The Dorset House Affair (11 page)

‘Well, Miss Maltravers,’ said Box, ‘I can respect you for that. And I want you to know that not everybody speaks ill of the late Mr Maurice Claygate.’

‘I am glad to hear it. If ever you feel disposed to investigate my late fiancé’s character further, you can call on me at my apartment in Canning House, Park Lane.’

She opened her reticule, and produced a calling-card, which she handed to Box.

‘I think you said that you intend to pay a visit to Miss de Bellefort in Normandy,’ said Box. ‘Do you think that’s a wise proceeding? I doubt very much that she will want to see you.’

Julia Maltravers laughed, and for a moment Box glimpsed the attractive, natural girl beneath the angry avenger.

‘That’s where you’re quite wrong, Inspector Box! A woman will always be curious to see the “other woman”, the one who supplanted her in her lover’s affections. Oh, yes, she will see me, all right. And when she does, I will make her tell me the true reason for her strange behaviour at the party. Her brother spun a romantic tale to explain that. Sarah Claygate told me about it. But I’ve never put much faith in fairy-tales.’

‘If you do find out anything relevant to my enquiries,’ said Box, ‘will you share that information with me?’

‘Most assuredly,’ said Julia. ‘I’m not such a fool as to think that I can equal the police in the matter of a murder investigation. But I want to confront Elizabeth de Bellefort, and induce her to tell me her story.’

‘I wish you well,’ said Box, ‘but I must warn you that Miss de Bellefort’s brother would prove a formidable adversary if you were to upset his sister in any way. He is devoted to her. I’m not at liberty to talk about Mr Alain de Bellefort, but I can tell you that he is a dangerous man. So take care.’

Julia Maltravers rose from her chair, and offered Box her hand.

‘You have been very kind and patient, Mr Box,’ she said, ‘and once again I apologize if I seemed deliberately rude. I intend to leave England this coming Monday. When I return, I will let you know what I have discovered.’

Box watched his visitor crossing the cobbles towards Whitehall Place. She carried herself proudly, and there was purpose in her walk. Miss Julia Maltravers was someone to be reckoned with.

There were people who seemed to like Maurice Claygate very much – his fiercely loyal fiancée, of course, but also those footmen at Dorset House. Gambler and philanderer, he had practised covert charity to a servant who had been unable to work through illness. No doubt there had been others. There was evidently a mystery about the dead man which he had not yet solved – some
quality that he had very successfully hidden under an habitual disguise of dissipation. Maurice Claygate was an enigma….

The elderly sergeant came out of the Rents and joined Box on the steps.

‘Did you notice, sir,’ he said, ‘that she must have been measured for that mourning outfit? She couldn’t have been fitted in time to wear it for poor young Mr Claygate. That girl is already in mourning for someone else.’

‘That was very perceptive of you, Sergeant Driscoll,’ said Box. ‘I’d not realized that, but you’re right. I’ll make it my business to find out more about that young lady.’

The two policemen turned, and re-entered the musty vestibule of 2 King James’s Rents. As the sergeant opened the door of the little reception room, Box made a request.

‘Pat, do you still see Sergeant Petrie of “G”? He’s still at King’s Cross Road, isn’t he? I’d like you to ask him where Harry the Greek’s holed up at the moment. He’ll know, won’t he? Harry Stamfordis. He’s involved in this Dorset House business, but I can’t quite fathom how.’

‘Harry the Greek, sir? He’s one of Pinky Wiseman’s folk, isn’t he? Yes, sir, I’ll see Alec Petrie at the club tonight, and ask him where Harry’s hiding himself these days.
He
’ll know.’

7

The Conspirators of Metz

A
rnold Box stood on the triangular island in Piccadilly Circus, and made use of a few moments of leisure to look around him. Drawn up at the kerb was one of the neat little omnibuses that would carry you from here to Baker Street Station for a penny. Monday, the tenth, had turned out to be a mild, sunny day, and the two patient omnibus horses looked as though they, too, were enjoying the gentle sunshine.

To Box’s right was the rather sombre building of the Criterion Theatre, and in front of him he could see the brand-new Shaftesbury memorial fountain, with its statue of Eros. Rather daring, some folk thought. Perhaps a nice figure of Lord Shaftesbury would have been better.

The elegant classical façade of the London Pavilion rose up to Box’s left, its busy restaurant occupying the ground floor. Earlier that morning, a respectable workman had accosted him in Aberdeen Lane, and asked him to call upon a Mr Cadbury in the cashier’s department of the London Pavilion at ten o’clock. He had known immediately what that summons had meant.

He would enter the theatre, where someone called Mr Cadbury would recognize him, and conduct him to the man who had summoned him there. He would be waiting to talk to Box, and they would greet each other with a familiar verbal ritual. The outcome of their interview would be some kind of enlightenment
with respect to a current problem, and perhaps an invitation to Box to put himself into danger of some sort.

Box crossed the road, and entered the dim vestibule of the
celebrated
theatre. A smart man in a black suit and wing collar hurried out from a room near to the ticket office, and smiled a greeting.

‘Mr Cadbury?’

‘The same, Mr Box,’ said the smart man. ‘Would you like to follow me?’

Cadbury led Box up two steep flights of stairs, and on to a chilly landing. He pointed to a door directly facing them.

‘You’ll find him in there, Mr Box,’ said Cadbury. ‘Don’t knock, just go in.’

Mr Cadbury hurried away down the stairs, and Box entered the room.

Yes; there he was, sitting at a table in the window, looking out at the busy traffic crossing Piccadilly Circus into Coventry Street, on its way to Leicester Square. A slight, sandy-haired man in his late forties or early fifties, with a mild face and an almost
apologetic
air, he was dressed very formally in a morning coat, complemented by a white waistcoat and dark silk cravat. A tall silk hat, in which he had deposited a pair of black suede gloves, stood on the table beside an ebony walking-cane. The man spoke, and the well-known ritual began.

‘Good morning, Mr Box.’

‘Good morning, Colonel Kershaw. So it’s like that, is it?’

‘Yes, Box, it’s like that.’ His voice, as always on these occasions, held a tone of sardonic weariness.

This would be the fifth time, Box mused, that Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Adrian Kershaw, RA, Knight Commander of the Bath, had begun the process of luring him away from his police work at Scotland Yard and into the perilous subtleties of secret
intelligence
. Colonel Kershaw was one of the powers behind the Throne. He was rightly feared by his enemies, but it was perhaps more significant that he was feared, too, by his friends.

‘Will you smoke a cigar with me, Mr Box?’

‘I will, sir.’

Kershaw offered Box his cigar case. Three slim cigars reposed in the case, and beside them a tightly rolled spill of paper secured neatly with twine. Box took a cigar, and with it the spill of paper, which he placed without comment in his pocket. He knew what it was, and there was no call for either man to comment on it.

‘When we concluded that business of Dr Franz Kessler
*
at the end of July, Box,’ said Kershaw, ‘I little thought that I’d be luring you away from your daily round so soon. But that, apparently, is what Fate has decreed. I saw Sir Charles Napier last night, and he told me, among other things, that you had been called in to
investigate
the murders of Sophie Lénart and Maurice Claygate. Have you discovered anything about Sophie Lénart?’

‘Yes, sir. I have been told that she was a young lady of modest means, who earned a living as a commercial interpreter. She came originally from Paris, but had lived in England for a number of years. She was fluent in all the commercial languages – English, French, German and Spanish.’

Colonel Kershaw drew thoughtfully on his cigar, and threw Box an amused smile.

‘Very interesting, Mr Box,’ he said, ‘and I don’t suppose for one moment that you have accepted that information as the whole truth. Now let me tell you what
I
know about Sophie Lénart. She was one of the most successful – and therefore most dangerous – of the coterie of international spies who make London their centre of operations. I am not talking now of the kind of fanatics that you and I have fought in the past. Sophie, and those like her, work only for themselves, owing no allegiance to any particular country or ideology. But then, you suspected all that about Sophie Lénart, didn’t you?’

‘I just wondered, sir, and now that you’ve told me that she was a spy, I’m not surprised. What saddens me, though, is that it proves that young Maurice Claygate was also a spy. I’m sorry about that, though when I saw he had been preparing to stay the night in Sophie Lénart’s house, I suspected as much. I’ve been to see his father, and have spoken at length to the surviving son and his wife, among others. Young Mr Claygate may have been a scapegrace and a gambler, but there are quite a few people, I think, who are ready to defend his memory.’

Colonel Kershaw did not reply for a moment. He was clearly arranging some ideas in his mind. He was frowning, and Box saw that it was a frown of perplexity. At last the colonel spoke.

‘There’s something wrong about all this Dorset House business, Box, which is why I was determined to waylay you as soon as possible. You say that Maurice Claygate was a spy. But that cannot have been so: you see, Maurice Claygate was one of
my
people.’

Once again, thought Box, the usual certainties were to be thrown into chaos. That was inevitable once Colonel Kershaw appeared on the scene. It made for difficulties. It also made for excitement and a feeling of renewed purpose.

‘One of
your
people? Had he managed to work his way into this Sophie Lénart’s confidence?’

‘No, Box, that’s the bewildering part of the whole affair. Young Claygate had been with me for nearly two years. He was an
independently
wealthy young man, you know – he had ten thousand pounds a year in his own right – and what he did for me, he did out of patriotism. He was a bit of a scapegrace, as you say, and very popular with the ladies, but he was proving to be a very competent operator.’

‘I had no idea of this, sir,’ said Box, ‘and I’m quite sure that his family and friends had no idea, either. To be frank, I think
everybody
regarded him as a kind of amiable wastrel—’

‘No doubt they did, Box,’ said Kershaw, ‘and that kind of
notoriety 
was an excellent cover for intelligence activities. He was often in Paris, you know, on pleasure bent, and in the summer he’d disappear to Cannes to enjoy himself at the casino.’

‘Just a moment, sir,’ said Box, ‘your mention of Paris has just reminded me of something. During my investigations, I learnt that Maurice Claygate had told a friend that he knew De Bellefort to be a scoundrel, and that some people in Paris had told him that. His friend believed that Maurice had fallen in with a gang of sharpers, but obviously he was mistaken.’

‘He was, Box. It was from his own well-cultivated contacts in Paris that Maurice Claygate heard about a certain document that had begun a covert journey from one of the French ministries, and which was on its way to Sophie Lénart here in London—’

Box thought of the compromising letter that had fallen into the hands of Alain de Bellefort, and hazarded an intelligent guess.

‘Had that document once belonged to the French Minister of Marine?’ he asked.

Colonel Kershaw started as though he had been shot. He looked at Box in disbelief.

‘Good God, man,’ he cried, ‘how did you know that? Who told you? Did someone reveal to you the contents of the Alsace List?’

‘No, sir,’ Box replied. ‘I don’t know anything about the
document
that you’re talking about. But my business at Dorset House last Thursday concerned a politically indiscreet letter that would have compromised the wife of the French Minister of Marine, and I wondered whether your document – the Alsace List, I think you called it – came from the same source.’

Kershaw visibly relaxed. He treated Box to a rueful smile.

‘There, I stand corrected. That’s what comes of jumping to conclusions. The document that I am talking about was a list of names compiled by the French Foreign Office, and entrusted for safe-keeping to the Minister of Marine, who lives in a villa out at Neuilly. It was a servant in the employ of the minister, a certain François Leclerc, who contrived to steal the document, and send
it on its journey into the hands of the various dealers in such matters operating in London.’

‘This François Leclerc, sir: I assume something has been done about him, since his name is known to you?’

‘Leclerc has been left in ignorance, and is still in the employ of the Minister of Marine. The French special services think that he might lead them to other informers if he thinks that he has been successful. Incidentally, I shouldn’t be surprised if your indiscreet letter hadn’t come to England via the same route. Who had put it up for sale?’

‘A man called Alain de Bellefort, sir. He’s well known to Sir Charles Napier.’

‘Ah! Alain de Bellefort!’ said Kershaw. ‘Well, that makes sense. He and his sister are intimates of the Claygate family, which explains his presence at the birthday celebrations. He’s always been regarded as a collector of low-grade intelligence, which he sells for a few hundred pounds, but I’m beginning to think that there’s more to him than that. I’ve already arranged to have him shadowed, now that he’s back in France. Could De Bellefort have found out that Maurice Claygate was one of my people?’

‘Perhaps, sir,’ said Box. ‘But he could not have been poor Maurice Claygate’s killer. Mr Claygate was shot dead in a house in Lexington Place, Soho, at midnight on Thursday, or
there-abouts
. As far as I recall, Mr de Bellefort was still at Dorset House. I believe he was there until after midnight, in conversation with the field marshal and his wife. I don’t see how he could have been involved in Mr Claygate’s death.’

‘Hmm….’ Colonel Kershaw lapsed into a gloomy silence for a minute or two, and then sprang up from his chair.

‘Hang it all, Box!’ he cried. ‘What was Maurice Claygate doing in Sophie Lénart’s house that night? As far as I know, Claygate never knew Sophie Lénart. Damn it, I
know
he didn’t! Why did he leave his friends and his birthday guests and go out to that woman’s house?’

‘Sir,’ said Box, ‘Maurice Claygate was lured away by means of a note delivered to him by a footman. I saw him open the note, and read it. He smiled, and I got the impression that he was amused. He put the note in his pocket, excused himself, telling his friends that he was due for “a little assignation”, and disappeared into the crowd.’

‘I expect you found that note, didn’t you? When you came to examine Claygate’s body. What did the note say?’

‘It read: “Come straight away to Lexington Place. If you fail me, I will tell your papa all.” It was signed, “Sophie”.’

Colonel Kershaw stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray on the table. There was a slight smile on his face, but his eyes sparkled with a kind of controlled excitement.

‘There’s a certain smugness about your delivery, Box,’ he said, ‘which tells me that you’re holding something back. I’ll leave you to tell me what it is when you judge the moment to be right. Meanwhile, you’ll agree with me that that message is bogus? Claygate knew a lot about Sophie Lénart, but he’d never met her, of that I am certain. There could have been no romantic
attachment
between them, as that silly message suggests. And then, of course, if it had been the
real
message – the one that you saw delivered to him at Dorset House – then he would not have reacted with an amused smile after he’d read it. Come now, Box, what is it that you’re holding back?’

‘It’s just this, sir. I found out later that the footman who
delivered
the note was not a genuine employee of the Claygates. He was, in fact, a well-known petty criminal called Aristotle Stamfordis – Harry the Greek. Before I’d found that out, I believed the note to be genuine. But I agree with you now that it is bogus. Whoever shot poor Maurice Claygate dead in that house in Lexington Place, removed the real note, and substituted the false one.’

Colonel Kershaw sighed and glanced out of the window. He rummaged through some papers on the table, and drew out a
coloured map. He tapped it absent-mindedly with a finger, and then looked at Box.

‘I’m allowing myself to be drawn into the minutiae of a
criminal
conspiracy,’ he said, ‘something that lies firmly in your territory, not mine. I know that you’ll tell me what progress you are making on this business of Claygate’s murder, leaving me to look at matters from a rather different perspective.’