The Fourth Door, page 8
I held up my hands in a gesture of appeasement. ‘Enough! You’ll have plenty of time to squabble after I’ve gone. Speaking of which, I’d better be on my way. It’s nearly eight-thirty, and I need to stop by at Mr White’s place.’
‘Is it really as urgent as all that?’ asked John. ‘Couldn’t you see him tomorrow?’
‘Actually, it’s not Mr White who asked for the meeting. It’s Inspector Drew. I think he has some more questions.’
‘Poor Mr White,’ Elizabeth commented. ‘Don’t you think the police ought to spare him the inconvenience, after everything he’s been through?’
‘I wouldn’t worry about him,’ I said. ‘He isn’t brooding; he’s quite convinced that the body found in that room is not his son, even though everyone else was positive. Anyway…’
With that, I thanked them again for the excellent meal and took my leave.
Outside, a biting cold and a pale moon were my only companions as I scurried along the deserted street. As I walked, I recalled the night of the tragedy, running through the events in chronological order. There was something strange that I could not quite pin down. I could say when it occurred, but not why it was bothering me. It was our second climb up the staircase to the attic: we entered the corridor, we knocked on the door… and no answer came. We removed the seals… we opened the door… we found the body…
No, that’s not it. I’m getting carried away. The curious impression came to me just as…
Ah! If only I could remember. Was it a gesture? A word? A sight? A sound? There’s no point racking my brains; it will come to me as soon as I stop thinking about it.
I had no way of knowing then that if I had just managed to work out what I had seen, I would inevitably have uncovered the diabolical method employed by the murderer. And, as a result, another monstrous crime would have been prevented; a crime whose motive has never been made public, and for good reason.
You will soon see what I’m talking about. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
It was nearly quarter-past nine when Arthur finished recounting the night of the tragedy. He was so precise, and accurate on every point, that there was no need for me to interrupt him. Drew, who was sitting in a comfortable armchair with his arms folded over his chest, shook his head with a slight smile.
‘I’m afraid that your account, while remarkably detailed, contains nothing new.’ He turned his piercing gaze in my direction. ‘What about you, Mr Stevens? Have you nothing to add? Perhaps a point that Mr White may have missed?’
‘No,’ I replied, lighting a cigarette so that I might look away from those two probing blue eyes. ‘There’s nothing to add; Mr White has recounted the evening perfectly, and since he and I were together the entire time, there’s nothing else I can say.’
Arthur narrowed his eyes slightly, drawing a lungful of smoke from his pipe. ‘This is the third time I’ve recounted these events in forty-eight hours,’ he said. ‘I imagine you know them well enough that you might have been there yourself.’
‘Scotland Yard does not believe in ghosts,’ Drew said abruptly.
‘Everyone has a right to their beliefs,’ Arthur retorted. After a pregnant silence, he continued, ‘By the way, what about your theory that the dead man closed the window in his final moments, after the murderer was gone?’
Drew’s eyes flashed, but he maintained a measured tone. ‘It was an early theory, purely to demonstrate that the crime was not necessarily committed by a phantom. It’s unlikely that events really transpired that way. For one thing, there were no fingerprints on the window handle. And for another, the medical examiner indicates it would have been impossible for your son to move about after receiving such a heavy wound.’
Arthur looked annoyed. ‘For the last time, the dead man is not my son.’
Drew looked down at his shoes, with that same smile on his lips. ‘Let’s be reasonable, Mr White,’ he said in a tone that was presumably intended to be conciliatory. ‘Everyone who saw the body identified it as your son. I can quite understand that you’re unwilling to believe it, but we must face facts.’
‘Indeed, Mr White,’ I said diplomatically, ‘it was Henry. Believe me, if there were any room for doubt I would be the first to express reservations.’
Arthur was unmoved. A leaden silence descended as Drew slipped a cigarette between his thin lips, lit it and cleared his throat before continuing, ‘This is a strange case, to say the least.’
‘Quite,’ I agreed. ‘When a man is found murdered in a hermetically sealed room, the least one can say is that—’
‘Yes, yes, but that’s not my point,’ Drew rejoined. ‘Mr White, it’s three years since you were attacked and left unconscious on the path outside this house, isn’t that right?’
‘Perfectly correct,’ Arthur said with a note of annoyance in his voice. ‘I even remember telling police at the time that I saw someone carrying a body into the woods just before I lost consciousness… though nobody seemed to think it was particularly important.’
Drew, in turn, seemed annoyed. ‘What do you mean, not important? The woods were searched, no body was found, no disappearances were reported in the area. What else would you have had us do?’
‘My son disappeared,’ Arthur snapped. ‘What do you call that?’
The fact that Arthur was a famous novelist no doubt persuaded Drew to remain calm. ‘I was getting to that,’ he said gently. ‘Immediately after the attack, your son disappears. However, a few days later he reappears in two different places at the same time. This is extraordinary enough, but the story does not end there. He then manages to infiltrate a hermetically sealed room, and finds a way to get himself stabbed to death in there.’ Drew was now struggling to contain himself. ‘I might as well warn you, Mr White, the truth of this affair will come out, no matter who is responsible. I have never failed, and I don’t intend to start now.’
The doorbell rang.
‘That will be Victor,’ said Arthur, getting to his feet. But he changed his mind. ‘Ah, no, I’ve just heard a car pull up. It must be some other visitor. Excuse me for a moment, please.’
He left the room, and Drew and I remained there in silence, listening intently.
We heard what sounded like a cry of surprise, then a car engine starting up, and then nothing. Finally, there came a series of exclamations. When Arthur spilled back into the room, he looked to be weeping with joy. Behind him stood a dim silhouette, which became clear as it stepped into the light.
My heart stopped. My reason left me. It was Henry. Henry, in the flesh.
4
AN AUDIENCE WITH THE PSYCHOLOGIST
‘Hello, James old man,’ said my friend with a broad grin.
I hugged him tightly, then held him at arm’s length to get a proper look at him. ‘Henry! Is it really you?’
A tear formed at the corner of his eye, then sluiced down his cheek. ‘It’s good to see you again, James. Really, you’ve no idea,’ he murmured, clearly moved. This was Henry all right; only he could speak with such tenderness.
‘Inspector Drew,’ said Arthur, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief, ‘allow me to present my son, Henry.’
Drew, whose facial muscles were straining to produce a smile, spoke in honeyed tones that positively dripped with acid. ‘Delighted, young man. Delighted.’ He looked like the devil himself, plotting a terrible vengeance. His green eyes flashed and his face had taken on a curious hue, like an old man suffering a gallbladder complaint.
In my euphoria, I couldn’t help but cry out, ‘Henry’s back!’
With the smile still frozen on his face, Drew bared his teeth. For a moment he looked as though he might unsheathe a set of claws and pounce on my friend to devour him whole. He contented himself, however, with a sneer.
‘Henry,’ I said in a voice I scarcely recognised, ‘how—? Why—?’
My head was spinning and my knees buckled. I was immensely glad of the armchair behind me. It must have been my obvious shock that provoked Arthur to action. Trembling with emotion, he made for the drinks cabinet.
‘We must drink a toast to Henry’s return!’ he declared in a strident voice to mask his emotion. ‘To Henry!’
There were a thousand questions I might have asked, but my throat felt constricted; I remained motionless in my seat, my mind refusing to focus. But there was nothing wrong with my eyes: Drew was studying Henry carefully; Arthur, his face aglow with joy, was filling four glasses to the brim; Henry had come over and slipped an arm around my shoulders.
Arthur downed his drink in a single gulp, closed his eyes thoughtfully, reopened them, and said, ‘Three years. Why three years of silence, son?’ His tone was solemn, and full of sorrow.
‘Why indeed?’ echoed Drew sardonically.
Henry hung his head, and did not reply.
‘They said you were dead,’ Arthur continued. ‘I knew you weren’t, but all the same… And who’s this man that was found dead next door? Do you know about it, Henry? Have you seen it in the papers? They are all saying it was you…’
Henry looked each of us in the face, then nodded.
‘Yes, just who is the dead man?’ asked Drew with icy sweetness.
Hanging his head again, Henry paced up and down a little, before pausing and finally blurting out, ‘He was my partner, an American named Bob Farr.’
‘So you’ve been in America all this time?’ Arthur asked, his eyes wide.
‘Yes…’ Henry paused. ‘I… We… Among other things, we performed an escapology routine together. He was a circus acrobat when I met him. When we first clapped eyes on each other, it was like a bolt of lightning. We both realised instantly how useful our remarkable resemblance could be. What are the chances – two men who look identical, and happen to work in the same profession! We certainly made the most of it; we had huge success with our escapology act. We could appear and disappear at will, and the audience thought they were watching only one man! And now… Bob’s dead.’
There was an agonised silence.
Arthur, who had managed to control himself so far, suddenly broke down in tears.
‘Bob Farr is dead,’ said Drew, his eyes reflecting the twin curls of cigarette smoke that coiled from his nostrils. ‘Could you tell me, young man, what your partner was doing next door the evening before last?’
‘No,’ replied Henry, ‘I can’t tell you anything yet. No, not yet.’
‘Not yet,’ repeated Drew, examining the glowing tip of his cigarette with a Mephistophelean smile. ‘Very well. In that case, perhaps you can tell me whether or not he had any enemies? He was murdered, after all.’
Henry shook his head.
‘All right, all right,’ Drew continued. ‘By the way, have you heard about the strange circumstances surrounding your partner’s death?’
‘I read it in the papers. He was found in the attic, stabbed to death.’
‘Yes,’ Drew concurred, ‘that’s what the papers said. They’re not wrong, but they left out certain details. Certain details which I will be glad to explain to you. But first, when did you arrive from America?’
‘I set foot on English soil a few hours ago. I took the first train to Oxford, and got a taxi from there.’
‘Good. Very good, very good. Excellent.’ Drew had taken a notebook from his pocket and was making notes. ‘I won’t ask your father to describe the tragic events, or your friend who is still clearly beside himself. I shall tell you the story myself.’
When he had reached the conclusion, the inspector asked Henry, ‘What do you make of that, young man? Since you are apparently an expert in sleight-of-hand, perhaps you can assist us. Any ideas what clever method the murderer used?’
Henry did not answer. His head was in his hands.
‘Inspector,’ he finally said, ‘there’s nothing I can tell you. Nothing… yet.’
Arthur, who was studying his son anxiously, got up from his chair and spoke to Drew. ‘Inspector, I don’t mean to be rude but… well, I haven’t seen my son for three years. I’m sure you can understand.’
Still watching Henry, Drew got slowly to his feet. ‘I understand perfectly, Mr White.’ He gathered his belongings and wrapped himself in his long, beige scarf and elegant overcoat. Then he approached Henry with a feline smile. ‘A word of advice, young man. Don’t stray too far from home for the time being. And remember there are no secrets when Inspector Drew is around. I shall come and see you tomorrow, for a friendly little chat.’
With that, Drew bowed stiffly and withdrew. The front door slammed behind him.
‘What a curious fellow,’ said Henry after a pause.
‘Put yourself in his place,’ said Arthur. ‘He has an incredibly strange case on his hands. And please, my boy, don’t pretend you don’t know what Bob Farr was doing here.’
Another silence descended, and I was the one who broke it. ‘Henry, did you know somebody attacked your father the night you disappeared? And a few days later I saw you at Oxford Station, while the Latimers saw you at the exact same moment at Paddington? I realise now they must have seen Bob Farr instead. Please, Henry, tell us everything. Don’t stand there in silence. The inspector’s gone, you can come clean with us now!’
Henry gave us a pleading, tearful look. ‘Father. James. Don’t ask me yet. Don’t ask any questions. One day soon, I’ll tell you everything. You’ll understand it all then. But I’m begging you, please don’t ask me any more questions. I need some time to think.’
Early the following morning, Drew returned to question Henry. The interview didn’t last long, and the inspector left the house a quarter of an hour later, looking furious, with his head bowed. Watching with my nose pressed against the bedroom window, I could tell instantly what had happened: Henry had faced down the furious Drew, and hadn’t said a word.
The day passed as I had expected; the whole village was taken aback to learn of Henry’s miraculous resurrection. By the time Mother returned from shopping, everybody knew; the baker, the grocer, the butcher – to name just a few – had only one word on their lips: Henry.
I didn’t set foot outside that day, and remained locked in my room trying to organise the countless tangled thoughts cluttering my brain. That evening, John and Elizabeth stopped by and my sister, the inquisitor in petticoats, did her best to get the story out of me. I told her everything I knew, which wasn’t much. John and my parents were clearly uneasy, and had little to say. Of course they were delighted that Henry was alive, it was wonderful news, but we were all wondering what was going to happen next – the tension in the air was palpable. And, indeed, it would not be long before the spectre of death fell across the village once again.
Ever since Henry’s return, Inspector Drew had not strayed far. He was constantly on the prowl, knocking on doors, firing questions at the neighbours. Naturally my parents and I received a visit. He questioned us at length about Henry; about his childhood, his interests, his character. The Psychologist was on the case.
The press remained relatively circumspect. There were two or three paragraphs on the incorrect identification of the corpse, but nothing further. Naturally we had expected it to be splashed across the headlines: Locked-Room Murder! Son of famous author returns from the dead! Arthur clearly carried a lot more influence than I had thought.
The following evening, I went to see Henry. He spoke to me at great length about his time in America, about his shows with Bob Farr, and how the incredible resemblance between them had mystified audiences everywhere they went. I asked him what he was planning to do now.
‘I don’t know, James,’ he answered. ‘I need to take stock. But I just don’t know.’
When I brought up the taboo subject of Bob Farr’s murder, all he said was ‘Later, James. I need time to think.’
Then came that infamous evening. An evening I will never forget, like everyone else who happened to be there – particularly Chief Inspector Drew.
It was almost a week since Henry’s return. At Drew’s request, Arthur had gathered everyone involved in the affair at his home that icy November evening. The fireplace crackled, but it made little difference to the frosty atmosphere in that room. There was also the matter of the two uniformed police officers Drew had brought with him – they also cast a certain chill. Particularly since they were stationed by the door, as though to prevent us from leaving.
The Latimers sat side by side on the sofa. Alice looked pale, and clung to her husband for support. He, too, seemed rather uncomfortable. To their right, John and Elizabeth sat positively quivering with anticipation. Arthur and Victor were settled in armchairs, while Henry and I sat by the fireplace. Henry looked rather elegant in a grey velvet suit, with a burgundy bow tie that contrasted boldly with his pale blue shirt. With his elbows propped on his knees and his gaze fixed on the ground, he wrung his hands anxiously.
Chief Inspector Drew stood staring into the fireplace, his hands behind his back. Then he turned abruptly to face us all, and spoke theatrically.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the mystery surrounding the death of Bob Farr is now solved. Now that you are all gathered here, I may tell you that the Machiavellian assassin is in this very room.’
There was a ripple of terror among the guests, but nobody said a word. Drew calmly lit a cigarette, inhaled a few pulls of smoke, then continued, ‘First, I must ask that none of you interrupt me. It may not seem that everything I am telling you is strictly relevant to the case, but I assure you now that it is. So even if what I am saying seems nonsensical, do not interrupt.’
Drew reached into his jacket pocket and produced a rubber ball which he began to bounce up and down in the palm of his hand. There was a devilish smile on his lips. He showed the little ball to his subordinates.
