The Six Queer Things, page 13
“Such as?”
“Why has this girl disappeared? Why has Crispin’s sister disappeared? What’s behind the whole episode of Crispin’s relations with Marjorie? And then the odd collection of stuff in that locked drawer!”
“The Six Queer Things?” said his chief with a smile. “Has it occurred to you that these might have been put there to make it more difficult?”
Morgan only grunted in reply.
“If you really want my opinion,” went on the chief, “it seems to me you’ve trusted our doctor friend too much.”
“In what way?”
“About this girl. How do you know she really was under Crispin’s influence?”
“Well, good Lord, she was staying at his house! Besides, I’ve seen her uncle, who said she went there absolutely against his consent. He’s very worked up about it. He doesn’t seem so much worried at losing her, as that she is dragging him into trouble, which may affect his business.”
The chief pulled thoughtfully at his little iron-grey moustache.
“But don’t you think she might have been deceiving him as well as Crispin?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, isn’t it possible that she was in the plot with Wainwright? It seems darned odd that directly Wainwright does his stuff she disappears.”
“You mean Wainwright, the doctor and this girl had a definite plan of campaign against Crispin?”
“Yes.”
“It’s possible. It certainly worries me that the girl hasn’t turned up. But that doesn’t disturb the central issue. Wainwright is the only person who could have poisoned Crispin.”
The chief nodded.
“Yes, I think that’s fairly clear. We may be able to drag the whole truth out of them later when we’ve got Wainwright behind lock and key. You’ll pull him in at once, I suppose.”
“Yes. There doesn’t seem much point in keeping him waiting any longer.”
2
As soon as Morgan had left him, Dr Wood called for his car and went round to see Wainwright. He could not fail to notice the burly man in the mackintosh standing just opposite the little house, leaning against a lamppost.
Wainwright was obviously worried. Lines under his eyes showed that he had had little sleep, and he started pacing restlessly up and down his room directly he had let Wood in.
“What the hell do they think they’re doing?” he groaned incoherently. “They ask me every sort of damned silly question. Why did I dislike Crispin? Did anyone else handle the glass? As if I cared a damn when Marjorie is still lost! What did that devil do with her before he died?”
“We’re trying to find her,” said Wood gently, trying to soothe him. “I don’t think it’s a question of what Crispin did to her. I think her disappearance was definitely an escape. But perhaps she temporarily lost her memory and is wandering round somewhere . . .”
“Then why can’t the police find her instead of badgering me?”
“It’s not so easy. She may have concealed her loss of memory and have got a job—started a new existence.”
“But the papers are full of her disappearance. Surely that should be enough to tell her who she is.”
“Not necessarily. She may not connect the girl she reads about with herself.”
“I can’t help feeling she’s in terrible danger.”
“You are the one who is in terrible danger,” said Wood quietly. The boy was taken aback.
“What do you mean?”
“At any moment now you may be arrested for the murder of Crispin.”
“But it’s impossible. How could I be arrested?”
Wood told him of the facts that had come to light. Wainwright dropped into a chair and remained silent for a moment.
“I can’t get hold of it. Who framed this up?”
“It may be a frame-up—or it may be coincidence. It certainly seems to me too pat for coincidence. There is something strange behind all this which we haven’t fathomed out yet.”
“But, damn it,” exclaimed Wainwright desperately, “surely I can’t be caught like that—for something I’ve not done.”
Wood put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Keep up your courage. There must be some way out. I can see the way Morgan’s mind is working. He thinks the case is over. He’s got a case that will go to a jury and get a verdict. He won’t trouble to investigate further.”
“You mean——” Wainwright’s face slowly went ashen.
Wood nodded gravely. “On the face of it, yes. Oh, I know,” he added hastily, “that we can find some way out. We’ve got to get at the truth. But we can only do it if we have time.”
“But how can I get time?” cried Wainwright. “These blasted splits are hanging round outside the house all day long. If I make a bolt for it, they’ll get me, sure as hell!”
Dr Wood remained for some time lost in thought. Wainwright scrutinised desperately the man’s face—his soft plump cheeks, silvery hair and strangely young eyes.
“This interests me,” the doctor said at last, “and it challenges me. Frankly, I’m baffled. I don’t like being baffled. I think you’re telling the truth.”
He gave Wainwright a keen look which suddenly made the young man realise the extraordinary cold, penetrative power of the man’s eyes.
“But someone hasn’t been telling the truth. I wouldn’t mind taking on for you the task of investigating this. We’ve got to gain time, though. I need several weeks. Will you be prepared to take a risk?”
“I seem to be running the biggest possible risk already. I’m certainly not afraid of anything else.”
“Then go into hiding until I’ve got the truth of this. It may take two or three months.”
“How can I escape? Every step I take now is watched. I’ve realised that for some time, but I thought it was just suspicion. I didn’t know they had a cast-iron case. Even if I could throw off these splits, I haven’t any money to live on. I’ve saved a little, but I must leave that for Mother.”
“ Just a moment, let me think.”
Wood took three or four paces up the room, and walked to the window. Across the road the man in the raincoat stared furtively at the house. Wood half turned away and then paused. He rapped sharply on the window, and the chauffeur, who was lounging against the car, looked up. Wood beckoned him in.
“Here’s just one chance. My chauffeur and you are about the same size. Can you drive a car?”
“Sure! My cousin’s a lorry driver, and he taught me to drive.”
“Good! You change into my chauffeur’s uniform in here, and walk out to the car. If I walk out slightly in front of you, it will hide your face, and the plainclothes man will only get a glimpse of you. He’ll think you’re the chauffeur come out again. When we get into the car, we’ll be shielded by it. Don’t forget to open the door smartly for me! Then drive straight to this address. It’s a little country cottage kept by a patient I once cured, who promised to do anything for me. I often stay there myself. He’ll look after you. He can be trusted absolutely. As a matter of fact he got into trouble with the police once, through something he did when his mind was disordered without his being technically insane. So you needn’t fear his giving you away. I’ll scribble a note for you.”
Wood checked the young man’s thanks.
“Don’t trouble to thank me. I’m doing this out of professional interest. I’m determined to get to the bottom of it.”
Half an hour later, the two were speeding down leafy lanes, while the sentinel in the raincoat still remained at his post.
Three hours later, an irate Morgan was reporting to his chief that the bird had flown.
Five hours later, a suave Dr Wood was disclaiming all knowledge of Ted Wainwright’s disappearance or of his whereabouts.
“No, I can’t imagine where he has gone to. Still, I’m not sorry he escaped. I believe he was innocent. I think before long, Inspector, you’ll find the same.”
3
“It’s an odd collection of stuff,” said Dr Tremayne as he fingered the Six Queer Things. “Haven’t you light on any of them?”
“Only on the photograph,” answered Morgan. “It’s a photograph of Marjorie Easton’s mother. There’s nothing surprising about that. It would be possible for Marjorie to give Crispin a photo of her mother.”
“Hello, this is surprising,” exclaimed the police surgeon, as he shook out the sheet with the broad tapes.
“Why? Do you recognise it?”
“Yes, of course. Any physician with asylum experience would recognise it at once, and I worked in one for two years.”
“What on earth has that sheet got to do with asylums?”
“It’s a kinder version of the strait jacket. In certain stages of the manic-depressive type of insanity, you have to have some means of keeping the patient quiet in bed. Otherwise they struggle so violently that they are likely to injure themselves and everyone else, and in any case they may tire themselves dangerously. So these sheets are used to restrain them. The sheet is tied over the patient and under the bed to restrain him, and fits tightly round his neck. That keeps him under control.”
“It sounds rather unpleasant. I don’t know why. As a police officer, I ought not to find captivity particularly objectionable. All the same it makes me feel a little sickish under the circumstances.”
“Well, it’s for their good. Good gracious, we don’t torture them! What else are you to do with manic-depressive lunatics in the manic stage—except the padded cell or the strait jacket?”
“Yes, I agree. But suppose they don’t happen to be lunatics?”
Tremayne stared at the police officer for a moment.
“You don’t surely think . . .”
“I think nothing at this stage,” cut in Morgan. “I’m only interested in facts. Let’s forget the sickishness. The photo was fact number one. This sheet is fact number two. That only leaves us with four more. We’re advancing.”
He turned the articles over for a moment idly.
“This seems a silly, childish sort of thing,” he said, pulling out the balloons with the bicycle pump attachment. “I wonder precisely what amusement Crispin got out of blowing up balloons?”
“It isn’t an ordinary bicycle pump,” interrupted Tremayne. “See—this attachment is a special fitment.”
“I don’t quite see the idea of it, though.”
“I do. We use something like it in the laboratory. Got a gas stove here?”
“Yes, downstairs somewhere.”
The two went down to the kitchen and, under the disapproving eyes of Morgan’s wife, the police surgeon demonstrated how the pump could be used for filling the balloons with coal gas.
“The pressure in a gas tap isn’t enough to inflate a balloon against the full pressure of the taut rubber. So this bicycle pump attachment has to be used to inflate the thing.”
With the concentration of the scientist, so like the engrossment of the playing child, Tremayne pumped a balloon full of gas and tied the opening with a piece of string, supplied by Mrs Morgan, who watched the operation scornfully.
“I’m surprised at you,” she said. “Two grown men wasting your time like this!”
The two grown men ignored her protest.
“Now watch her go up!” said Tremayne with a laugh, as he prepared to release the balloon. But his attention was caught by a blotchy smeared painting on the surface, and he examined it more closely. “Funny, there’s some design here.” He rubbed a sensitive finger tip carefully over the taut surface. “I believe it’s luminous paint. Put out the light and let’s have a look.”
Mrs Morgan put her foot down.
“Look here, if you’re gong to play games, you must get out of my kitchen! We take life seriously in here. The dinner’s cooking. Go on, out you go.”
Tremayne and Morgan were forced to retire to the sitting room again, and Morgan turned out the light. Tremayne released the balloon. It floated to the ceiling and bobbed there, a gently pulsing globe of light which formed itself into a face—shapeless and yet vaguely pitiful, like that of some unfortunate monster.
“Good God,” exclaimed the detective. “This Crispin creature seems to have had some nice toys!”
“She certainly does. A pity we can’t get a low-down on some of the other things,” said Tremayne, as he turned on the light and recaptured the balloons.
“They’re beyond me at the moment. But we may do so later. Look here, do you know anything about this fellow Wood?”
“Wood? Who’s he?”
“A doctor chap specialising in psychology. He’s got a smart Mayfair place.”
“There are plenty of doctor chaps specialising in psychology. Let me see—Wood . . . Is he a silvery-haired, soft-mannered, man-of-the-world type—the kind of man you instinctively like and feel on friendly terms with from the first meeting?”
“Yes. Do you know him then?”
Tremayne shook his head.
“No, I know the type. The psychological doctors with Mayfair practices are like that.”
He sighed regretfully.
“It’s nice easy work, and paying too. Better than this lousy job of mine! But I haven’t the manner, you see, or the right shade of hair. People don’t instinctively like me.”
“Do you mean he’s bogus then?” asked Morgan, brightening a little.
“All doctors who get on and can afford to live in Mayfair are bogus,” replied Tremayne cynically. “At least that’s my opinion. Call it sour grapes if you like. I used to want to be a fashionable psychologist—hence my two years’ asylum experience. But it just happened I didn’t have that soothing effect on the half-witted which is part of the natural equipment of the successful alienist. The nutty find me irritating. Hence here I am carving up corpses. They can’t protest. I get on with them splendidly. Your man’s all right, I expect. Why did you ask? Is there anything fishy about him?”
“Only that, although I felt friendly towards him in the beginning, I’ve now got good reason to believe he played me a dirty trick, so I’d like to get something on him.”
“Criminally dirty?”
“Not exactly. He’s shielding a criminal.”
“Against the strong arm of the law? Bad, that! But doctors aren’t taught to have much respect for the law, you know. The difference we are supposed to make is between the sound and the sick, not between the law-abiding citizen and the criminal. Still, I’ll look up Wood when I get home.”
“I’ve got a medical directory here, if you’d like to glance at it. The qualifications will mean more to you than they do to me.”
Tremayne skimmed rapidly through the big volume.
“Here we are. Wood. Yes, he seems all right. Ah, here’s his psychiatric experience. That’s strange. He was at the same place I was—a year or two after, though. I know some of the old crowd there. I’ll get in touch with them, if you like, and find out your man’s record.”
“Thanks. I’d be grateful if you would. Not that I think you’re likely to find anything. He does himself too well to be a shady doctor. I don’t know much about wine, but the cigar he gave me was the cigar of an honest man.”
4
Morgan’s peace next morning was disturbed by an anguished telephone call from Belmont Avenue. There were still servants there. The trustees of what property Crispin had left—Barclay’s Bank, appointed trustees by a simple will which left everything to any relatives who could be traced—had managed to persuade Crispin’s servants to remain on in the house until Crispin’s sister was found.
It was one of them who sent the urgent call for help to Morgan.
“For God’s sake, send someone from the copper station,” she had cried down the telephone. “There’s ghosts or murderers in the house, God knows which!”
Morgan responded to this SOS by going down himself. He found the cook excited but full of fighting spirit. “The other two have gone, the silly little bastards,” she explained. “But I’ve stayed on. I’m not afraid!” She waved a paper dramatically.
“What exactly has happened?”
“Well, one says we’re all going to be poisoned, and the other started to see things, and between the pair of them you don’t know where you are. Anne came rushing in here to say there was a snake as thick as my leg chasing her down the corridor. When I went out with the poker, I couldn’t see a thing. But Anne’s hopped off, so she must have seen something. I told her she’d lose her week’s wages, but she said she’d rather lose a week’s money than be pushing up daisies.
“You follow me,” said the cook, leading Morgan into the former séance room. “None of us ever goes in here now except to clean it. Well, May went in to sweep it, and went out to empty the dust with the door left open. When she came back, she found the blessed dog had run inside and was having fits on the mat. Just like the master died—or mistress, as I suppose he was—although it’s difficult to get the hang of it. That dog was carrying on and screaming like something human.”
“Well, where is he now?”
“Here he is, poor beggar,” she said, pointing in the corner.
Morgan removed the sheet of brown paper which had been put over the animal. Its back was arched in a sharp reverse curve, and its legs were tightly drawn under it as if it were taking a flying leap through the air. The lips were pulled back from the teeth in an agonised snarl, and the teeth were tightly clenched. It was stone dead.
“Had the dog eaten anything?” he asked.
“Just the usual scraps. There they are on the plate, what’s left of them. But what frightened May was its dying in the very same room as the other one, just the same way. It put May in such a taking that she rushed out of the house. I thought I’d best ring you up, and I’ll tell you straight, I’m not staying long here myself! I’m not frightened, but I like comfort and company, and you won’t get either with these goings on.”
“I don’t altogether blame you,” remarked Morgan, wrapping the plate of scraps in a piece of paper. “It’s not too pleasant to be alone in a house where these kinds of things happen.”
“As for seeing snakes, I’m surprised at Anne,” went on the cook. “She’s always been a level-headed girl before this, and it’s a bit early in the day for her to get lit up. I’ve known her to drink a drop before, but there—who are we to judge? I like a bit myself.”
