Knock, Murderer, Knock! Page 18

  Palk snorted more loudly than before.

  “A free-lance!” he exclaimed looking significantly at Sergeant Jago, who had been standing quietly in the corner throughout the interview. “I ought to have guessed it as soon as I heard about last night’s affair. No one else would have had the nerve to try such a thing. You journalists would take a morbid interest in the murder of your own mothers if it brought you in any money. As if it isn’t enough to have a woman writer of thrillers in the Hydro without your coming as well! And you thought you’d put me off the truth with that precious newspaper advertisement of yours! I suppose you don’t mind admitting that you really came here because of the murders?”

  “That’s... that’s really the case, I’m afraid, Inspector.”

  “I’ve a good mind to tell all the people in the Hydro who you are,” said Palk. “I suppose you wouldn’t like me to do that, eh?”

  “No, no,” said Mr. Winkley hastily. “Don’t do that. It would place me in a very awkward position.”

  “Well, I won’t,” replied Palk, “but you needn’t think it’s for your sweet sake. I shall take steps to see that none of your stuff gets out of this hotel by post, hand, or ’phone, so I shouldn’t bother to write any of it, if I were you. And now that you are here you’ll have to stay here till you have my permission to leave the place.”

  Mr. Winkley did not appear to be taken aback in the least.

  “I have every intention of staying, Inspector,” he replied.

  “It’s a charming place, and the people are so interesting to talk to.”

  “That’s a matter of taste,” replied Palk. “You can go now, but, remember, no leaving the hotel.”

  Mr. Winkley got up and moved towards the door.

  “Oh, by the way,” Palk called out in sarcastic tones, “I hope you found some interesting clues last night.”

  Mr. Winkley turned.

  “Yes, thanks,” he said quite seriously. “I think I may say that the reconstruction was quite a success. I gained some very valuable information. You ought to try it yourself, Inspector.”

  “Well, whadda’ya know about that!” exclaimed Sergeant Jago to the closed door. The crime story he had last borrowed from the circulating library was one hundred percent American.

  Chapter 32

  On Friday morning, Dr. Williams awoke with the feeling that the day was going to be more unpleasant than usual, and felt puzzled until he realized that this was the day in the month when he received, in person, complaints from anyone in the Hydro who had a grievance, either real or imaginary. As he walked along to his secretary’s office for his customary before-breakfast consultation about the day’s work, he found himself anticipating the form which those complaints would take.

  He would hear that the library was stuffy, and the drawing-room draughty; that the bedrooms were not fit for dogs to sleep in; that a chambermaid had been insolent; that the housekeeper was inefficient; that it was useless to have a wireless set which was always out of order; that the deckchairs were always sopping wet and why couldn’t someone take them out of the rain; that the gardener ought to supply flowers for the bedrooms; that there was a croquet mallet missing and it might be found in someone’s bedroom; that the teapots were chipped and no wonder, since Presteignton Hydro must be the only hotel in the British Isles which did not have metal ones; that there had been a slug in the cabbage.

  Then would come the complaints from the staff, for the doctor prided himself on being scrupulously fair.

  He would hear that the gardener would not dig enough vegetables for the chef; that if the chef more fruit must bottle, ’e more bottles must ’ave; that some b–, h’m, somebody had wheeled a bath-chair over a flower bed; that the bath-attendant had sworn horribly at the electrician; that the electrician had sworn even more horribly at the bath-attendant; that if certain people in the Hydro didn’t stop interfering with the wireless, they must put up with the consequences; that the deck-chairs walked outside on their own legs whenever it rained, after they had been carefully put away; that the gardener wouldn’t be dictated to by that old Admiral who didn’t know a Worcester Pearmain from one of his walking-sticks; that the kitchens, store-rooms, potting-sheds and greenhouses needed enlarging; that there weren’t enough flower-pots, fuses, saucepans, tables, trays, dusters, towels, buckets... and so on.

  People might be murdered in Presteignton Hydro, but complaints would still go on, and if the doctor secretly thought that no other man of forty-one would be fool enough to take on a job in which he was expected to be doctor, manager, host, arbitrator, and peacemaker, he never said so.

  He found his secretary, Miss Lewis, awaiting him in the office which served as an ante-room to his consulting-room. For three years she had served the doctor faithfully and well, a fact which he knew and appreciated; for two years and a half she had loved him, a thing which he did not even suspect.

  ‘‘Well, Miss Lewis, have you quite recovered from your shock of the other evening?” he asked in his cheerful voice.

  “Quite, thank you, Doctor,” she replied. “It was very foolish of me to faint like that. You said that Mr. Winkley could be trusted.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t realize what he was going to let you in for, or I might have stopped him. You’re looking rather pale. Would you like me to make you up a tonic?”

  Gwynneth Lewis thought that he did indeed hold the prescription which would have put colour immediately into her cheeks, if he only knew it, and wondered what he would have thought if she indicated as much to him. A soft little smile played about the corners of her mouth as she replied demurely, “Oh no, thank you. I’m quite all right.”

  “Very well. Is there anything special down for today?” he asked, turning abruptly to work. “Shelve everything that isn’t urgent, won’t you. I’ve got those damned complaints to listen to, and you can just imagine how many more there are likely to be since we’ve had the police searching everyone’s rooms and generally turning the place upside down. I haven’t heard the last of those charabanc trips yet.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything out of the ordinary,” replied Miss Lewis. “Mrs. Napier was making a fuss again yesterday about having to share the bath-chair with Miss Brendon.”

  “That woman’s like a sheep-tick!” exclaimed the doctor. “Once she gets her head into a subject you can’t get it out again. We certainly can’t afford to buy a new chair for her, and, by the look of Palk, she may be arrested at any minute and won’t need a bath-chair for a long, long time. He’ll never convince me that she’s a murderess, however big a nuisance she may be. I’ve told him that it’s a psychological impossibility, but he doesn’t take any notice of me. Thinks I’m trying to divert suspicion from myself probably. After all, I never believed that Chervil is a murderer, though, if I’d been in Palk’s place, I should have arrested him, I expect. No, Miss Lewis, there will be no new bath-chair. Mrs. Napier is able to walk perfectly well if she wants to. Besides, I’m not spending any more money on this place for a long time. It’s quite possible that there will be no residents left here when these murders have been nicely tidied away. They could all leave today if they wanted to, instead of complaining about everything. I can’t imagine why they don’t.”

  “I’ll keep Mrs. Napier quiet,” Miss Lewis assured him, “but she isn’t the only one. They all want to talk to you about Inspector Palk’s order for them to stay here, whether they believe in it or not; but I’ll do my best to keep them away from you.”

  “Good,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Then you don’t want me for anything else now?”

  “No, Doctor,” replied Miss Lewis, wondering how it was possible for the man to be so dense as to believe her.

  “Good,” he said again. “I don’t know what I should do without you,” and Miss Lewis smiled wryly as he went out, knowing that the words meant nothing to him.

  The morning routine over, Dr. Williams returned to breakfast in his own rooms. These were cut off from the rest of the Hydro
by an inner baize door and an outer wooden one marked “Private” in large gilded letters. They were occupied by himself, a cook, a housemaid, a governess, and the little girl who had cost his wife her life nine years ago. Here the doctor slept, smoked, took breakfast and tea, and spent any leisure time he could snatch from his work.

  After breakfast, he entered the sunny day-nursery where Grace was getting ready for lessons. When she saw him she ran and flung her arms around him.

  “Daddy, Daddy, come and see the blue-tits on my coconut.”

  The doctor bent down and kissed her, then ran his fingers up and down the smooth, soft nape of her neck.

  “Not now, Grace. I’m in a hurry.”

  Grace pouted.

  “Oh, but, Daddy, it’s only nine o’clock. You always stay with me till half past.”

  She took his hand and tried to drag him towards the window.

  “Not this morning, dear; I’ve a lot to do.”

  Miss George, the governess, took Grace by the shoulder.

  “You mustn’t worry your father, Grace.”

  Grace wriggled away.

  “It’s complaints day!” she cried. “I know it is. Horrid, horrid old complaints!” Then, as Miss George held her again, “I shall complain to the dear doctor!” she said, tossing her head in a perfect imitation of Miss Astill, and walked across the room, crossing her legs like Mrs. Napier.

  The doctor smiled guiltily at Miss George, and Grace ran and bunted her head lovingly against his coat.

  “You’ll promise to come and have tea with poor Grace,” she coaxed.

  “Of course, dear. You know that nothing could make me miss my nursery tea.” He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “She’s looking a little pale this morning, Miss George,” he went on. “Let her off lessons for today. It will do her good to run about with young Bobby Dawson for a bit.”

  Grace held her breath and stood quite still lest anything she did might put an end to such a splendid idea. Miss George bridled.

  “I’m sure it isn’t overwork that makes her pale, Doctor,” she said. “I’m most careful –”

  “I know that,” replied the doctor hastily. “I’m not questioning anything you do, and I know that her lessons are important. But we are all a little sun-starved just now, and the children show it more quickly. I think we should take advantage of this lovely sunny day; we shan’t get many more like it. I think it would be a good plan to try Grace and Bobby with the sun-ray lamp this winter. I must see about it.”

  “Very well, Doctor.”

  “There, you may run off and find Bobby,” he said, smiling at Grace’s excitement.

  “Oh, thank you, Daddy, you are simply wizardly!” Grace danced up and down for a few minutes, then her face fell. “I wish you could come too,” she said.

  “So I will one day next spring. You and I will go off on our own together in the car, and nobody shall know where we’ve gone to, not even Miss George. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Daddy. Horrid old complaints!”

  About half an hour later, Grace ran out of the Hydro porch, closely followed by Mrs. Dawson’s seven-year-old son Bobby.

  “Just look at those children,” exclaimed Mrs. Napier. “They ought to be taught to walk properly and not allowed to rush about like young hooligans. Really, I’m surprised at the doctor allowing it. Where’s the governess?”

  “She doesn’t seem to be with them,” said Lady Warme. “If she weren’t such a fright one might think that the doctor was... well... interested in her.” But the doctor had chosen Miss George well, and they did not pursue the subject.

  Bobby had succeeded in catching Grace, and they walked along quietly enough in an aimless direction.

  “Where’s your mother?” asked Grace.

  “Trying on a new hat. I think she’s going in to make a complaint to your father.”

  “I wish she wouldn’t worry him,” sighed Grace. “I hate complaints day. It makes him so tired. Can’t you stop her, then there’d be one less anyway?”

  “’Fraid not,” said Bobby apologetically. “I don’t think she really means the complaint though. I think it’s just an excuse to see him. I think she’d like to marry him. Wouldn’t it be grand if she did? But I suppose you wouldn’t like it much.”

  “Oh, it isn’t that,” replied Grace politely, “but I don’t want anyone except Daddy.”

  “I shall marry you when I grow up, then,” said Bobby solemnly.

  “Oh, Bobby, you can’t do that. I’m two years older than you.”

  “Do girls always marry someone older than themselves then?” asked Bobby.

  “Of course they do. Daddy was older than Mummy, and Mr. Marston’s older than Mrs. Marston, and Admiral Urwin’s older than Nurse Hawkins.”

  “But Nurse Hawkins isn’t married to Admiral Urwin,” objected Bobby.

  “I know she isn’t,” replied Grace loftily, “but I heard someone say that if she wasn’t she ought to be, so I suppose it comes to the same thing. Let’s play at being married.”

  “But you said we couldn’t be married because I’m younger than you.”

  “Never mind, let’s pretend.”

  They ran down the sloping bank from the terrace on to the croquet lawn.

  “Look where you’re going,” called out Millie Marston. “You mustn’t run about on the croquet lawn. It’s bad for the turf.”

  Grace, followed by Bobby, swerved down Bachelors’ Walk, narrowly avoiding a collision with Mr. Marston, who had just placed the seventh pebble out of his pocket on the seat to denote that he had walked seven-elevenths of a mile.

  “You children are not supposed to be seen round the front of the Hydro at all,” he wheezed, envying their supple young limbs, and thinking of Winnie’s stiffened, dead ones. “This path is for exercise only.”

  Grace and Bobby found a deserted seat a little farther on, and began their play. After a few minutes Miss Astill approached and sat down on the same seat, although there were three others vacant within easy distance.

  “Don’t go, my dears,” she said, smiling. “Go on with your game. I shan’t interrupt. It’s so nice to see you playing about on this lovely sunny morning.” She watched them silently for a few minutes, then asked, “What are you playing at?”

  “Being married,” said Grace.

  “She’s just going to have a baby,” explained Bobby.

  Miss Astill flushed all over her face and down her neck beyond the narrow velvet ribbon she always wore.

  “You disgusting little boy!” she cried. “How dare you say such a thing to me! Go away, both of you, and don’t come near me again.”

  They went, much surprised.

  “What’s the matter with her?” asked Bobby. “I didn’t say anything, did I?”

  “Oh, don’t take any notice of her,” said Grace. “I expect she’s cross because she isn’t married herself. Let’s go to the little round pond and catch tadpoles.”

  Neither stopped to think whether it was the right time of the year for tadpoles; they could always pretend. But Miss Brendon had chosen to have her bath-chair wheeled down to the pond. The sound of the children’s voices aroused her to a gibbering frenzy.

  “Go away!” she screamed.

  “I’ve told you children more than once that you’re not to come worrying Miss Brendon,” said Rogers severely. “She likes to be alone, and so will you when you’re as old as she is. There are plenty of places you can play in without bothering us. Be off, now!”

  “There are plenty of places for her too,” muttered Grace. “Why does she come here? She can’t even see the pond properly. That’s the worst of the sunshine; it brings them all out like flies.”

  They wandered into the yard at the back of the Hydro. Mr. Marston’s Daimler was standing there, looking invitingly at them. They got in, and Bobby turned the switches at the dashboard and held the wheel, while Grace gave orders as if he were her chauffeur.

  “When you get into Excester, Dawson.” she said,
“stop at the milliner’s –”

  A muscular, hairy hand came through the open window and took Bobby by the ear.

  “Now then, you two, hop it!” said Matthews. “You’ll be doing some damage to the car and I shall get blamed for it. And mind how you get out. I’ve just cleaned it.”

  They walked away soberly, but their high spirits got the better of them and they began a game of tag. Bobby raced along, yelling at the top of his voice, straight into the arms of Admiral Urwin.

  “What the devil are you kids doing here, making a noise like that?” he asked irritably. “I’ve come out for a bit of peace and quiet.” (He had really come out in the hope of seeing Nurse Hawkins.) “Now clear out! Pipe down!”

  They moved on out of his hearing and continued their play near the tennis-court. But they met with no greater success here. Colonel Simcox was strolling along there with Mr. Winkley.

  “I’m glad that you agree with me about gilt-edged stock,” he was saying. “I could never get that fellow Chervil... the one who murdered Miss Blake, you know... to believe in them. He said that he always liked to see his money earning money...” He broke off abruptly. “What is that boy creeping round us for? It’s enough to get on anyone’s nerves. Here, you! Bobby! Go away! Dismiss!”

  “Never mind,” said Grace. “Let’s play hide-and-seek in the shrubbery. They won’t mind that because it’s a quiet game, and no one’ll notice us.”

  “All right,” agreed Bobby. “Bags I seeker!”

  Bobby stood in the intimate dimness of the little leafy room within the thick laurel leaves of the shrubbery, and, covering his face with his hands, began to count up to a hundred.

  For some time Grace waited in her place of concealment, uttering occasional derisive “coo-ee’s,” but when she heard no sound from Bobby she began to stalk the shrubbery, slipping carefully from one clipped yew to another until she was within easy reach of it. She stood still for a moment, then made a dash into the thick-leaved shade. She stared in front of her with horror-stricken eyes, then ran out again, pale as a ghost, and screaming, screaming, screaming...