The Six Queer Things, page 11
“Not Michael Crispin? I don’t quite follow.”
“Michael Crispin turns out to have been a woman.”
“A woman! Impossible!” exclaimed Hawkins.
Morgan wondered whether his surprise was really genuine.
“Didn’t you guess that?”
“Good heavens, no, sir. I never suspected anything of the kind for a moment.”
Morgan felt a little suspicious of this reply. It was if anything too sweeping. Miss Furnivall had distinctly said that Crispin had struck her as odd and abnormal. Even the cook and parlourmaid had admitted that there was something queer and unusual about Crispin’s manner. But Hawkins, who was obviously intelligent and had known Crispin longer than anyone, appeared to be completely surprised by the discovery. True, as chauffeur he did not have so many opportunities for observation as the parlourmaid, nor had he the experienced eye of Miss Furnivall.
Hawkins was not a man it was easy to disconcert by cross-examination. He was a quiet, dark fellow of about thirty-eight, with that pliancy of manner which often conceals an internal stubbornness.
Morgan sent him away and returned to the question of Isabel Crispin. She still had not returned to the house, and no one was able to give any useful suggestions as to where she might have gone. He got from Hawkins the number of the car and had the Yard send out a general message to pull it in. If Bella Crispin had used it to make a getaway, she would not be able to go far without being pulled up by some sharp-eyed constable burning for promotion.
That evening the car was found abandoned by the side of the London-Southampton road. No one had seen the driver. It was clear that Bella Crispin had made a getaway.
Crispin was poisoned. Marjorie Easton had disappeared. Bella Crispin had run away. . . . It seemed a curious and unrelated combination of events; and yet they must be related in some way.
Morgan decided that a thorough search of the house might help him.
He spent the next two days on this search. The result surprised him. The average person has in his house an accumulation of material in the way of documents, letters, and so forth, which arises naturally in the course of his daily life. The Crispins’ house on the contrary was bare of everything except the most ordinary and necessary objects—hardly any letters, and these nearly all tradesmen’s bills or circular letters, which had been filed carefully away. Evidently there was method in this. Crispin had at some time expected a search.
What could it mean? Did Crispin, during “his” lifetime, always keep “his” house in such a way that no clue would be revealed to any searcher? If so, this raised several interesting questions as to what manner of life Crispin led, that she should be so afraid of enquiry into it. Or had everything suspicious been carefully removed by someone else in preparation for Crispin’s murder? Or had Isabel, in making her escape, wiped out any traces which might point to something she wished to keep hidden?
This last hardly seemed likely, in view of the short time which had elapsed between Crispin’s murder and Isabel Crispin’s departure.
Of course there was the possibility that both the latter hypotheses were true—that Isabel had taken away all revealing documents, from a bank passbook to personal correspondence, because she had been connected with “Michael” Crispin’s murder. This, however, seemed ruled out by Isabel’s involuntary cry on seeing Crispin die in agony, as reported by those present:
“They’ve got him!”
This seemed to suggest that she had fled from the same assailants as those who, she believed, had struck down “Michael” Crispin.
However, all this was farfetched. The facts still pointed to Ted Wainwright, in spite of the inconsistency of the poison bottle and—as yet—the lack of sufficient motive. Even allowing for these defects, he was easily first on the list of suspects. The inspector’s reverence for facts forced him to keep Ted Wainwright in the position of most likely murderer.
Before he had left the house, the inspector’s search was blessed by a real find. One of the drawers in a chest of drawers was locked—the only locked receptacle he had come upon in the course of his whole search. This in itself had been curious. Most houses have several locked drawers and cupboards. Moreover, a moment’s examination showed him that an effort had already been made to open the drawer by force. There were scratches round the keyhole, and an attempt had been made to insert a lever of some kind in the crack and prise the drawer open.
The inspector remembered that a bunch of keys had been found on Crispin’s clothes. He sent down for these keys and found that one fitted. He opened the drawer.
The contents were at first disappointing. He had expected to find papers or some revealing object. Instead there was a collection of things that were not only not directly associated, but seemed to have absolutely no relevance to each other. They were so ill assorted that their very irrelevance gave them, as it were, something in common. They lay there in front of the inspector on the table, and challenged him to read any meaning into them. Six of them—the Six Queer Things, he christened them:
(1) A stout linen sheet with several broad, strong canvas tapes fastened to each side. The inspector had never seen anything like it before.
(2) A piece of card, with various pieces of coloured wool in knots stuck on it and marked by different letters. It appeared to be some kind of colour or size chart, and yet there was an odd irrelevancy and amateurishness about the way it was put together that made the inspector hesitate to classify it as a definite chart or sheet of samples.
(3) A number of toy balloons, one of which was attached to a bicycle pump with a special connection. This connection had a tap leading out of it additional to the main connection, and communicated in some way with the head of the pump.
(4) A photograph of a woman. The fashion placed it about twenty years ago.
(5) A box containing a short forked stick, a thin pipe and a number of straws. There was some brownish substance on the end of one of the straws, and a sniff revealed the presence of nicotine.
(6) A small textbook on “Forensic Medicine.”
The last article was the only one which gave any satisfaction to the inspector at all. As for the others—well, there was nothing desperately odd about any of them taken alone, but taken together as found in a carefully locked drawer which someone had attempted to force open, in a house where murder had been committed, they were mysterious and challenging. They were facts, cold, solid facts, which one could handle and touch, and yet for the first time the inspector had an unpleasant feeling that facts were not enough, that just because they were facts it would need some wild and extravagant theory to fit them all within the boundaries of one coherent story. He packed them carefully away in a bag.
His search eventually threw light on one of the Queer Things. In his search of Marjorie Easton’s room he came upon an envelope containing a faded photograph and a ring. On the back of the photograph were the words: “To darling Marjorie.”
This photograph was of the same woman as the photograph in the locked drawer, although it was a different study, taken at a slightly earlier age.
2
“There is no doubt about it, Inspector,” said Tremayne to Morgan next day. “Crispin, or whatever her name was, died of strychnine poisoning. It must have been a pretty strong dose too!”
“What about the phial which we thought had contained hydrocyanic acid?”
“Yes, it was hydrocyanic acid all right. And nothing else! So I’m afraid the phial can’t have had anything to do with the woman’s death.”
“I’m not so sure. It’s more than likely that the phial is a device to put us off the scent. If Wainwright thinks that our discovering Crispin really died of strychnine poisoning will be enough to make us let up on him because that phial contained another poison, he’s very much mistaken. We’ve had experience with half-baked smart alecs like him before. What about that glass?”
“The strychnine came out of that all right. There was no need to analyse the carpet! That’s all the news for the moment.”
When Tremayne had gone, Morgan phoned up the Records Office, where the fingerprints and photographs of the dead woman had been sent. In return he got back a dossier. “Michael Crispin” had a criminal record.
It appeared that she had first been known to the police as Brenda Hartington, and was that rare bird, a woman crook, who specialised in financial confidence tricks. She had swindled two men in a brilliant bogus company transaction. It was the merest accident that she had been caught, and the money had never been discovered. After that the police had kept a close tag on her, and although, ever since her release, shady stories had been circulating about her, there had never been any definite complaint. And then, quite suddenly, about five years ago, she had disappeared. The police had been unable to pick her up again.
The explanation now seemed fairly clear. She had taken on a new role, that of Michael Crispin, and the change of sex had been sufficient to throw the police off the scent. It seemed an odd choice of disguises to Morgan until, turning over the dossier, he saw that Brenda Hartington had been the daughter of a male impersonator, who had made a fortune on the halls, and then gambled and drank it away, to die of dipsomania in complete poverty when Brenda was fifteen. It was a fairly safe assumption that Brenda, as a child, had copied her mother’s turns, and in after life the disguise had come naturally to her. The somewhat masculine build was probably inherited.
Morgan examined again the depositions of the various witnesses concerning “Michael Crispin’s” death. These witnesses all seemed to agree definitely on one point—that no one had handled the glass of water between the time it was filled and the time it was given to Crispin except Wainwright. Nor had anyone been near enough to him to put in the poison without his observing it. Fantastic as such a possibility was, Morgan had considered it.
The poison might have been already in the glass. But this was effectively disposed of by the statement of three or four witnesses, that they distinctly remembered seeing Wainwright rinse the glass before he filled it. This rinsing might have given him the opportunity to put in the strychnine.
Of course Wainwright must have had some container on him, and the only thing found had been the phial of hydrocyanic acid. But still, he had had plenty of time to get rid of a small article between the death of Crispin and the arrival of the police. It would have been perfectly easy, for example, to throw it out of the window in the confusion.
Indeed, now that the inspector came to think of it, the very fact that the phial of hydrocyanic acid was found in Wainwright’s pocket seemed to reveal its function as a “blind.” If Wainwright really had used prussic acid to poison Crispin, his first act would have been to get rid of the container. But, on the other hand, its retention could be explained by the theory that he had played the bold game of banking on Morgan’s surprise when he found that the phial had not contained the poison which had killed Crispin but another poison. Such a surprise might be relied upon to make a policeman regard Wainwright as an injured party, and turn his attention elsewhere. Morgan had to admit, however, that Wainwright hardly struck him as the kind of character who would commit a crime, and then use such dangerously subtle methods to cover it up.
But, come to that, Wainwright did not seem the type to use poison at all, which only showed the danger of indulging overmuch in theories about criminal characters and what people were likely to do. In the inspector’s experience, people did what they did and that was an end of it. It was no good being surprised at his time of life at what people did.
He decided that on the face of it enough facts existed to warrant his reporting to his chief that he had found the murderer. There certainly seemed sufficient evidence to convict Wainwright in a court of law. Morgan would not recommend to his chief the immediate execution of the warrant, for four problems still remained unsolved. Why was there still no news of Marjorie Easton? Where had Bella Crispin vanished to? What was the motive of Wainwright’s murder? Why, once he had chosen to poison Crispin, had he chosen such an extremely obvious and easily detectable way—in front of a roomful of people, all witnesses to the act?
Inspector Morgan decided to interview Dr Wood. Wood had been responsible for introducing Wainwright to the Crispin circle, under the pseudonym of George Robinson, and he should be able to throw light upon the motives for Wainwright’s deed. Until then there were still too many loose strands. As long as they remained, it would be better to leave Wainwright at liberty and keep a close watch on him. He might easily get panicky and lead them either to Marjorie Easton or Isabel Crispin, or to the real motive for “Michael’s” act.
Although Morgan hardly liked to admit it even to himself, there was another factor in the case. There was the presence—inexplicable, challenging and ridiculous—of the Six Queer Things.
CHAPTER VII: The Mare’s Nest
Inspector Morgan was puzzled by his first impressions of Dr Wood. He had expected to see some twopenny ha’penny medico with a dubious past, who had been drawn—innocently perhaps and yet discreditably—into Crispin’s circle. His first glance at Wood’s surroundings, however, showed that “twopenny ha’penny” certainly was not the correct description for Wood. He was either a fashionable doctor or a wealthy one.
This impression was confirmed by his talk with the man himself. Dr Wood had all the assurance that comes from success, and the supple temperament and easy manner that makes the ability to enjoy success.
The coroner’s inquest had not yet taken place. The papers were not yet blazing with the full details of what was afterwards to become the crime of the season—The Man-Woman Mystery. Morgan hoped, therefore, to have the advantage of surprise in dealing with Wood.
“I suppose you have heard that Crispin is dead?” he said, as soon as he had introduced himself and Wood’s enquiring glance had demanded his business.
The doctor looked genuinely surprised.
“No, dead? Really! I didn’t even know he was ill! How did it happen? A car accident?”
“I thought you knew him fairly well. Haven’t you heard how he died?”
“I shouldn’t like to say I knew him well. But I was closely enough associated with his circle to expect to be told of his death. However, I only came back from Ireland this morning, and it may be the news is in my mail, which hasn’t yet been opened. I am sure either Miss Crispin or Miss Easton would let me know of any such accident.”
“Both Miss Crispin and Miss Easton have disappeared,” remarked the inspector. “You evidently have no idea of the seriousness of what has happened at Belmont Avenue.”
“I certainly haven’t,” exclaimed Wood. “Crispin dead and the women disappeared! What on earth has been going on while I have been away?”
“I had better tell you the whole story from the beginning,” said Morgan.
“The whole story” was not quite true. His mind was rapidly reviewing it to decide what he would omit. He decided to leave out a reference to Wainwright’s guilt in the first presentation of the story. It might put Wood off his guard, should he have any idea of shielding his protégé.
“Miss Easton vanished from the house on Monday night. No one knows where she went, and she has not yet been discovered. The nurse who was sleeping with her heard nothing, and she believes she was drugged.”
“Drugged! But surely that is fantastic. I’m surprised at Miss Furnivall.”
“No doubt, but it also happens to be a fact. At the séance next day, when Crispin drank a glass of water, he fell on the ground in convulsions; and a few minutes later he died. When we came in, we found that Miss Crispin had disappeared with the car. It was found abandoned halfway to Southampton, but there has been no sign of her or Miss Easton from that day to this.”
“Good heavens, what an amazing story!” There seemed somehow less surprise in the doctor’s voice than Morgan expected.
The inspector prepared to launch his thunderbolt.
“Doctor, did you know that Michael Crispin was a swindler?”
Dr Wood had already risen to his feet, and was opening the door of a cabinet beside his chair. He stopped for a moment when Morgan spoke.
“Yes, of course, Inspector,” he replied smoothly.
“You’ll have a drink, won’t you?” he added, as if both remarks were equally casual and expected.
“Oh, you did know, did you?” replied the inspector, a little taken aback. He paused. “Well, I don’t mind if I do have a drink.”
Wood walked to the table with the glasses and decanter on a tray.
“Perhaps you knew that Crispin was really a woman too?” Morgan watched Wood intently.
“Yes, yes, of course,” answered Wood with a laugh, pouring out the drinks with a steady hand. “I suppose it was a surprise to you?”
“It certainly was,” admitted the policeman, “and, if I may say so, it is a little surprising to find you knew it. How long have you known it, by the way?”
“Well, naturally, as a psychologist I saw that Crispin was abnormal from the first meeting. I came to the conclusion that it was a case of transvestism at a fairly early date.”
“Transvestism?”
“Eonism,” explained Wood solemnly. The inspector could not make out whether or not he was being chaffed.
“Eonism? Please explain. I am only an ignorant policeman.”
“Transvestism, meaning interchange of garments proper to the sexes. It is a not unusual psychological ailment, also called ‘eonism’ after the Chevalier d’Eon, a woman who once masqueraded as a man with great success at the French court and later in London society. Or he may have been a man who masqueraded as a woman—it has never been properly cleared up, although a great many people lost money on wagers about it. It’s a harmless foible.”
“Well, it seems a damned silly foible to me. I can’t understand it.”
“Probably not, but then, if you’ll excuse me, you’re a policeman and not a psychologist.”
“Nonsense, there’s no need to bring psychology into it. Crispin was a convicted swindler, and her disguise was intended to keep her out of the hands of the police.”
