Call Mr. Fortune · Case III (1/3)

Case III

The Nice Girl

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, some have greatness thrust upon them. That was Dr. Reginald Fortune’s trouble. He had become a specialist, and, as he told anybody who would listen, thought it an absurd thing to be. For he was interested in everything, but not in anything in particular. And it was just this various versatility of mind and taste which had condemned him to be a specialist. Obviously an absurd world.

The Criminal Investigation Department, solicitors, and others dealing with those experiments in social reform which are called crimes, by continually appealing to his multifarious knowledge and his all-observant eye, turned Dr. Reginald Fortune, general practitioner at Westhampton, into Mr. Fortune of Wimpole Street, specialist in⁠—what shall we say?⁠—the surgery of crime. And Reggie Fortune, though richer for the change, was not grateful. He liked ordinary things, and any day would have gladly bartered a murder for a case of chickenpox. This accounts for his unequalled sanity of judgement.

Reggie was in that one of his clubs which he liked best, because no member of it knew anything about his profession. He had just completed an animated discussion on the prehistoric art of the French Congo, and was going out, when the tape machine buzzed and clicked at his elbow, and he stopped to look.

“Murder of Sir Albert Lunt,” said the tape and, “Oh, my aunt!” said Reggie. The tape continued the conversation⁠—thus: “Sir Albert Lunt, the well-known mining magnate, was found dead this afternoon in the deer park of his estate at Prior’s Colney, Bucks. The body was discovered by an employee, in circumstances which suggested foul play. A medical examination led to the conclusion that the deceased had been shot. The local police have the case in hand, and search is being actively prosecuted for⁠—” Words failed the tape, and it relapsed into a buzz.

Reggie stared at it with gloomy apprehension. “I believe the beggars get murdered just to bother me,” he was reflecting, when a jovial tea-merchant (wholesale⁠—that club is a most respectable club) clapped him on the shoulder, and asked what the news was. “They only do it to annoy because they know it teases,” said Reggie, and held up the tape.

“Albert Lunt!” said the tea-merchant, and whistled. “Well, he won’t be missed!”

“Don’t you believe it,” Reggie groaned, and went out.

Upon his way home the passionate interest which the world, expressing its emotions on newspaper placards, took in Sir Albert Lunt was heaped upon him. When he let himself in, his factotum, Samuel Baker, was hovering in the hall.

“Oh, don’t look so alert, Sam. It’s maddening,” Reggie complained.

Samuel Baker grinned. “You’ll want all the papers, sir?”

“I suppose so!”

“I’m getting each edition as they come along, sir. Would you like a photograph of Sir Albert?”

“Go away, Sam.” Reggie waved at him. “Go quite away, Sam. Do you know one reason why many fellows get murdered? It’s because other fellows can’t live up to them.”

As he changed, Reggie looked through the papers. They were eloquent upon Sir Albert Lunt. His career, even when treated with the delicacy due to those who die rich, was a picturesque subject. Sir Albert Lunt, with his surviving brother Victor, had gone out to South Africa in the early days of diamonds. His first vocation was discreetly veiled. Some references to his lifelong passion for sport reminded the knowing of the story that he and his brother had been in the front rank of the profession which works with three cards, the thimble, and the pea. Sir Albert, always in close alliance with Victor, had come out into daylight in the second stage of the diamond fields, when the business man was following in the steps of lucky adventurers. It had been Sir Albert’s habit through life to appear in the second stage of things. The polite newspaper biographies called this prudence and sound judgment. He had always been fortunate in reaping other people’s harvests. There were strange tales of his devices at Kimberley and Johannesburg, and just a hint of a clash with Cecil Rhodes, in which Rhodes had said what he thought of the Brothers Lunt with a certain gusto.

So ways that were dark and tricks that were anything but vain in Kimberley and Johannesburg made Albert Lunt a millionaire. He was not satisfied. South Africa was too small for him. Or was it too hot for him? He had spread his “operations” round the world. He was “interested” in some Manchurian tin and the copper belt of the Belgian Congo. “One of our modern Empire builders,” as the evening papers sagely said.

How Sir Albert came by his title was a problem left in decent obscurity. Much was said of the magnificence of his life in England, his rococo palace not quite in Park Lane, his pantomime splendours at Prior’s Colney⁠—the ballroom which was in the lake, and the dining-room which was panelled in silver. The knowing reader could divine that Sir Albert had lived not only blatantly but hard and fast.

“Yah,” said Reggie Fortune.

Just as he was putting on his coat, Sam arrived with a photograph of Sir Albert, and Reggie sat down to it. A plump man of middle height, rather loudly dressed; a long, heavy face, rather like a horse’s, but with protruding eyes⁠—commonplace enough. It was only the expression which made Reggie examine the fellow more closely. Under the photographic smirk was a look of insolence and conceit of singular force. The man who owned that would never allow any creature a right against him. Behold the secret of Sir Albert Lunt’s success. And “Oh, Peter, I don’t wonder someone murdered the animal,” said Reggie. “Justifiable porcicide.”

On which he went off to dinner with his sister, who had married a man in the Treasury, and gave him the pleasant somnolent evening you would expect.

When he came back there were two telegrams waiting for him.

Number one: “Was called in to Lunt case. Desire consult you. Lady Lunt also anxious your opinion.⁠—Gerald Barnes.”

Number two: “Desire consult you Lunt case. Please see me Prior’s Colney morning.⁠—Lomas.”

Reggie whistled. “Let ’em all come,” said he.

Gerald Barnes had been house surgeon when Reggie was surgical registrar at St. Simon’s Hospital, and had gone into practice somewhere in Buckinghamshire. The Hon. Stanley Lomas was the head of the Criminal Investigation Department.

“Have they had a scrap?” Reggie smiled to himself. “Lots of zeal at Prior’s Colney. Sam! The car after breakfast. We’ll go and see life.” And he went to bed.

But in the morning, just as he was finishing breakfast, he was told that Nurse Dauntsey wanted to see him and said it was most urgent. Nurse Dauntsey was at St. Simon’s Hospital and had a partiality for Reggie, who (quite paternally) liked her for being gentle and kindly and pretty. A trim figure, a pair of honest grey eyes, a wholesome complexion, and an engaging red mouth were the best of Nurse Dauntsey’s charms, but there was a simplicity about her which commended them. “Types of English Beauty.⁠—Third Prize, Nurse Dauntsey,” somebody said once. And it was felt to be just.

On this morning Nurse Dauntsey’s nice face was troubled, and she had lost her usual calm. “Oh, Mr. Fortune, will you help me?” She rushed at Reggie. “It’s the Lunt case.”

“Now what in wonder have you to do with the Lunt case?”

Nurse Dauntsey blushed. “I’m engaged, Mr. Fortune,” she said.

“Well, he’s a very lucky man. And I hope you’re a lucky girl.”

“Oh, I am,” said Nurse Dauntsey, with conviction. “He has been arrested. They say he murdered Sir Albert Lunt. Mr. Fortune, you will help us?”

“Who in creation is the lucky man?”

“His name is Vernon Cranford. He’s a mining engineer. Oh, he’s been everywhere. He’s a born explorer, you know. He discovered a copper mine in Portuguese East Africa, one of the richest mines in the world. He came home last year and told Sir Albert Lunt about it, and Sir Albert sent him out to show the place. There was a sort of expedition, you know. And then, somehow, on the way up country Vernon was left behind. The other men tricked him. And when he got back to Mozambique he found that the other men had claimed the place was theirs. They had⁠—what do you call it?⁠—secured the concession, the rights in it. Wasn’t it a shame? Vernon was just furious. I don’t know quite how it happened. He only came back on Monday. I know he thought it was Sir Albert Lunt’s fault. He said he was going to see him and have it out with him. He was going to see him yesterday. And then, last night, I had this note from him.” She held it out, then couldn’t bear to let it out of her hands, and so read it to him.

“Dear Jo⁠—You mustn’t worry. Lunt’s been found shot, and the police have pinched me. Take it easy and go slow, and we’ll comb it all out.⁠—Yours, V.”

Nurse Dauntsey gazed at Reggie with very big eyes.

“Sounds as if he knew his own mind,” Reggie murmured. “And all this bein’ thus, you want me to take up the case. Why?”

Nurse Dauntsey was startled. “But to get him off, of course⁠—to defend him.”

“Yes. But don’t let’s be previous. Speakin’ frankly, did he do it?”

Nurse Dauntsey stood up. “I am engaged to him, Mr. Fortune,” she said with dignity.

“Quite. That’s the best thing I know about him. But I don’t know much else.”

“And I am sure he’s not guilty.”

“That kind of man, is he?”

“Just that kind of man,” said Nurse Dauntsey, and her eyes glowed. “He couldn’t do anything that wasn’t fair and clean.”

“Then he’d better have a solicitor. Do you suppose he’s got one?”

“He’d never think of such a thing.”

“Make him have Moss and Gordon. Ask for Donald Gordon, and say I sent you.”

“But I want you, Mr. Fortune. You know there’s no one like you.”

“I blush. We both blush.” Reggie smiled at her. “Well, nurse, two other people have called me into the Lunt case.” Nurse Dauntsey cried out, and her nice face was piteous. “Take it easy and go slow, as V. Cranford says. I’m going down to Prior’s Colney now to find out who I’m acting for. Oh, my dear girl, don’t cry. I’m guessing it may be you. Now you be a good girl, and take Donald Gordon to him.”

Nurse Dauntsey held out her hands. “Oh, Mr. Fortune, don’t go against him,” she cried.

Safe in his car, Reggie communed with himself. “She’s a lamb. But disturbing to the intellects. Well, well. I’ll have to make Brer Lomas sit up and take notice.”

It was a clear cold morning of early spring, and Reggie shrank under his rugs. He had no love for east winds. He thought that there should be a close time for murders. He was elaborating a scheme by which the murder and the cricket seasons should be conterminous, when, at about twenty-five miles from London, they passed a horrible building. It was some distance from the high road, perched on the top of a small hill. It was of very red brick and very white stone, so arranged as to suggest the streaky bacon which might be made of a pig who had died in convulsions. It was ornate with the most improbable decorations, colonnades, battlements, a spire or so, oriel windows, a dome, Tudor chimneys, and some wedding-cake furbelows.

Reggie writhed and called to his factotum, who was sitting beside the chauffeur. “Sam, who had that nightmare?”

“That must be Colney Towers, sir. Mr. Victor Lunt’s place.”

Reggie groaned. “And Victor yet lives!”

A mile or two farther on they ran into a village which, before ruthless fellows stuck garden-city cottages on to it, must have been placid and pretty. The car drew up at an honest Georgian lump of red brick which bore the plate of Dr. Gerald Barnes.

Gerald Barnes was a ruddy young man who looked and dressed like a farmer. “I say, this is very decent of you. Jolly day, isn’t it?” he bustled.

“Have you a fire, Barnes⁠—a large fire? Put me on it,” said Reggie. “And don’t be so cheerful. It unnerves me.” Still in his fur coat, Reggie planted himself in front of the consulting-room hearth. “Now, what do you want me for?”

“Well, it’s not so much me, though I’d like your opinion. It’s more Lady Lunt. Medically speaking, it’s a pretty straight case. Lunt was shot in the chest and the bullet lodged in the spine, .38 revolver bullet. So there’s not much doubt about the cause of death, what? But there are one or two odd things. The right thumb seems to be sprained. There’s a nasty wound over the left eye⁠—seems to have been made by a blow.”

“Sounds messy. Where do I come in?”

“Why, I don’t quite see my way through it. If a fellow had a pistol ready to use, why bash the beggar? It’s a futile sort of wound too, nasty mess, but not dangerous. But you’d better see the body. Fortune.”

“Oh, let me thaw. So Lady Lunt’s not satisfied with the police?”

“No, by Jove, she isn’t. I say, Fortune, how did you know that?”

“Genius, just genius. And what’s Lady Lunt like?”

“Well, you know, she isn’t quite a lady. And yet she is in big things. He married her about ten years ago, somewhere on the Continent. But she’s English. She was a dancer or singer or something. Pretty low class, I believe. She was awfully handsome⁠—big, dark, dashing type. She hasn’t kept her looks, but she’s still striking. She was pretty rowdy at first⁠—went the pace like he did. He was an awful old bounder, you know. But for a good while now she’s been different⁠—quiet and serious⁠—looking after things down here, good work on the estate⁠—that sort of thing. She quietened him down too, but he was pretty bad. I think she was getting him in hand slowly, but she must have been having a rotten time for years.”

“And what does Lady Lunt want now?”

“I’m hanged if I know,” said Barnes, after some hesitation. “She thinks there’s more in it than the detectives see, and she’s not satisfied about this arrest.”

“Now go easy. Two other people have called me in, and I don’t know who I’ll act for. So don’t spoil anybody’s game. Lomas wired for me⁠—”

“Lomas! So Scotland Yard isn’t so mighty cocksure.”

“Did Lomas seem so? Rude fellow. And then there’s V. Cranford.”

“Cranford’s got to you already! He’s lost no time.”

“Oh, he’s in very good hands. Now let’s take a walk. You’ll show me where Lunt was killed, and I’ll have a look at him.” Reggie shed his fur coat and became brisk.

It was his bailiff who had found Sir Albert Lunt, taken the news to the house, and telephoned for Gerald Barnes. Sir Albert Lunt had been walking back from his home farm across the park, which was an undulating stretch of turf over chalk, broken here and there by some fine beeches and coverts of gorse and bramble. A gravel path ran straight from the home farm to the main chestnut avenue. Barnes halted at a place where the turf was trampled in half-frozen footprints. Reggie looked round him. “Humph! Well out of sight of any house. Nobody heard the shot?”

“Nobody noticed it. It’s a good way from the house, you see, and a mile from the farm. A shot or so⁠—what’s that in the open country? You often hear a gun somewhere.”

“Quite. Where’s that path go to?” Reggie pointed to a track across the turf diverging from the gravel.

“That? Oh, over to Victor Lunt’s place. His park⁠—he calls it a park too, but it’s a small affair⁠—almost joins this, you know.”

“Well, well, let’s see the body,” Reggie yawned, and they marched on to Prior’s Colney.

It had once been a comely place in a staid eighteenth-century fashion. “Oh, my only aunt!” Reggie groaned. “Looks like your grandmother put into the Russian ballet.” It was loaded with excrescences of contorted ornament still raw and new against the mellow solemnity of the original homely house.

A motorcar stood at the door. While they were detaching hats and sticks in the hall, they could hear someone being told that Lady Lunt was not leaving her room. Then, being shown out, came a bulky man muffled in a fur coat with a big Astrakhan collar. He had a large head and a long face of unhealthy complexion. Across the forehead from right eyebrow to hair was a red furrow. He had prominent, pale eyes.