Red Snow at Darjeeling, page 10
“Yes, sir. Anything else, inspector?”
“Plenty,” said Prike. “I want you to wait here for the deputy commissioner. Ask him for men to help run down certain details I’m going to tell you about.” He walked slowly to the door, took an electric flashlamp from his pocket, snapped it on, brought the gleaming lens close to the outside keyhole. “According to the note on the writing-table, Dr. Feurmann was to leave his door unlocked at 4.30. When we arrived, it was locked. Since Feurmann was dead, it must have been locked from the outside, yet the hotel key was inside the room. I find small particles of wax clinging to the outside keyhole, Robbins, so I’m assuming that some one took an impression to have a duplicate key made. Have the deputy commissioner give you enough men to canvass every locksmith in Darjeeling—until we find the one who made the key. That clear, Robbins?”
“Quite clear, inspector.”
“Good. Next I want you to go to Himalayan Optometrists, Ltd. I believe they’re on Auckland Road. Get me a copy of the prescription for the glasses Hubertson claims he had repaired. Also get me the exact time, if possible, that the spectacles were delivered to Hubertson at this hotel. On the way, of course, you might keep an eye peeled for a lady in purple—although she’s probably changed her gown by this time.”
“Very well, inspector. And where will I find you?”
“I,” said Inspecor Prike, “will very likely be in Room 342, visiting a gentleman who, for the moment, calls himself ‘Mr. R. Ingram.’”
Glistening rivulets trickled down Prike’s raincoat as he walked into the hotel room later and nodded briefly to Deputy-Inspector Robbins and the two Darjeeling police officials sitting there. The brisk, rhythmic precision with which he removed his outer garments suggested the ratchet-release of tightly-wound clockwork. Robbins was used to the continuous high-tension under which Prike would work without relaxation until he had reached the solution of his case, but to-night the deputy-inspector thought he detected an extra galvanic impulse. He said:
“Here’s brandy, inspector.”
Tiny, pleasant wrinkles appeared at the corners of Inspector Prike’s eyes as he picked up the bottle.
“Nice detective work, Robbins,” he said. “Where did you run down a clue to 1912 Armagnac in Darjeeling?”
Robbins gestured with his thumb. “Compliments of the Deputy Police Commissioner,” he said. “He’s been drinking it himself ever since you cracked the Bombay Mail murders. Seems that Captain Worthing is stationed at Jalapahar Cantonment now, and told him that you said Armagnac stimulated the brain.”
Prike smiled as he poured an inch of the golden brandy into a small, tulip-shaped glass. Slipping the stem between his fist and second fingers, he warmed the bowl of the glass with the palms of his hand and breathed the heady fragrance.
“Anything new, Robbins?” he asked.
“Himalayan Optometrists,” Robbins replied, “gave me prescription for Hubertson’s spectacles.”
Prike took a sip of the brandy as he studied the square of paper. “Convex lenses,” he mused. “Spectacles to correct hypermetropia. Evidently Hubertson was telling the truth when he said he was far-sighted. Anything else, Robbins?”
“Yes,” the deputy replied. “I checked on the delivery time. The glasses were brought to the hotel at ten minutes to five. I talked to the chaprassi who delivered them, and he said that Hubertson was half undressed when he opened the door. So his story stands up, all right. Doesn’t it, inspector?”
“Apparently,” said Prike, again wetting his lips with the mellow brandy. “What else, Robbins?”
“Cablegram from Scotland Yard, inspector.”
Prike put down his brandy glass. “Jericho?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll read it to you: Whereabouts Christopher Jericho still undetermined. Unable yet confirm theory departure England.’ ”
“And nothing from Calcutta on Jericho?”
“Nothing, inspector. Apparently Jenkins hasn’t been able to turn him up, as yet.”
“Jenkins wouldn’t,” said Prike. He sat down, passed his hand over his bald head.
“But there’s a report from the civil surgeon,” said Robbins. “He finished the autopsy on Doc Feurmann.”
“And found, no doubt, that Dr. Feurmann died of gunshot wounds?”
“He was shot proper, all right,” said Robbins. “It was a pukka-done job. The surgeon says the bullet clipped the liver and stomach, perforated the intestine fifteen times, smashed two lumbar vertebrae—”
“Two vertebrae?” Inspector Prike’s teeth clicked.
“Two lumbar vertebrae,” Robbins repeated, “and then ricochetted back and stuck in the left kidney.”
Prike got up, walked across the room, absently lighted a cheroot, walked back. He stood for a full minute in front of Robbins, drawing steadily on the cheroot, his eyes unseeing.
“Then the surgeon found the bullet, Robbins?” he asked at last. His glance was still fixed on infinity.
“Yes, inspector. It was pretty badly smashed, but the deputy commissioner says there’s no doubt it was .38 calibre.”
“Thirty-eight?” Prike descended abruptly to earth. “That’s the same calibre that killed Basil Stiller.”
“How’s that, sir? Stiller was killed with a .32.”
Prike shook his head. “No, Robbins. The empty cartridge we found in Stiller’s flat was a .32. But the bullet dug out of Stiller’s body was a .38. I thought you knew that, Robbins.”
“I didn’t,” said Robbins. “Then how do you explain the .32 cartridge, inspector?”
“I can’t explain it,” said Prike. “Yet.”
“We haven’t finished our canvass of the locksmiths,” Robbins apologised. “Most of the shops were closed already, and we may not get the whole story before morning. But I’ve got one other thing to report. There’s three women stopping at this hotel with purple dresses. Anyhow, there were three this afternoon. I can get two of them right now, if you want Hubertson to try to identify them. The third woman checked out this afternoon, but the deputy commissioner says he’ll find her for me by morning. There’s no train leaving Darjeeling before the Express at 10.20 a.m. to-morrow, and the road is being watched. The woman’s name is Leda Carmaine.”
Deputy-Inspector Robbins made the final announcement with just a suggestion of triumph over work well done. But his triumph was short lived.
“Yes, I know,” said Inspector Prike, flicking the ash from his cheroot. “I meant to tell you about Miss Carmaine, Robbins. While you were at the Himalayan Optometrists this evening, I had a telegram from Calcutta. The tracer on the candid camera with the Schnell-Ultra lens f/1:5, No. 25534 has borne results. The camera was purchased two months ago by Miss Leda Carmaine.”
“By Miss—? Strike me cross-eyed!” exclaimed Robbins. “Then it wasn’t Feurmann’s camera?”
“Of course not,” Prike said. “I’ve suspected for days that Feurmann never owned a camera. But he was keenly aware of the existence of this particular one, and the use to which it had been put. His visits to us were merely designed to implant the idea that any photograph taken by his camera was contrived to discredit him in his false role of Nazi refugee.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite see, inspector….”
“To put it plainly, then,” Prike said, “the Nazi Government was aware that a photograph existed, showing a German diplomat in conference with the Nawab of Shimalghar, who has solemnly engaged to negotiate with no foreign power except Great Britain. It was therefore the mission of the secret agent of the Nazi Government, the late Dr. Adolf Feurmann, to secure the original of that photograph, or, failing that, to cast all possible doubts upon its authenticity.”
“But the photo is authentic?”
“I rather think so,” said Prike.
“Then shouldn’t we notify New Delhi?”
“Not for the moment,” said Prike. “The Indian Foreign Office is not quite as inept as the Nawab of Shimalghar imagines.”
“But are you sure, inspector, that this camera—what’s the number … 25534?—is the one that took the picture of the Nawab?”
“Positive,” announced Prike. “There is a slight defect in the photograph: A streak of light-fog across the top. Even before we left Calcutta I determined that there was a tiny pin-hole in the bellows of the camera which would cause this defect.”
“But if this camera belonged to Leda Carmaine,” protested the puzzled Robbins, “how did it get inside Alexander Blenn’s desk in Calcutta?”
“That, Robbins,” said Prike, “is for you and me to find out. I believe we’ll find that the explanation is monetary; and that the sum changing hands was rather considerable, judging from what I have been able to learn of Leda Carmaine by telephone.”
“Has she got a record, inspector?”
“Of sorts,” Prike replied. “She left Bangkok hurriedly last month, one day ahead of deportation proceedings that were being prepared by the Siamese Government at the request of the German Legation. It seems some young German attache had been somewhat indiscreet.”
“Strike me cross-eyed!” said Robbins.
“Moreover,” Prike continued, “I’m inclined to think Miss Carmaine is the same person as the Carmen de Leda, mentioned in the court-martial proceedings against the naval engineer connected with the floating dry-dock at Singapore last year. Although Miss Carmaine—or Miss de Leda—had left the Straits Settlements shortly before the trial.”
“Why would she want to kill Doc Feurmann?”
“I don’t know,” Prike answered simply. “I’m not even certain she did kill him.”
“But Hubertson saw a woman in purple—”
“The human eye, Robbins,” Prike interrupted, “is very often mistaken—particularly a hypermetropic eye. And the human mind is not much better. For instance, this morning I discoursed at some length on a theory which I must now acknowledge was mistaken. Alexander Blenn has not been murdered. At least, he hadn’t been up to a few hours ago.”
“He’s in Darjeeling, then?”
“He’s within a dozen miles of Darjeeling.”
“Did you see him, inspector?”
“I’m very much afraid,” Prike answered, “that he saw me first. I’ll explain, Robbins. Shimalghar, as you probably know, is a state dominated by Lamaism. And since religion and lay power are closely linked in the Lama mind, Lamas play important rôles in the Nawab’s government. Therefore it occurred to me that I might do worse than pay visits to several Buddhist abbots of Darjeeling monasteries, who are friends of mine. I learned, among other things, that a Lama dignitary from Shimalghar has been on a pilgrimage to this district. His name is Quombi La, and he has been roving from monastery to monastery. I didn’t succeed in reaching Quombi La to-night, but I did find, in a little monastery on the Lebong Road, a topi with the name, ‘Alexander Blenn’ stamped into the inner band. The topi was wet with rain, so I could safely assume that Mr. Blenn had come in shortly before I did, as the rain had started only twenty minutes before. And the fact that the topi had been abandoned indicates, of course, that Mr. Blenn had made a hasty departure.”
Robbins was on his feet instantly. “Shall I find him for you, inspector?” he asked excitedly.
“Yes,” said Inspector Prike.
Robbins already had one arm in his raincoat. He pulled on the other sleeve, clapped on his topi, verified the twisted spikes of his blond moustache.
“I’ll have him here in two shakes of a bhain’s tail, inspector,” he declared.
“Just a moment, Robbins.” Prike poured another inch of brandy into the tulip-shaped glass, held it up to the light to admire the colour. “When I’ve finished this excellent Armagnac, I shall decide whether I want you to bring him here, or merely keep him shadowed. Here’s luck, Robbins.”
Prike raised the glass to his lips.
Meanwhile, Woodring was knocking at the door of Ruth Ingram’s room at the Woodlands.
The door opened promptly. The girl seemed surprised to see him—or was she disappointed?
“Oh, it’s you,” she said.
Woodring entered without waiting for an invitation.
“Were you expecting someone else?” he asked.
“Yes,” Ruth said. “Mr. Hubertson. He sent me a rather frantic chit, saying—”
“How did Hubertson know you were staying here?”
“Why, I—I didn’t think of that. But it’s simple, now that I do think of it. He was standing near me at the station, when I gave my luggage to the station porter for this hotel…. But you’re dripping wet! You’d better hang your coat on this chair to dry. I’ll light the fire. It seems strange, having to light a fire, when only last night we were gasping for breath in the awful heat in Calcutta….”
“What is Hubertson coming here for?”
“I don’t know,” Ruth said. “He said in his chit that something tragic had happened to upset the plans Uncle Alex made, and that he had no longer any way of getting in touch with you, according to the pre-arrangement. He though perhaps I might be able to help. What happened, Mr. Woodring?”
“Better call me ‘Paul,’ ” Woodring said. “There’s no telling what I’ll be calling you tonight.”
The girl started to smile, but the dimples flickered only for an instant.
“You look simply furious with me,” she said. “What have I done?”
“That,” said Woodring, “is what I’ve come to find out. Did you ever hear the name John Mapleieaf?”
“No, never.”
“You’re positive you never heard your uncle mention John Mapleleaf in, connection with my trip?”
“Positive. Who is John Mapleleaf?”
“That’s the name I was to have used in my negotiations here,” Woodring said. “But it was misappropriated by a German who called himself Dr. Adolf Feurmann. And the German Mapleleaf was murdered this afternoon at the Grand.”
Ruth Ingram paled. Her blue eyes widened. She sat down weakly. “How dreadful!” she exclaimed after a pause. “Then—I suppose that is what Mr. Hubertson meant in his note.”
“Very likely. The news of the murder is probably all over Darjeeling by this time. But what I want to know is how this supposedly confidential nom de guerre got into Dr. Feurmann’s possession.”
“I should think,” said Ruth very slowly, “that you’d be very thankful that the name did leak out. Otherwise you might have been the Mapleleaf to die.”
“Then you do think,” said Woodring “that you might have let the name drop inadvertently … in conversation, somewhere?”
“No, of course not. How could I? I’ve told you before I didn’t know the name.”
“I know,” said Woodring. “But I’d like to hear you say it again.”
“In other words, you don’t believe me!”
“I’d like very much to believe you,” said Woodring, “but I’ve done quite a little walking around in the rain to-night, and I’ve had time to think. One result of this thinking is the realisation that you haven’t been quite frank with me until now.”
“In what way haven’t I been frank?”
“You haven’t told me the real reason for your presence in Darjeeling,” Woodring said bluntly.
“But I have!” the girl protested. “I told you …”
“I remember. Don’t prompt me!” Woodring broke in. “You told me on the train last night that you were going to Darjeeling because you felt your Uncle Alex was in serious trouble and you thought you might be of some help. That’s not the whole truth.”
An unfamiliar light blazed in the girl’s blue eyes, but she struggled to keep the anger out of her voice. “Then I suppose,” she said, “you want me to say that I came to Darjeeling because I fell madly in love with you at first sight, and couldn’t bear the thought of your being so far away. Is that it?”
“No,” said Woodring solemnly, “because that wouldn’t be true, either.”
“Then what is the truth?”
Ruth Ingram stared at Woodring for a long, speechless moment. Slowly the colour mounted to her cheeks.
“Give me a cigarette, Paul,” she said.
Woodring watched her as he held out the match. All the resentment he had managed to work up against the girl seemed to vanish with the flame.
“I hate you for what you’ve just said,” Ruth Ingram declared at last. “And at the same time I … well, I admire you for it, too. I hate being caught in a half-fib, but I’d hate it, too, if you were obtuse enough not to see through me.”
“Well, what’s the answer?” asked Woodring.
Ruth tried unsuccessfully to blow a smoke ring. “Christopher Jericho,” she said.
Woodring straightened up in his chair. “Then you did know about Jericho?”
“Not when you first asked me,” the girl replied. “But I made it a point to find out about him before I called the police yesterday morning. I went through all of Uncle Alex’s papers. I thought it would be better if all the Jericho evidence were kept out of sight until I knew exactly what it meant.”
“Well, what does it mean?”
“There were just the assignments of a dozen of Jericho’s patents to the Blenn interests. Then there were the letters of administration, or whatever you call them—the appointment of Alexander Blenn as guardian and trustee of Jericho’s share in the partnership, after he was declared insane.”
“Did you destroy these papers?”
“No. I wanted to ask Uncle Alex about them first. That’s really why I came to Darjeeling.”
Woodring got up and walked to the fireplace. “You told me last night that you trusted me,” he said. “Why did you hold out on this business about Jericho?”
The girl gave a queer little laugh. “I honestly don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps because I’m a Blenn.”
“You didn’t find any papers, did you?” Woodring pursued, “that might indicate that the funds supposedly held in trust for Mr. Jericho had been used in the recent expansion of the Blenn enterprises?”
Ruth shook her head. “Only Basil Stiller would know about that,” she said. “And he—” She stopped suddenly, aghast at the positive significance of what she had just said.
