hardly be likely to bring much money with her to-night. Do you know of anything valuable there might be in the bag?

‘It would be the bag itself,' the other answered. ‘It was a very good one – real crocodile, worth five or six pounds. If it's missing, it must have been stolen. Afterwards. If it had been taken before, or even if it had been mislaid or lost, she would have been sure to say something.'