The Christmas Card Crime and Other Stories Page 8

  Cornford shook his head.

  “You say you heard the person, whoever it was, leave the room as you were coming downstairs?” Shadgold went on, rubbing vigorously at his toothbrush moustache.

  “I heard somebody moving about,” corrected Lowe. “Also there is the fact that the lamp had only recently been put out.”

  “You don’t know anything about this, do you?” Shadgold glared at the landlord.

  “What should I know about it?” retorted Cornford. “There ain’t no reason why I should want to kill the feller. I never saw ’im till tonight!”

  “What were you doing up?” asked Lowe, and noted the momentary hesitation before the landlord replied.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he answered, passing his tongue over his dry lips. “That blessed shutter was making such a row. I came down to see if I couldn’t fix it!”

  The sound of protesting voices reached them from upstairs, and in the light of the lamp that Shadgold had placed on a table Lowe saw a collection of scantily dressed figures being shepherded down the stairs by White.

  “I’ve wakened everybody,” said the secretary, “except the girl.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to waken her,” said Lowe. “We can’t make any exceptions!”

  “I can’t waken her,” said White. “She isn’t there!”

  * * *

  “Take me up to the girl’s room,” muttered Lowe beneath his breath to his secretary.

  White led the way upstairs to the end of a long passage and paused before an open door on the right.

  “This is the room,” he said, and Lowe entered the tiny chamber.

  It was in pitch darkness, but this was dispelled when Lowe lighted the candle. On the floor was the girl’s suitcase. It was open and the contents lay strewn in every direction. There was evidence of frantic haste here—haste on the part of somebody, presumably the girl herself. A dark object caught his eye among the crumpled bedclothes—a dark, furry object—and as he straightened out the none-too-clean coverlet, he saw that it was the threadbare coat with the fur collar which she had been wearing.

  Moving away from the bed his foot struck something, and bending down to see what it was he found the girl’s handbag. It was lying half under the bed, and, like the suitcase, had been opened and its contents scattered on the floor.

  He collected the scattered contents and put them on the bed. There was a nearly used-up lipstick; a flat, metal container for face powder; a nail file; a little purse containing a shilling, some coppers, and a pound note; a handkerchief, and a letter—or rather the envelope of a letter—addressed to Iris Lake, 125b, Coram Street, W.C.2.

  He noticed that the faded curtain which draped the window had been caught up, where someone in shutting the window had rammed a bit of the hem between the window and the wooden crosspiece. Only a person in a terrible hurry—or panic—would have overlooked that and left it.

  He went over to the window and pushed it up as far as it would go. Outside, and barely two feet from the window, was the flat roof of a one-storey extension to the main building. Outlined in white by the snow, several chimney stacks were visible, but what interested him most was the unmistakable tracks of feet in the snow on the rooftop.

  It did not take him long to visualize what had happened. Someone had entered the girl’s room. Possibly she had been stunned. Then something had alarmed the intruder, he had picked up the senseless girl and carried her out on to the roof and hidden behind the stack until the alarm had passed. He shut the window.

  They went downstairs again and found the coffee-room deserted. Shadgold had evidently marshalled the others in the bar.

  “We’ll take a look outside,” said Lowe, and as he opened the front door a swirling cloud of snow blinded him.

  He switched on the torch that he had taken from White’s hand and swept the light over the white expanse of snow that seemed to stretch away to infinity in front of the door. The virgin whiteness was undisturbed by mark or footstep.

  Fighting their way in the teeth of the howling gale, the driving snow making their cheeks smart and tingle, they made a complete circuit of the old building, and presently found themselves back in the porch from whence they had started. And in every direction all around the inn the thick carpet of snow lay smooth and undisturbed.

  “That settles it,” said Lowe, as he opened the door and they thankfully entered the comparative warmth of the hall. “No one came from outside and no one has left from within.”

  “Which means that the girl is somewhere on the premises,” said Arnold White, vigorously rubbing his numbed hands.

  “Also the murderer of William Makepiece!” added Trevor Lowe gravely.

  * * *

  Shadgold appeared at the half-glass door leading into the bar as they came in.

  “Hallo!” he grunted. “Where have you been?”

  Lowe explained, wiping the melting snow from his face and neck with his handkerchief.

  “H’m!” grunted the Scotland Yard man. “Then the killer is amongst that bunch I’ve got in there.”

  “Have you succeeded in discovering anything?” asked the dramatist.

  Shadgold shook his head gloomily.

  “They all swear they were in bed and asleep and heard nothing until White roused them. And they all deny having known Makepiece or ever having seen him before until they met him on the train.” He rubbed irritably at the back of his coarse neck. “Of course, somebody’s lying,” he grunted, “but the difficulty is to find out who. Not one of them has got an alibi, except Cornford.”

  “What’s his alibi?” asked Lowe.

  “His wife,” answered the Scotland Yard man. “If you can call her an alibi. She confirms his story that he came down to see if he could fasten the banging shutter, and that he didn’t move from her side until then. She remembers noting the time by the alarm clock they keep in their room, and it was half past two when Cornford got up.”

  “Well, somebody wasn’t in bed,” said Lowe. “Before we go any further I think we ought to find Miss Lake.”

  “Who’s Miss Lake?” demanded Shadgold, and then: “Oh, you mean the girl?”

  “I feel sure she’s in the building,” said the dramatist, and he gave the inspector a brief account of his discoveries.

  “It certainly sounds bad,” agreed Shadgold. “I think you’re right, we ought to find out what has become of her.”

  It was not until they searched the fourth room on the landing that they were rewarded for their diligence. The cupboard here refused to open when Lowe tried the handle.

  “What is it?” grunted Shadgold.

  “I can’t get this cupboard open,” said the dramatist. “It’s locked. See if you can find anything to break it open with.”

  “This’ll do,” said Shadgold, handing him a short, rusty, iron poker.

  Trevor Lowe took it, forced the point between the edge of the cupboard door and the jamb and pressed against it with all his strength. There was a cracking of splintering wood, and then with a loud snap that was like the report of a pistol the lock gave. As it did so the door swung open of its own accord, and something heavy that had been leaning against it fell out with a soft thud at their feet.

  It was Iris Lake!

  Her ankles and wrists had been tied with cord and a rough gag had been secured about her mouth. She was clad only in a thin suit of pyjamas and her hands and face were blue with cold. On her forehead was an ugly bruise and for a moment Lowe thought she was dead. He lifted the girl up, laid her on the bed, and untied the handkerchief that was tightly bound about her mouth.

  She gave a little moan and stirred restlessly, but her eyes remained closed.

  With his pocketknife Lowe slashed through the cords at wrists and ankles. Her hands were like blocks of ice, and he rubbed them vigorously to restore the circulation.

  “
See if you can get some brandy,” he said sharply.

  Presently Shadgold returned with a bottle and a glass, and followed by the agitated and indignant Mr Willings.

  “’Ere, what’s all this?” whined the little cockney. “What d’yer want me up here for?” and then, as his eyes lighted on the figure on the bed: “Struth! ’Ow did she get ’ere?”

  “That’s what we’re waiting for you to tell us,” said the dramatist harshly.

  “Me?” Mr Willings’ voice was even shriller than usual in his excitement. “Why ask me? ’Ow should I know?”

  “This is your room, isn’t it?” asked Lowe, pouring some brandy out into a glass.

  “Yus, it’s my room all right,” answered the other, “but what’s that got to do with it?”

  “I’ll tell you in a moment.”

  After great difficulty Lowe succeeded in getting the girl to swallow about a tablespoonful of brandy. When he had done this he set the glass down and turned his attention to the unhappy Mr Willings.

  “Now,” he said, “you say you don’t know how this lady came to be in your room? You were either lying when you said you hadn’t left your room previously, or you’re responsible for the condition of this girl.”

  “’Ow do you make that out?”

  There was a silence, and Mr Willings licked his dry lips.

  “Oh, well,” he said, “I suppose I’d better make a clean breast of it. As a matter of fact I wasn’t in this ’ere room all the time. You see, it was like this ’ere. I went to bed and went to sleep, but the noise the wind was making and the banging and the creaking woke me up. Lyin’ awake I began to feel thirsty, an’ I thought ’ow good a nice drop of beer would taste, so I hopped up and pulled on me coat and went down to the bar. I was afraid it might be locked; but the door was open and I went in and drew meself a pint. That’s the truth, and there ain’t nothin’ criminal in that!”

  “What time was it when you went down for the beer?” said Lowe.

  “I couldn’t tell you that,” answered the other. “But it wasn’t very long before your friend came round waking everybody up.”

  “When you went down for the beer,” said Lowe, “did you see or hear anybody about?”

  The little man hesitated before replying.

  “Well I did and I didn’t,” he said at length. “What I mean is, I thought there was somebody about, but I may ’ave been mistaken. The wind was making funny noises.”

  “You heard something,” said Trevor Lowe quickly, and again there was a hesitation before he got a reply.

  “Well, yus, I did,” said Mr Willings reluctantly. “And it wasn’t so much what I ’eard as what I felt. I could ’ave sworn that while I was drawin’ that there beer I was bein’ watched.”

  “Did you see someone then?” asked Lowe, as he paused.

  The little man shook his head.

  “No, I didn’t see no one, and I didn’t properly ’ear anyone. It was just a feelin’.”

  “H’m!” said Lowe. “Well, you ought to have told us all this before. After you’d had your beer and got back to your room did you hear anything then?”

  “No, nothing,” was the answer. “I was so perishin’ cold that I pulled the bedclothes right up over me head and tried to get warm again.”

  Before Lowe could frame the next question a long quivering sigh from the girl attracted his attention, and, bending over the bed, he saw that her eyes were open. She was gazing up at him blankly without any sign of recognition, and as he stooped closer he saw that her lips were moving. No words came at first, and then faintly—so faintly as to be almost inaudible—she spoke.

  “The Christmas card,” she whispered. “Don’t let them get it. Don’t let—”

  The feeble voice faded away into silence. Her eyes closed, and with another long sigh she relapsed into unconsciousness again.

  * * *

  There came a hurried step outside the door of the little parlour and a second later it was thrown open. Shadgold, breathing a little quickly and with his red face flushed with excitement, came in hastily.

  “I’ve made a discovery, Lowe,” he jerked. “I’ve found out what Makepiece was.”

  Lowe looked up interestedly. He had been sitting thoughtfully in front of the fire.

  “What was he?” he asked.

  “You heard of Cranston and Small?” said the inspector, and a curious light came into Trevor Lowe’s eyes as he nodded.

  “You mean the firm of private investigators who handle so much divorce work?” he said.

  “They’re the people,” answered Shadgold. “Well, William Makepiece was on their staff. He was a detective!”

  There was no doubt about the dead man’s identity; the contents of a wallet which Shadgold had found in his room provided ample testimony in the shape of letters, and several visiting cards.

  “A detective, was he?” said Lowe thoughtfully. “H’m. Well, that gives us a new angle. His firm will be able to state what business he was engaged on, and that may help.”

  “If he was engaged on any,” answered the inspector. “You’ve always got to take into consideration, Mr Lowe, that this is the holiday season. He may only have been on his way to spend Christmas somewhere.”

  “The thing that puzzles me, Shadgold, is the torn half of that Christmas card. Where is the other half? Did the person who killed Makepiece remove it, and if so why didn’t he remove the whole? There was obviously no struggle, so it didn’t get torn accidentally. And what has the girl got to do with it?”

  There came a tap on the door and without waiting for an invitation the surly faced landlord slouched in, a worried look on his unpleasant face. He stopped just within the open doorway and looked from one to the other hesitantly.

  “What is it? What do you want?” growled Shadgold.

  Cornford advanced another step and cleared his throat. When he spoke his voice was dry and husky.

  “I wanted to have a word with yer,” he said.

  “Do you know something?” snapped the Scotland Yard man eagerly.

  The landlord nodded slowly.

  “Yus, I know somethin’,” he replied. “Tain’t much, but I think I oughta tell yer.” He seemed to find some difficulty in putting his story into words, and they waited expectantly and impatiently. “It’s like this,” said Cornford, after a pause, “one of those fellers ’as been lying to yer. I can prove—”

  What he could prove they never knew, for at that instant from outside the room came a sharp, spitting crack, and the landlord’s face sagged. His jaw dropped and his little black eyes opened wide. A stupid look of astonishment crossed his ugly face, and both his hands went to his back. He tried to speak, groaned, and fell forward.

  With a startled exclamation Lowe caught him as he slumped to the ground, easing his fall.

  A second shot whistled past Shadgold’s ear as he made a dash for the door, and then a heavy object struck him in the face, and with a cry of pain he staggered backwards. There was a sharp thud as something fell on the floor of the little room.

  The man in Lowe’s arms gave a convulsive shudder and his head fell limply backwards. Lowe took one look at the landlord’s face and knew that Joe Cornford would never utter the words he had been about to speak. He was dead! And the weapon that had killed him lay a few feet away, shining dully blue in the light from the lamp on the table.

  As he lowered the limp form of the landlord to the floor Trevor Lowe heard an excited shout followed by the sound of running feet, and a second later Arnold White appeared in the open doorway.

  “What was the shooting?” he began, and stopped abruptly as he saw the thing at the dramatist’s feet.

  “That’s what the shooting was,” said Lowe grimly, pointing down at all that was left of Joe Cornford. “He was shot through the doorway. Did you see anyone?”

  White shook
his head.

  “Not a soul,” he replied. “I was upstairs having a wash when I heard the shots, and hurried down at once, but I saw no one.”

  Shadgold, dabbing at the red weal across his face, grunted savagely.

  “I’m going to find out where everyone was,” he growled, and without waiting for a reply strode across the hall to the coffee-room. Jerking open the door, he glared in.

  The meek-faced Mr Pilbeam was sitting hunched up in a chair before the fire. He was apparently asleep, for he jumped up with a start when Shadgold spoke.

  “Where are the others?” demanded the Scotland Yard man, glaring round the empty room.

  “I—I don’t know,” stammered Mr Pilbeam. “They were here when I fell asleep.”

  The burly inspector eyed him suspiciously.

  “Been asleep, have you?” he snapped. “You sure of that?”

  “C-c-course I’m sure,” stammered the meek little man. “Y-y-you woke me up, bursting in like that.”

  “H’m! Well, you stay where you are.” The inspector swung round as a murmur of startled voices reached his ears. The rest of the party were crowding down the staircase, and bringing up the rear was the unkempt figure of Mrs Cornford, the landlady.

  “What was all that bangin’?” demanded Arty Willings, as he saw Shadgold. “Sounded like somebody shootin’.”

  “It was somebody shooting,” answered the Scotland Yard man curtly. “Where have you people been?”

  A chorus of voices answered him. It seemed useless to expect to get any more sleep that night and, scantily clad as they were, they had begun to feel chilly in spite of the fire in the coffee-room, so they had decided to slip up to their rooms and dress.

  “Well, you can all go into the coffee-room,” snapped Shadgold, “and you can stay there, do you understand? No one is to leave that room without my permission.”

  At that moment the voice of the landlady came to him, and Lowe went out into the hall to see what she wanted. He found her standing on the stairs.

  “You asked me to tell yer,” said the woman, “when that girl was awake. Well, she is.”