Call Mr. Fortune · Case II (2/3)

“Oh, yes, you will. Now I’m going to talk to Superintendent Bell.” The inspector was visibly startled. For Superintendent Bell was near the summit of the Criminal Investigation Department. “Any objection? No? How nice of you.⁠ ⁠…” He conferred with the telephone, and at length: “Dr. Fortune. Yes. Oh, is that you, Bell? So glad. I wish you’d come along here, Normanhurst, Westhampton. One of my patients murdered. No, not by me. Quite unusual case. Yes, it is the Birdie Bolton case. The inspector in charge is such a good, kind man. Sweet face he has. You’ll come right on? So glad.” Reggie put down the receiver and smiled upon the puzzled inspector. “That’s that,” he said, and went out. Samuel, the chauffeur, put away his picture paper. “I want my camera,” Reggie said, and Samuel touched his hat and drove off. Reggie sauntered into the garden.

Normanhurst, as you know, is a low, spreading house of a comfortable Victorian dowdiness. There are⁠—don’t count the attics⁠—only two storeys. It is old enough to be quite covered with climbing plants⁠—ivy on the north, roses and a wistaria on the other sides. Birdie Bolton’s bedroom and boudoir looked to the south, and were on the ground floor. On the north of the house is the approach from the high road, a curling drive through a shrubbery. Birdie Bolton’s rooms looked out upon a rose-bed and a big lawn. About her windows climbed a big Gloire de Dijon. The roses beneath were of the newer hybrid teas, well cultivated, well chosen, and at their best⁠—a fragrant pomp of red and gold. “How she loved ’em, poor soul,” Reggie thought, and began to feel sentimental. That singular emotion was interrupted by the sound of a motorcar. He went back to the front of the house to meet it.

A big car was drawing up. It contained two people⁠—a uniformed chauffeur and a large young man who jumped out, rather clumsily, before the car stopped. He had the good looks of a hero of musical comedy, but an expression rather sheepish than fatuous, and a pallid complexion.

“I think you are Mr. Ford.” Reggie came close to him. “I am Dr. Fortune. Miss Bolton was a patient of mine. I hardly expected to see you so soon.”

“Miss Weston sent for me, sir.” Mr. Ford recoiled, for Reggie’s face was very close to his.

“Did she, though!” Reggie murmured. “Did she really?” Miss Weston had forgotten to tell him that. Pussycat!

“Well, Flora telephoned for her. She said something terrible had happened, and Miss Weston wanted me. I say, doctor, what has happened?”

“Jolly kind of Flora,” Reggie said. “Well, Mr. Ford, Miss Bolton has been murdered.”

“My God!” said Mr. Ford, and became livid.

“And Miss Weston has been charged with the murder.”

“Oh, my God!” Mr. Ford said again. “Oh, damn!” and put his hand to his head. “Here, let me go to her.”

“I don’t mind,” said Reggie, and Mr. Ford plunged into the house.

Reggie remained on the steps waiting for fresh arrivals. The goggled chauffeur moved his car on out of the way, descended, and behind a laurustinus lit a cigarette. Reggie, who never smoked them, sniffed disapproval and began to fill a pipe.

A taxicab drove up, and out of it bounced a plump little man whose coat looked as if he wore stays.

“I am Dr. Fortune,” Reggie said.

“And I’m Donald Gordon, doctor,” said the little man, who was emphatically a Jew. “Moss and Gordon.” It was the name of Miss Bolton’s solicitors. “Many thanks for letting us know. Poor, dear Birdie. She was a peach. Let’s have all the facts, please.” He had an engaging lisp.

“There’s a detective inspector inside. Like a bull in a china-shop.”

“Had some,” said Mr. Donald Gordon. “Come on, doctor. Hand it out.”

“Well, let’s see the flowers,” Reggie said, and walked him into the garden and began to tell him all that he knew.

“So he’s pinched Miss Weston, has he?” the little Jew lisped. “He’s a hustler.”

“Oh, I expect he’s arrested Ford too, by now. Me and you in a minute. He’s a zealous fellow. By the way, Gordon, who is Ford?”

“Yes. He’s a dark horse, ain’t he? I only met him once, doctor. You could see poor old Birdie was sweet on him.”

“Oh, so Miss Weston was telling the truth about that.”

“Why, didn’t you believe her, doctor?”

“D’you know, I wonder if I believe anything I’ve heard in this house.”

“Like that, is it?” Gordon lisped.

“Just like that,” said Reggie. A gravity had come over the perky little Jew, which he found very engaging.

Mr. Gordon nodded at him. “Birdie was the one and only,” he said, and Reggie nodded back.

“Nice flowers, doctor,” a new voice said. Reggie turned to see the small insignificance of Superintendent Bell, greeted him heartily, introduced Mr. Gordon. “Am I de trop, as the French say?” said Superintendent Bell. “No? Thought it might be a council of war.”

“Oh, is it war?” Reggie said.

“Well, you know, you’ve quarrelled with Inspector Mordan.” The Superintendent shook his head at Reggie.

“I wouldn’t dare. He quarrelled with me.”

“Such a pity.” The Superintendent smiled and rubbed his hands. “I ought to tell you, doctor, I quite approve of everything that Inspector Mordan has done.”

“Splendid force, the police,” Mr. Gordon lisped. “Wonderful force. So forcible.”

“Including the arrest of Miss Weston?” Reggie asked. “Well, well. Anyone else you’d like to arrest?”

“Anyone you suggest, doctor? Now I ask you⁠—what would you have done?”

“Oh, I’m not in the force.”

“We do have to be so careful,” the Superintendent sighed. “That’s a handicap, that is. I wonder why you wanted me, doctor?”

“I’m frightened of your inspector. He’s not chatty. I want to photograph the body.”

The Superintendent turned to Gordon. “It’s a taste, you know, that’s what it is. He likes corpses. Speaking as man to man, doctor, are you working with us?”

“May I?”

“That’s very handsome. Yes. Inspector Mordan, he has a kind of a manner, as you might say. I’ll speak to him. Is there anything you’d like to tell me, doctor?”

“Nice flowers, aren’t they?” Reggie nodded to the rose-bed under Birdie Bolton’s window. It was minutely neat.

“Look as if they’d been brought up by hand,” said the Superintendent, but he looked at Reggie, not the roses. “Anything queer, sir?”

“There’s that,” Reggie said. He pointed to a spray of the Gloire de Dijon beside the window. It bore a bud; it had been broken, and the bud was limp and dead.

“That wasn’t broken last night,” said the Superintendent.

“No. That’s what’s interesting,” said Reggie, and turned away.

At the door and in the drive there was some congested traffic. Mr. Ford’s big car still waited. Reggie’s humbler car had come back with his camera. The taxis of Mr. Gordon and Superintendent Bell took up more room. And yet another taxi was trying to get to the steps.

“Who’s this, Superintendent?”

“I dare say it’ll be for Miss Weston.”

“Taking her to Holloway at once? Well, well. I dare say it’s all for the best.”

But Miss Weston was not to go without a noise. Mr. Ford saw to that. At the head of the stairs he conducted an altercation with Inspector Mordan in which defiance, abuse, and profane swearing were his chief arguments. It was beastly stupid and it was damned impudence to arrest Miss Weston, and it was also beastly impudence and damned stupid, and so forth. In the midst of which the wretched girl was shepherded by two detectives downstairs.

“My God, you might as well arrest me!” Mr. Ford cried, in final desperation.

“Perhaps I will,” said the Inspector heavily, and glowered at him.

Mr. Ford paled and drew back.

On the stairs below Miss Weston stopped and turned. “Oh, Edmund, don’t,” she said. “They can’t hurt me. You know they can’t.”

Superintendent Bell drew Reggie aside.

“Think that throws any light?” Reggie said.

“Well, not a searchlight,” said the Superintendent.

Miss Weston was driven off. Mr. Ford, looking dazed, came slowly downstairs, and to him went Gordon.

“Better get her a solicitor, you know,” Gordon said.

“By Jove, that’s it!” Mr. Ford cried, and plunged out.

The Inspector and the Superintendent exchanged glances and looked at Gordon.

“Why did you put him on to that, sir?” said the Superintendent.

“Professional feeling, dear boy,” Gordon smiled. “Nice girl, ain’t it? I fancy my firm are Miss Bolton’s executors, and I fancy that bird is sole legatee.”

The Superintendent pursed his lips. The Inspector laughed. “It grows, don’t it, sir? Just grows,” he said.

“I would like to get on,” Reggie yawned.

“That’s right,” said the Superintendent, and took the Inspector aside.

Mr. Gordon, following Reggie to the boudoir, was distressed by the sight of the dead body, and said so. Reggie went on with his photography⁠—first the stab in the throat, then the minor wounds, then the bruise on the shoulder. At which last Inspector Mordan found him.

“Taking the wrong side, aren’t you?” he sneered.

“Oh, I’m taking all sides. Ever try it?” Reggie said.

“Well, have you done, doctor?” the little Jew broke in. “Can’t we have her covered up?”

“I’ll have the body removed, sir. If the doctor has quite done,” said the Inspector.

And so at last the body of Birdie Bolton was taken away to the mortuary, and Mr. Gordon, much relieved, flung open the windows and turned to his business, the secretaire and its papers. He worked quickly.⁠ ⁠… “Nothing there but love-letters. Wonder where she kept her will?”

“There’s a safe in the bedroom, I think,” Reggie said.

“You bet there is. She had all her jewels in the house, I know, and she had some good stuff, poor old girl. Well, come on; here’s her keys.”

They went into the bedroom, and the little Jew made for the safe. Reggie wandered across the room. It was a parquet floor with Persian rugs on it. He shifted one by the bedside. There was a small dark stain on the floor still not dry. An exclamation from Gordon made him turn. Gordon had the safe open, and the safe, but for some papers in disorder, was empty.

“Not one bally bangle left!” Gordon cried. “Not a sparkle of the whole outfit! Remember that ruby and diamond breastplate! Remember her pearls! And the stuff that Indian Johnny gave her! My hat! Somebody’s had a haul.” A spasm crossed his face. “I say, doctor, you were here when I opened the safe!”

“I was here,” Reggie said stolidly. “I wasn’t surprised.” The little Jew gasped. “You remember that emerald she always wore? It wasn’t on the dead body.”

“Oh, God!” said Gordon, and with unsteady hands turned over the papers. “That’s her script. More or less all there, I should say. Where’s the will? I know she had her will. Drew it myself.”

“What’s that?” Reggie said.

The one untidy thing in that very tidy room, a paper lay by the fireplace. Gordon picked it up. “Here we are! Yes, ‘May Grace Weston, my companion.’ That’s the document. Crumpled up and torn!” He whistled. “As if Birdie was destroying it and then⁠—biff!”

“Just as if she’d been destroying it,” Reggie agreed.

“That puts the lid on, don’t it!” said the little Jew. “Miss Weston-oh, lor, there’s a soft kid if you ever had one. Just shows you you never know with girls, doctor. Girls, girls, girls! Well, we’d better tell these bally policemen.”

So Inspector Mordan, vastly to his satisfaction, was told, and Superintendent Bell, appearing from nowhere, heard, and agreed to search the house for the stolen jewels. “You gentlemen come too, please.” He cocked an eye at Reggie.

“Want to keep me under observation?” Reggie grinned back.

“Want you to identify what we find,” said the Inspector.

“You’ll find something all right,” said Reggie.

But he showed little interest in the search, mooning after their men in and out of servants’ bedrooms and yawning in corners. Inspector Mordan had gone straight to Miss Weston’s room, and from it he came glowing with triumph. He called for his Superintendent, he collected Reggie and Gordon. “You gentlemen happen to recognize that?” He opened his big hand and showed the ring with the big emerald which Birdie Bolton had loved.

“That’s it,” Gordon cried. “That’s Birdie’s. Coo! What a stone, ain’t it?”

“In Weston’s room,” the Inspector proclaimed, “on the floor; just under the bed, in Weston’s room.”

“Only that and nothing more?” Reggie murmured.

“Yes, where’s the rest, Mordan?” said Superintendent Bell.

The Inspector smote his thigh. “By George, I see it! I let that rascal Ford see the wench alone. He’s gone off stuffed with the swag.”

“That’s a thought,” Reggie admitted, and the Superintendent lifted an eyebrow at him. “You ought to have Ford watched. No, I mean it. If I was you, Inspector, I’d have his place watched night and day.”

The Inspector was visibly gratified. “I know my business, thank you,” he said. “I say, doctor⁠—it is growing, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, as if it was forced,” Reggie smiled.

“What do you mean?” The Inspector flushed.

“You see, you’re so witty, Mordan,” said the Superintendent.

“And that’s that,” Reggie yawned. “You don’t really want me any more. Goodbye. Oh, Inspector⁠—I don’t want you to be disappointed. The murder wasn’t done in that room where you found the body. Goodbye!”

“Wasn’t done⁠—” The Inspector stared after him. “Good Lord, he’s mad!”

“Better get him to bite you, Mordan,” said the Superintendent.

That party did not meet again till the day of the inquest. Before the court met, Superintendent Bell called on Reggie and found him in a bad temper. This was unusual, and equally unusual in the Superintendent’s experience was a pallor, a certain tension, across Reggie’s solid, amiable face. A civil question about his health brought a snappish answer. It seemed to the Superintendent that Dr. Fortune had been making a night of it.

“Well, what is it?” Reggie snarled. “Got anything to tell me?”

“I’ve been rather disappointed,” the Superintendent said meekly.

“More fool you. I told you to watch Ford.”

“That’s it, sir. Were you pulling my leg?”

“Oh, damn it, man, this is serious! Miss Bolton was a patient of mine. I don’t let anyone but me kill my patients.”

“Very proper, I’m sure,” the Superintendent agreed. “But we have watched him, doctor. Nothing doing.”

“Set a man to stand on his doorstep, I suppose. What’s the good of that?”

“As you say,” the Superintendent agreed. “We’ve picked up one thing, though. Just before the murder his father turned him down for wanting to marry this girl Weston. He hasn’t a penny except from his father. That might have made him desperate⁠—him and the girl. It does grow, you know, doctor.”

“Queer case,” Reggie grunted. “Going to the inquest? Sorry I can’t drive you down. My chauffeur’s taking a day off.”

So they walked to the coroner’s court, and on the way Superintendent Bell used his large experience in the art of extracting confidences in vain. But Reggie mellowed, perceptibly mellowed, as he baffled Superintendent Bell.

The court was crowded to its last inch. The coroner was conscious of his importance, and made the most of it in a long harangue. The divisional surgeon was more pompous than ever, and made it a point of honour to use terms so technical that all his evidence had to be translated to the jury, and the coroner and he argued over the translation.

“What a life, ain’t it?” Mr. Gordon murmured in Reggie’s ear.

At last came what the evening papers called Dramatic Evidence: the housemaid who had found the body and had hysterics over again as she described it; Mrs. Betts, who had found May Weston sleeping beside it, waked her, and heard her say, “I did it⁠—oh, I did it!”

“Sensation in Court” was the crosshead for that. The coroner looked over his glasses at the jury, and the jury muttered together, and May Weston came into the box. With the manner of a chaplain at an execution the coroner warned her that she need not give answers that would incriminate her. “I want to tell you everything,” she said. She was very pale in her black, and listless of manner, but quite calm.