Too Many Cousins, page 4
“How you do go on,” he said. “Now that the uproar has died down, perhaps I can finish. A rather queer business has been brought to my notice. Literally brought, and twice over—two complementary accounts from sources quite unrelated, to the best of my knowledge. As I say, it smells uncommonly like murder, in the plural, with possibly more to come. It may be nothing of the kind, but it wants looking into. Although I’m taking a well-earned holiday,” Mr. Tuke added virtuously, “I’ve trotted along, like a good citizen, to tell you all about it. And you bellow at me before I can even start.”
Sir Bruton remembered his cheroot, struck a match viciously, and blew a cloud of rank smoke in his assistant’s direction.
“Why tell me, eh? Why come back here? If it’s a police matter, go to the police. You’re known to ’em—too well.”
“I thought I would take your opinion on that.”
“Damned modest all of a sudden, aren’t you?”
“And then it is quite an interesting little story,” Mr. Tuke went on. “It occurred to me that you might need entertaining. It is always dull here when I’m away.”
Sir Bruton suddenly chuckled with a gobbling sound. “Well, spit it out,” he said. “Who’s getting murdered now? More of your pals?”
“A friend of Yvette’s seems to be in the danger zone.”
“Same thing. I might have known it. You’re becoming a regular Jonah, Tuke. But it’s a bit tough on your wife’s friends. You might leave them out of it.”
“ ‘Quand messieurs les assassins commencent,’ ” Mr. Tuke quoted, “I will with pleasure. Well, here’s the story.”
Since he had given it considerable thought, and was trained to a habit of clear exposition, the tale of Parmiter’s confidences and the singular sequel contributed by Gecile Boulanger were related with precision and despatch. Sir Bruton, sunk in his chair, his protuberant eyes closed, the Trichinopoli reeking between his lips, seemed to be half asleep; but this was his normal attitude of attention. It disconcerted self-important persons, who expected their audience to hang on their words, and who were apt to be further thrown out of their stride by the somnolent listener opening his eyes to stare fixedly at the large kitchen clock which hung opposite his desk. These tactics had got even a too talkative Prime Minister out of the room in record time.
When Mr. Tuke finished there was a little silence. Sir Bruton breathed heavily. Then he stirred, shaking cigar-ash over his ample waistcoat. One eye opened.
“Looks a bit fishy,” he rumbled. “But then so do lots of things. What the devil are you grinning at? ” he demanded truculently, opening the other eye.
Mr. Tuke salvaged the elements of subordination and effaced his smile. The Director stared at him suspiciously. Seizing a penholder, he began to probe his ear vigorously with it as he went on:
“Well, what’s your view, Tuke?”
“I told you. These three accidents should be inquired into.”
“They have been, haven’t they?”
“By three different police forces, you’ll note. London, Hertfordshire and Surrey. In the case of the army captain, the chances are it was a genuine accident. The M.P. don’t often slip up over that sort of thing. But the county constabularies aren’t always so thorough, as we have cause to know. And, in any case, has anybody connected the three deaths? I doubt it. Different names, in different localities, and one case six months old. Parmiter wasn’t so far out when he said that a man like himself would have his uses in a police force.”
“Don’t be so cocksure,” said Sir Bruton, rapping the desk with his penholder. “The Central Office may have connected ’em, looked into it, and decided there was nothing doing. The Yard isn’t fanciful, like you. And it does keep its eye on inquests and the papers. When was this last business, did you say?—the schoolmarm?”
“A fortnight ago. Bank Holiday Sunday. ”
“Know anything about the inquest?”
“No. Parmiter referred to it, and Mile Boulanger saw a report of it in the local paper rather mysteriously sent to her. It seems to have been quite slick. Too slick, perhaps.”
“What do you think of this French gal?”
“Obviously,” said Mr. Tuke, “anybody can say they’ve had a push in the back. If she is eliminating her cousins, it’s the sort of story she would put out.”
“Why draw attention to the thing at all?”
“Suppose she has another little accident in view. It might then seem good policy. Even as the case stands, sooner or later—when the second Mrs. Shearsby dies, for instance, and the trust fund is distributed—somebody may put two and two together, and ask questions. They are less likely to be asked of an apparent victim. Or again she may be planting evidence against one of the other survivors. I have no reason to suppose, of course, that she isn’t telling the truth. I’ve asked Yvette to suggest packing her off to France, or well out of London. Her reactions may give us a line.”
“She didn’t appear to know about this writer chap being bumped off?”
“She talked about him, with a perfectly straight face, as though he were still alive. That’s all I can say.”
“Are you seriously suggesting another little accident?” Sir Bruton asked, reaching vaguely for an ashtray and hitting a bowl of paper-clips. “Damn it, if these are murders, whoever’s doing ’em ’ll collar a third of the cash now. Sixty or seventy thousand quid ought to be enough.”
“You or I might think so,” Mr. Tuke said. “We’re cautious blokes. We know when to stop. But the average mass murderer doesn’t. It’s like drink. Just one more quick one—nobody will spot it. You know that as well as I do.”
“Better,” Sir Bruton agreed with a sinister chuckle. “You needn’t teach your old uncle to suck eggs. I’ve had some of these coves in the dock. Remember Scarsbrick, the solicitor, who did in three wives? If he’d stopped at two, he’d have got away with it. Excess of zeal. Armstrong was another, and Palmer, of course, though they only proved one murder in either case.” The Director chuckled again. “Did you ever hear how the people of Rugeley petitioned the P.M. to have the name of the town changed after Palmer’s trial? The P.M. was old Pam, and he wrote ’em a nice letter suggesting they might call the town after him—Palmerstown.” Sir Bruton gobbled, banged his spectacles, and replaced them for safety on his nose. “Interesting thing about all these coves,” he said, “is that they were educated men—not like Smith and his little tin baths. They ought to have had more sense.” He wagged his head sadly at over-indulgence in murder by educated men. “But where would you and me be, my boy,” he reflected more cheerfully, “if criminals had sense?”
“What an old ghoul you are,” said Mr. Tuke. “Well, the Shearsby murderer, if there is one, is another educated man, or woman. It will be instructive to see whether he, or she, knows when to leave well alone.”
“Ghoul to you,” Sir Bruton retorted, hoisting himself up in his chair, into which he had slid so far that only his ample stomach prevented his slipping beneath the desk. He took off his glasses again to wave them at Mr. Tuke. “You and your busman’s holiday! Now look here, Tuke. Whatever you’re up to, you’ve got to turn the whole thing over to G.I. straight away. See Wray about it. No more of this gifted amachoor stuff.”
“I’m going to see Wray about it in any case,” Mr. Tuke said equably.
He got up and perched himself on the edge of the desk, where he reached for the telephone. Sir Bruton appeared to have lost interest. His lips were moving silently, and Mr. Tuke paused to inquire:
“What are you muttering about?”
The Director fixed him with a protuberant eye and began to recite:
“The Mayor and Town Council of Rugeley
Disliked notoriety hugely.
They said: ‘Well, we mean,
What with this ’ere strychnine,
It’s a hell of a life for yours trugely.’ ”
Mr. Tuke made a face as he took up the telephone. “Give me Scotland Yard, please,” he said. “Mr. Wray.”
CHAPTER V
MR. HUBERT ST. JOHN WRAY, the Assistant Commissioner (Crime), was a small, dapper, reddish-haired man with a marked general resemblance to a fox. Mr. Tuke and he seldom met without bickering; and when, a little later on that Monday morning, Harvey entered the large upper room in Norman Shaw’s lofty building on the Embankment, Wray greeted him with a faintly malicious smile.
“Hello, Tuke.”
“Hello to you.”
“I thought you were on holiday.”
“Why does everyone make that remark? Does a holiday necessarily entail exile from all one’s usual haunts?”
“It does, with rational people,” Wray said, with his neighing little laugh, which showed his gums. “We’re only too glad to forget our usual haunts. But I suppose you must be different.” He picked up a file from a tray on his table. “Well, you’re wasting your time now. Nice to see you, and all that, but your little inquiry’s a mare’s nest. It was a perfectly genuine accident. No doubt about it at all. What made you think otherwise?”
Harvey had relapsed into a chair beside the Assistant Commissioner. “I didn’t think otherwise,” he said. “I know nothing about the case. I am merely curious.”
“Why? Did you know the fellow?”
“Never heard of him till the other day. Tell me about the genuine accident.”
Wray gave him a foxy look which was an example of Nature’s thoroughness when she creates one of the higher animals in the image of a lower. Taking a Turkish cigarette from a silver box on his table, he lighted it and opened the file.
“This is all the Traffic Branch has on it. It’s perfectly straightforward. Captain Sydney Dresser, R.A.S.C., was attached to the S. & T. Branch of London District. His office was in Curzon Street. He was a man of thirty-three, a bachelor, and lived in rooms in Bayswater. On the evening of the 14th of March he left his office just after seven. It was a filthy wet night, and pitch dark. Dresser always went home by bus, from the stop in Park Lane by Stanhope Gate. He’d just started to cross Park Lane when a van came down Deanery Street, by the Dorchester. The driver saw Dresser right under his lamps, stood on his brakes, skidded, and hit him sideways. Dresser’s head was crushed in, and he was killed instantly. Our people say the man wasn’t really to blame at all. There were a couple of quite sound witnesses, and they both state Dresser didn’t look round. He could see the Lane was clear, and he forgot traffic coming down Deanery Street. That’s all there is to it, Tuke. What put you on to it, and why?”
“I hadn’t much doubt it was an accident,” Harvey said. “You people don’t often slip up over that sort of thing.”
“Nice of you to say so,” Wray said sarcastically.
“What do you know about the late captain’s family?”
“His family? Why? He is described as having no parents living. The nearest relative they could find seems to have been a French cousin. Name given here as Mile Boulanger.”
Mr. Tuke took out a cigar. While he pierced and lighted it with care, Wray drummed impatiently on his table.
“Yes, cousins,” Mr. Tuke went on. “The operative word. Captain Dresser’s death has started a train of coincidences that are a little too odd for my simple faith.”
“What coincidences? There’s nothing more here.”
“As I suspected. Apparently there is not always that close co-ordination between our police forces which would seem desirable.”
Wray’s sandy eyebrows drew together. “Indeed? What have we missed?”
“I am going to tell you. Dresser was one of six cousins. The six were, and the survivors are, joint heirs to an estate said to amount to over £200,000——”
“What exactly do you imply by survivors?”
“Ah, the implication has not escaped your nimble brain. It’s like the old rhyme. Six little cousins were very much alive. One was run over, and then there were five. That was only six months ago. It may interest you to know that there are now only three. And apparently there were very nearly only two.”
Wray stared for a moment. He laced his bony fingers together and made them crack in a startling manner.
“I presume you consider this some concern of ours, or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Well, you can work it out for yourself, Wray. £200,000 divided by six. Now by three. And the deceased beneficiaries all died by accident.”
Wray drew a pad towards him. “Come on, Tuke,” he said. “How do you know all this? Give me the details.” For the second time that morning Harvey recited the story of the Shearsby family. Wray took notes, pausing only to light another cigarette from the stub of the first. At the end he picked up one of the telephones on his table and rapped out brisk instructions. He turned again to Harvey with a rather sour smile.
“I agree with you. Obviously this must be looked into. We shall hear in a moment if Records have anything on these other cases. I shall be surprised if they have. Your crack about co-ordination, Tuke, was beside the point. You know perfectly well that inquests outside the metropolitan area are not our concern, unless the locals have their doubts and call us in. Hertfordshire and Surrey have not done so. Presumably both are satisfied with the verdicts of accidental death.”
“Presumably also they haven’t linked the two cases, or connected them with Dresser’s. Neither have you.”
“What do you expect?” Wray rejoined acidly. “The name is different in each case. We haven’t the time, if we had the staff, to collate obituary notices from all over the country, like your friend Parmiter, and then run round asking the local people if they’re satisfied. Damn it, what are they for?”
“I have sometimes wondered.”
“I often do,” said Wray, rather unfairly. “But there it is.”
“Well, this time you have a locus standi,” Harvey pointed out. “Dresser was killed in your sacred metropolitan area. Accident or not, his case gives you a lever with the country bobbies.”
The telephone buzzed, and Wray listened for a moment. As he put the instrument back he shrugged at Harvey.
“Records have nothing on either of the cases. Which means we were not asked to trace or notify any next-of-kin. Both Hertfordshire and Surrey must have known of one living outside the London area. Obviously the chemist at Bedford. This Mrs. Porteous was his sister, and Beds and Herts touch, so no doubt he saw something of the writer chap. The Bedford police would be asked to notify him in both cases.”
Mr. Tuke, lying back in his chair, had closed his eyes. Without opening them, he said:
“Ah, chemistry. What do you know about sodium nitrite? ”
“Nothing. But I can find out.” Wray picked up the telephone again. “Inspector Tapp,” he said.
During a brief colloquy with Inspector Tapp, he made more notes. His gingery eyebrows rose a little.
“Dear me,” he remarked. “Thank you, inspector.” His cigarette smouldering between his fingers, he looked meaningly at Harvey. “The formula is NaNO2 One of the alkaline metal compounds. Extremely soluble in water. Has never been employed, to our knowledge, for criminal purposes. But, last September, a whole family in Bedford died of sodium nitrite poisoning because the stuff was mistaken for common salt and the potatoes were boiled with it. The man was employed by Imperial Sansil—sodium nitrite is used in dye-making—and he must have taken a dollop home. Probably as a fertiliser. It was the first known case of its kind, and was reported in the London press. If I saw it, I’ve forgotten about it. At the inquest, a witness from Imperial Sansil said the man handled the stuff in the course of his work. He could have got it elsewhere, and apparently it can be brewed by anyone with an elementary knowledge of chemistry.”
“Which has been denied me,” Harvey observed. “I was on the classical side. There is something to be said for a classical education. Catullus or Virgil can be safely boiled with the potatoes. I note by your expressive eyebrows, Wray, that the coincidence of the scene of the catastrophe has not escaped you.”
“Bedford? And Imperial Sansil? Where the country cousin works? No, it sticks out.”
“Fun for Cousin Mortimer. From what I hear of him, he won’t enjoy police inquiries. Very infra dig.” Mr. Tuke reached for his hat and sat up. “Well, good hunting, Wray. Having laid my little train, I will depart, leaving you to get on with it. I’ve done my duty, and I’ve done no more —so far.”
“Are you going to meddle again?” Wray asked sharply.
“I’m on holiday. And I have a sort of proprietory interest in the case.”
“If it is a case. I suppose you mean the Frenchwoman. Of course, though she’s alive at the moment, it’s no new thing for your friends to get murdered.”
Mr. Tuke got to his feet. “If you mean Norman Sleight,1 he was merely a member of one of my clubs. And you are still alive. I often wonder why.”
Wray uttered his little neigh of a laugh. “Perhaps she is stringing you along, Tuke. If one of these cousins is liquidating the others, it may be Mile Boulanger herself. She may be playing for the break. In the event of another death or two, she could say ‘I told you so’.”
“I had thought of that. But it would seem very rash of her to drag the matter into the light of day. So far as she is aware, no suspicions had been aroused. She can’t know about Parmiter. If she hadn’t confirmed his story, I doubt if I should have done anything about it. In which case, our conscientious but ill-co-ordinated police forces would never have begun to put two and two together.”
Wray threw up his hands. “The conceit of the man! It was your pal Parmiter who put two and two together, not you. And you often forget, Tuke, that other people may not share your high opinion of yourself.”
“Their mistake,” said Mr. Tuke blandly. “Well, bye-bye, Wray. Get on with it. Co-ordinate. Stir up the county constabularies of Beds, Herts and Surrey. Set the mills of God, and the teeth of chief constables, slowly grinding.” Wray had picked up a telephone. “Oh, go to the devil!” he said.
