The Woman in the Wardrobe Page 3

  “Excellent,” said Verity benevolently. “I see your print man is going to be kept pretty busy.”

  Jackson nodded, and became more efficient in his manner than ever. It did not take his men long to discover the key of the door lying on the carpet nearby. Those of the victim’s belongings which Johnson regarded as specially important were carefully wrapped and placed on the desk. They had just started examining the bric-a-brac and papers when a curious moaning and scuffling caught their ears.

  “The wardrobe!” said Jackson, moving quickly. “Damn!—it’s one of those doors with an automatic lock. You can’t open it without a key!”

  There was more scuffling, and then a noise as of someone in pain. Finally, as the four men waited in silence, there came very distinctly the sound of a key being fitted into a lock. The handle turned, and the door swung slowly open.

  On the floor, her ankles tightly roped together, squatted a girl—a brunette with braided hair. As Jackson noticed, she was pretty. As Verity noticed, she was a waitress.

  “I’ve just got my mouth free, honestly,” she said. She held up what looked like a gag, and a rope trailed loosely from her wrists. “It took me ages to get my arms free.”

  “How long have you been in there?” asked Verity.

  “Oh, hours and hours!…” She started crying.

  He noticed that her accent was good: a voice always reverts to its native vowel sounds in moments of stress.

  “Do you mean that literally?” he asked.

  “My head aches…”

  “How long have you really been here?”

  “Now don’t try to talk,” said Inspector Jackson kindly. This is advice only given on the screen—where women have occasionally been known to take it.

  “Nonsense!” said Verity. “Talk at once! The longer she weeps among the camphor-balls the more fantastic the story she’ll tell. What happened to you?… Oh, for heaven’s sake get her out of there!”

  With great dexterity Jackson lifted her out of the cupboard and carried her from the room without letting her see the late Mr Maxwell, or too much of his blood around the bedroom. Two men were left searching it expertly, and the other constable followed Mr Verity downstairs.

  “Why, it’s Alice!” cried Miss Framer, rushing forward indignantly. “Is she hurt?”

  Miss Framer had evidently conquered her tears, and was her usual, formidable self again.

  “No, just frightened,” said Jackson reassuringly. “Let me handle this, please.”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  “Is there anywhere we could be alone a few minutes?”

  “In there!” said Miss Framer suspiciously, opening the door of the lounge. “Is that all you want?”

  “Yes, thank you—for the moment. I shall want to see you next, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll be at my desk when you want me,” she said crisply.

  As he followed the Inspector and the girl into the room, Verity wondered why all such ladies in “good” seaside hotels shared so general and yet so prickly a hostility.

  “It’s the kind of unlocalised displeasure that goes with amber beads,” he murmured aloud.

  “I beg pardon, sir?” said the constable, bringing up the rear.

  “Just give Inspector Jackson a hand with Alice—there’s a good chap.”

  “I can manage,” said Jackson, stiffly setting the bewildered girl on her feet. “There…”

  The room was lighter than most rooms of its type: spacious, well-rugged, and containing a great many armchairs in green velvet. In the middle stood a large mahogany table, and around it little satellite tables whose innumerable ash-trays and back copies of the ‘Sphere’ presumably helped Miss Framer’s guests to lounge. Jackson turned to his sergeant.

  “We’ll make this our headquarters, Matthews. I shall want to see everyone in due course.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And let me know when they’re through upstairs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And tell me the minute the doctor arrives,” added Verity.

  “Very good, sir.”

  The Inspector crossed to the large table, shifted its potted plant to the end, and sat down.

  “Well,” he said to Alice, “how do you feel now?”

  The girl was sitting on a long wicker settee and dabbing feebly at her head: she was pretty in a hard sort of way, and her face was small and strained. All the time she kept glancing from the red-faced Inspector to the flannelled hulk of Mr Verity behind him. The blue sparks under his tufted brows seemed to be fixed upon her with blazing concentration. Instinctively she turned her head to avoid them, and reluctantly gave her attention to the Inspector.

  Alice Burton

  “You’re sure you’re well enough to answer questions?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, I’m all right… I’d like to tell you.”

  “Good.” Jackson smiled encouragingly. “Your name is Alice?”

  “Yes. Alice Burton.”

  “You’re a waitress here?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Good. Did you know Mr Maxwell?”

  “Mr…?”

  “Mr Maxwell. The man whose death we are concerned with.”

  The girl opened her mouth abruptly, but made no sound. Her whole attitude expressed the most utter surprise—surprise and, as Verity noted in her attractive eyes, irrepressible relief.

  “Syracuse,” he said, half to himself.

  “What was that, sir?”

  “I’ll tell you afterwards, Inspector.” He strolled over to an occasional table and picked up the first ‘Sphere’ on the pile.

  The poor girl was rather unnerved by now, and began to stammer out a story punctuated by gasps and stifled sobs.

  “He called me upstairs, sir—that’s the truth, honestly.”

  “Who called you up?” asked Jackson.

  “Mr Maxwell, sir.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About half-past seven.”

  “Yes?”

  “He said he wanted to see me right away. You see… I always took his orders—so of course I had to go.”

  “What do you mean, you ‘took his orders’?”

  “Well, sir, Mr Maxwell was a very strange man. He… he always ate his meals by himself—alone in his room. And I… always took them to him.”

  “Never anybody else?”

  “No.”

  She hesitated, watching him cautiously.

  “Wasn’t that rather odd?”

  “I suppose it was.”

  “A moment ago you used the expression ‘I had to go’. Didn’t you like going?”

  Miss Burton flushed quickly and lowered her eyes.

  “I didn’t mind,” she said.

  Mr Verity beamed behind the pages of his ‘Sphere’. He could not have conducted things better himself.

  “Go on, please,” said Jackson.

  “Well, I went up to see what it was he wanted for breakfast. He took quite a time ordering—he always did—and then, when he was nearly done…”

  “Yes?” The tone in the Inspector’s prompt question discouraged hysterics.

  “Then a man came in through the door with a mask over his face!”

  “A mask?”

  “What did Mr Maxwell order for breakfast?” asked Verity.

  “Kidneys and bacon,” said Alice. Her voice was trembling.

  “Never mind that,” Jackson snapped angrily. “This man with the mask—what did he do?”

  “He had a gun in his hand, sir, and he told me to put my hands up and go into the corner. Then he and Mr Maxwell started having a terrible row.”

  “A row? What about?”

  “I can’t say for certain, sir. I was so frightened I didn’t take much notice. It was over money, I think. Oh yes—I remember. The man in the mask said, ‘I’ve paid my last shilling to you, Maxwell.’ I remember that.”

  �
��Well, then what happened?”

  “They started fighting.”

  “Even though the man held a gun?”

  (Inspector Jackson clearly knew his business.)

  “Oh yes, sir. Mr Maxwell jumped on him, and they started fighting all round the room. They made a terrible mess. If I hadn’t been so frightened I’d have screamed… Then suddenly there was a terrific noise—the gun went off. Mr Maxwell was shot… in the back…”

  She started to tremble again. Jackson interposed hastily.

  “Yes? And then?”

  “And then I fainted. Just before I did, I saw the man in the mask: he had Mr Maxwell in his arms and was pulling him round the room—against the walls and the door—as if he were dancing with him. It was horrible. The blood was beginning to flow fast…”

  “And you woke up in the cupboard?”

  “Yes. I found the key right beside me, under my hand.”

  “Remarkable,” said Verity.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” she said wildly. “You think I killed Mr Maxwell?”

  “Why should you want to do that?” asked Verity sweetly. “Because he disapproved of the quality of your breakfasts?”

  The girl burst into a flood of tears, and the Inspector intervened kindly.

  “You’ve been through enough for the moment, Miss Burton. I’m sure we can finish this another time, when you feel a little stronger. Locksley! see that Miss Burton gets a cup of something, will you? Then come back here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With an assured display of regulated tenderness Constable Locksley guided Miss Burton from the room.

  “That’s interesting,” said Jackson thoughtfully. “When I first told her that Maxwell was dead, she looked more than surprised. Perhaps she was just acting, and then realised it didn’t square with the story she was going to tell.”

  “I’d trust the look rather than the story,” said Verity, laying down his magazine. “That is, if the two were incompatible.”

  “You mean she was really surprised to hear that Maxwell was dead?”

  “No, but I fancy she hated him so much that she still can’t quite accept the idea of his death. The look we saw on her face was unquestionably one of relief. Relief that what could have been only a dream was in fact true.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ve seen that look once before on the marble face of a head I dug up near Syracuse. I think it was the braided hair that reminded me. There is a moral quality about that smile—the kind of triumphant pleasure which must have illumined the faces of the God-ridden in ancient Greece, when they witnessed the purging of iniquity. Only toned down, of course, because this is Amnestie and not Athens.”

  “It sounds like a description of insanity to me,” said Jackson.

  “Oh, I daresay.” He sat down heavily and lit one of his little Cuban cigars. “I am not discussing Miss Burton’s sanity. Like everything else in this business, it has yet to be proved. Of course, she’s not really a waitress—but that, if anything, is a point in her favour.”

  “I agree with you there. She clearly hasn’t been a waitress all her life. The accent’s wrong. Let’s have Miss Framer in: perhaps she can throw some light on things.”

  “Collecting statues is a useful occupation,” said Verity, as they waited for P.C. Locksley to return. “It sets you observing people’s expressions with greater attention. Teaches you to watch out for flaws, too.”

  The constable came back.

  “Just ask Miss Framer to step inside, will you?” asked Jackson. “And then tell Matthews I want that gun we found, right away.”

  “There are a few people alive today,” Verity continued, “who deserve to have their faces sculpted in marble. Miss Burton is one of them. As for the rest of my pretty large acquaintance: some deserve stone, many more terracotta—and by far the great majority, putty.”

  Miss Framer came into the room.

  “See what I mean?” he added.

  “Sit down, Miss Framer,” said Jackson politely.

  “I think,” she said, thrusting a shapeless mauve skirt at him, “that Mr Verity will be glad to receive this.”

  “Ah, my bathing-costume! I had quite forgotten it! That is very considerate of you, Miss Framer. I will not, however, be bathing whilst there is matter more attractive here to hold me.”

  Miss Framer looked shocked, and sat down slowly.

  “To the police,” she said, “this sort of thing must constitute a most interesting diversion. You cannot expect me to view it in the same way.”

  “No, of course not. I—”

  “When news of what has occurred here appears in the newspapers, I shall be absolutely ruined.”

  “As I remember it,” said Verity politely, “‘The Charter’ of Amnestie has appeared more than once in the newspapers already.”

  “That was before my time,” said Miss Framer quickly. “I can assure you that nothing like that has occurred since I was put in charge.”

  “I can well believe that,” the old man smiled.

  “But something like this—a murder!”

  “How well did you know Mr Maxwell?” asked Jackson suddenly.

  Miss Framer looked uncomfortable for a moment. Then she squared her shoulders and, sitting upright, faced her questioner across the table. Here, she realised, began the cross-examination.

  “Hardly at all. He had only been with us five days.”

  “You mean he came last Friday?”

  “That is so.”

  “Was he a very—eccentric gentleman?”

  “I’m afraid he was. He took all his meals in his rooms, and hardly went out except at night. He told me he worked at night.”

  “A description which has opened the trial of every cat-burglar I ever attended,” said Verity, watching Miss Framer carefully.

  “I’m sure I’m not implying any such thing,” she said hastily.

  “No, but all the same the thought of burglary was not so very far from your mind earlier this morning. When I told you about the man on the balcony climbing in through a window, you were very frightened. I was observing you.”

  “I?”

  “Or was it something else?”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “What do you know of the relationship between Mr Paxton and Mr Maxwell? Or Mr Cunningham and Mr Maxwell?”

  “Relationship?”

  “Oh, come now!” Mr Verity, who had firmly taken over from Jackson, leaned forward and twinkled at her. “Try to be more explicit.”

  “But Mr Cunningham only came last night.”

  “Still, he did meet Mr Maxwell?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Well?”

  “They did not appear to like each other. In fact, if I might say so without prejudice to Mr Cunningham, he seemed to take great dislike to Mr Maxwell. Yes, a real dislike…”

  “I see. What time did Mr Cunningham arrive last night?”

  “About nine o’clock, I think it was.”

  “And Mr Paxton?”

  “Oh, he’s been here since Monday.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Sergeant Matthews brought in the gun, still wrapped in a handkerchief.

  “Two bullets fired, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “And Dr Pelham’s just come, sir.”

  “Excellent,” said Jackson. “Take him upstairs. Tell him we’ll be with him in a minute.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where is Miss Burton?” asked Verity.

  “In the kitchen, sir, having a cup of tea. Constable Locksley’s with her.”

  “Excellent.”

  “That’s all, Matthews.” Jackson turned to Miss Framer, who was breathing heavily. “How long has Miss Burton been in your employment?”

  “About a fortnight, Inspector. I can give you the exact date if you want it.”

  “Do you find she’s a reliable girl?”

  “Yes, on the whole. We’ve only had one complaint.”

&
nbsp; “Oh? What was that?”

  “That she kept her thumbs in among the vegetables as she served them.”

  “Thank you. You were saying that Mr Paxton has been here since Monday. Did he and Mr Maxwell know each other?”

  Miss Framer did not reply for a moment. Then she said:

  “Yes. They knew each other slightly. One evening they met on the stairs, just as Mr Maxwell was going out.”

  “The meeting was—cordial?”

  “Oh yes, very cordial!” She nodded vigorously. “They just talked for a few minutes, and then Mr Maxwell left. Very cordial, I should say.”

  “That’s most interesting. Now there’s just one more thing, and then you can go.”

  He unwrapped the handkerchief and laid the gun on the desk. It was a heavy Service revolver, with a pearl handle.

  “Have you ever seen this before?”

  Miss Framer betrayed at once that she had.

  “Why—yes.”

  “When?”

  “Last night. It fell out of Mr Cunningham’s coat pocket as he took it off in the vestibule.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I didn’t like the look of it at all.”

  “Hence the fright this morning,” said Verity.

  “Oh no—”

  “Why didn’t you inform me?” asked Jackson severely.

  “Between you,” she retorted angrily, “you haven’t given me the chance.”

  “Quite true,” said Verity cheerfully. “Miss Framer, how many short-term guests are there here?”

  “Mr Paxton and Mr Cunningham are the only ones at the moment. Oh, and Mr Tudor.”

  “Who on earth is that?”

  “A very strange gentleman indeed. He arrived two weeks ago.”

  “About the same time as Miss Burton?”

  “Yes! I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to him yourself, because I can’t make any sense of him.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised. He calls himself King Richard the Fourth.”

  “Better and better!” cried Verity, chuckling and rubbing his hands. “A corpse in a blood-soaked room; a locked door and a locked window; a masked man; a beautiful girl trussed inside a wardrobe; and now a pretender to the throne! This is superb!”

  Miss Framer looked at him with frost in her eyes. She turned to Jackson.