The Mammoth Book Of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits Part 51

Back at the Austin mansion, we found that Heath had been hard at work taking statements from the guests.

"I think they can go home now, don't you, Vance?" Markham said hopefully. "I imagine we can consider this investigation as good as closed."

"Not quite, Markham," Vance replied. "I am not convinced that Mr Belmont is psychologically capable "

"Psychology again!" Heath exclaimed disgustedly. "Mr Vance, I know you've done some good work in the past, but you can't take every case like it's a page out of who's the fellow?"

"Freud, you mean? My dear Heath, a psychological approach is suitable to any problem of crime. And there are other people far more psychologically capable of committing this crime, people in this house now."

Before the discussion could continue, St.i.tt approached us, still ludicrously dressed as one of Mack Sennett's Keystone Kops. "Mr Vance," he said stiffly, "I think there is something you should know."

"What is that?"

"Those gla.s.ses that Mr Austin had in his hand are not the same pair that were sent to Mr Belmont."

"They weren't, eh? Then there were two pairs?"

"Yes. The pair that Mr Austin had in his hand were given him by Mr Harold Lloyd himself. They occupied an honored place on the mantelpiece in the library."

"I see. Then they were always here, not brought in by someone from outside. That puts a pos'tively different light on matters, y'know. He grasped 'em not from the nose of his murderer, as Mr Markham has postulated, but from the mantelpiece."

"In an effort to tell us the murderer's ident.i.ty," said Markham.

"Quite so. Changes matters a bit, eh what?"

Markham appeared exasperated. "But, Vance, I honestly don't see how this development changes anything. I still would put the same interpretation on the clue, wouldn't you? That is, as an indication of the guilt of the man who was to impersonate Harold Lloyd that is, Archie Belmont."

"No, indeed, Markham. Austin's message to us is a bit more subtle than that. In fact, I might not have been able to read it, had I not linked it with a couple of other pertinent clues."

"Do I understand you to mean, Vance," demanded Markham, seeming near apoplexy, "that you claim to have solved this case?"

"Oh, quite, old chap."

"And Belmont is not the murderer in your redoubtable estimation?"

"'Fraid not, old boy."

"Then who did it?" demanded Heath.

"Gather the guests in the ballroom and I'll tell you all about it," Vance promised, puffing his Regie nonchalantly.

Markham complied, though too upset to speak above a strangled whisper. A few moments later, Vance was telling the a.s.sembled group, "A most entertainin' comedy, y'know. I rather fancy it would make a fine picture, non-talkin' of course. Archie Belmont, who somehow mislaid his big round gla.s.ses, was accused of a crime in which his big round gla.s.ses didn't really figure at all. Amusin', what? Quite so."

Few of the tense gathering appeared very amused. In strained silence, they hung on Vance's every syllable.

"It's all extr'ordin'rily simple y'see. The real murderer is here, among the people in this room. A person capable of bitterness and vindictive hatred. One capable of plannin' a darin' and complicated crime."

He paused dramatically and looked at each face in turn the pale, beautiful visage of Molly Hawley; the ashen, haggard face of Judge Hawley, her father; the handsome, uncharacteristically serious face of Roger Kronert; the scowl of George Gruen, his Lon Chaney makeup removed; the sneering, now unlovely features of Arletta Bingham; the impa.s.sive countenance of the butler, St.i.tt.

Which of these was guilty, we all wondered all but the one who knew.

"The murderer was one whose costume allowed him to cover up any annoyin' blood with which he might have been spattered cover it up with a handy black opera cape!" Suddenly, all eyes were on George Gruen, who began to rise out of his chair but thought better of it when he felt Heath's beefy hand on his shoulder. "A man who hated Jack Austin for leavin' him on the brink of financial disaster. A man who is noted on Broadway for colossally elaborate musical productions with countless chorus girls and expensive, intricate sets, a producer of in short spectacles!"

With breathtaking suddenness, Gruen produced a dagger from under his cloak and plunged it into his own heart. The drama was over.

And so ended the famous Austin murder case. To me, I confess, it is more memorable than any of Vance's other cases and for reasons apart from Vance's great detective skill.

Though you may have difficulty in believing it, we were men, Vance and I, not mere cardboard figures. I admit here for the first time that during the course of this investigation I fell in love for the only time in my life in love with Miss Molly Hawley, the judge's red-haired daughter. Of course, I could say nothing, for to do so would be to break one of my own rules.11 I could have composed long paragraphs celebrating her t.i.tian locks, her flawless white teeth, her dimpled cheeks, but I had long ago vowed never to lose my equanimity in the manner of Dr Watson and other narrators of detective tales who have allowed themselves such indulgences as romance.

By being true to the rules, I consigned myself to a life of loneliness. And seeing every Clara Bow movie I possibly can has not significantly abated that loneliness.

The Man Who Scared the Bank ARCHIBALD PECHEY.

Here's the last of the stories I have reprinted from the 1920s. Pechey (18761961) was scarcely known under his own name. He wrote all his best known books and stories under two pen names, initially as Valentine during the 1920s and later as Mark Cross. He was as well known in the theatre as the literary world, collaborating on writing the lyrics for, amongst other musicals, The Maid of the Mountains (1917). Pechey's longest-running series featured Daphne Wrayne and the Adjusters. Wrayne was a beautiful, rich society girl who served as the front (and often the brains) behind a group of four individuals who were known only as the Adjusters. Their ident.i.ties are never revealed to the public, though the reader is let in on the secret. Pechey struck a rich vein. The stories first appeared in Pearson's Magazine in 1928 before being collected in The Adjusters (1930), all under the Valentine alias. Pechey then changed persona and, as Mark Cross, penned another forty-six novels in the series, from The Grip of the Four (1934) to Perilous Hazard (1961). The series ended only with Pechey's death in 1961. The following is the first story in the series.

Pechey, by the way, may be remembered for one other production: his daughter the TV cook, f.a.n.n.y Cradock.

The Editor of the Daily Monitor rang his bell.

"Send Mr Mannering to me at once," he said when the boy appeared.

He sat drumming on the table with his fingers and frowning at the letter in his hand until a knock sounded on the door. Then: "Come in, Mannering. Read that letter!" thrusting it at him.

The other took it, scanned it, whistled softly.

"I know the d.u.c.h.ess, sir," he said.

"Exactly. That's why I sent for you. Go up and see her at once. Find out all you can about this story. Maybe she'll get you an interview with these 'Adjusters' people. Hitherto no one's been able to get one. Get hold of every bit of news you can lay your hands on . . . The moment we publish the fact that they've recovered her necklace the public will be on its toes to know who and what they are. It's over three months since the necklace was stolen from Hardington House, and the police have owned themselves beat."

For four weeks the Adjusters had been intriguing public curiosity. Who and what they were no one seemed to know. Four times had a full-page advertis.e.m.e.nt appeared in the Daily Monitor: IF THE POLICE CANNOT HELP YOU.

THE.

ADJUSTERS.

CAN.

179, CONDUIT STREET, W.

Just that and no more. Interviewers and reporters had called, but had come away empty-handed. All that they could say was that the Adjusters occupied the whole of the first floor at 179, Conduit Street, that a stalwart commissionaire an ex-army man with a string of ribbons across his chest replied to all callers that "Miss Wrayne could see no one except by appointment, and no Pressmen in any circ.u.mstances whatever."

Now he gave the same reply when Mannering presented his card. But Mannering merely smiled and produced a letter.

"Perhaps you will be good enough to give that to Miss Wrayne," he said. "It's from the d.u.c.h.ess of Hardington."

Five minutes later the commissionaire came back.

"If you will come this way, sir, Miss Wrayne will see you," he said.

The next morning the Daily Monitor brought out flaming headlines announcing that the d.u.c.h.ess of Hardington's world-famous pearl necklace had been recovered by "The Adjusters of 179, Conduit Street". But it was what followed that made the public rub its eyes in astonishment "Armed with a letter of introduction from the d.u.c.h.ess of Hardington I succeeded yesterday in gaining an interview with Miss Daphne Wrayne, the secretary of the Adjusters. To comment on that interview is impossible. I can merely state what Miss Wrayne told me and leave the public to judge for themselves. Probably they will be as bewildered as I was and still am."

Followed then an account of a lavishly furnished suite of offices and a beautiful young girl who called herself the secretary, who declined to give the names of her a.s.sociates, but who said that the Adjusters came into being for the "Adjustment of the inequalities that at present exist between the criminal and the victim." Asked to explain this a little more fully, Miss Wrayne said that where the police were chiefly interested in the capture and punishment of the criminal, the Adjusters were solely concerned with the restoration to the victim of the money, or property, out of which he or she had been defrauded. She added, furthermore, that they had unlimited money behind them and charged no fees whatsoever! Then the Monitor man went on: "But, frankly, to me Miss Daphne Wrayne is the most amazing part of this amazing firm. It is well-nigh impossible to believe that this singularly lovely girl, barely out of her teens, who looks as if she had just stepped out of a Bond Street modiste's, is really in control of an enterprise of this kind. I say, 'in control' for even if she is not, she is, on her own statement, the only one whom the public will see, and behind the very up-to-date exterior, with its dainty Paris frock, silk stockings, etc., there is obviously a brain out of the ordinary.

"I was bewildered at the rapidity with which this pretty, laughing-eyed school-girl who smoked cigarettes and used slang, changed into an earnest young woman, with the criminal life of London at her slim fingers' ends.

"I came away from Conduit Street trying to tell myself that it was foolish, impossible, ridiculous. And yet there is Miss Wrayne herself. I can still see those clear hazel eyes of hers, and hear her final words: 'Is it so strange that some who have unlimited money and brains should want to help their less fortunate brethren?'"

One week later, when Sir John Colston the interview had been arranged that morning by telephone was ushered into Daphne's private room, he was conscious of a slight sense of annoyance. To discover that he, Sir John Colston, the head of one of the biggest banks in London, had to lay his difficulties at the slim feet of a lovely, hazel-eyed girl hardly out of her teens a girl who coolly waved him to a chair as she lighted another cigarette it was almost preposterous!

"Well, Sir John, what can we do for you?"

Just as if he were n.o.body and his affair a trivial matter!

"I understand from the d.u.c.h.ess of " he began stiffly, but Daphne Wrayne's eyes narrowed a little as she cut in on him.

"I know, and you're surprised at finding me so young." She leant forward suddenly in her chair. "Forgive me for saying so, but you're a little behind the times. You are obviously in trouble or you wouldn't be here. If you want my services they are at your disposal. But in that case it will be very much better, both for you and for me, if you will forget that I am a girl and not yet twenty-one. You will excuse my plain speaking, won't you?"

A little smile curved her lips, but her eyes were steady on his.

"You're not the first, you know, Sir John," she went on. "It's a bit of handicap sometimes, being a girl!"

His resentment vanished from that moment. Her ingenuousness disarmed him.

"I'm sorry, Miss Wrayne," he said. "I'm an old man a bit old-fashioned, I'm afraid, too. You this place," he waved a hand, "rather took me by surprise."

"Of course," sweetly. "Now, let's get to business. You, I take it, are the head of the Universal Banking Corporation of Lombard Street?"

"I am. I have a client of the name of Richard Henry Gorleston."

"The bookmaker?"

"I begin to see that what the d.u.c.h.ess told me about you was true," he smiled. He was becoming more impressed now every minute.

"I have a good memory for names," she replied.

"He has been a client of mine for nearly three years. His father, I may tell you, left him 50,000. The son has banked with us ever since, and until this week has been a trusted client.

"I must tell you," he went on, "that ever since he opened an account with us it has been his habit to draw out large sums of money in notes and to replace them within a few days. He told me from the start that he lived by gambling.

"On numerous occasions he has presented cheques for five or ten thousand pounds, and drawn the money out in notes. Then a few days later he would come and pay it all back, perhaps a little more, perhaps a little less.

"Ten days ago he called at the bank and came into my private room nothing unusual in that, though. He often does. Now, the moment he came in I noticed that he was wearing hornrimmed spectacles, a thing which he has never done before. I commented on it and he said that he'd had trouble with his eyes, and had been to an oculist."

"Mention his name?" casually.

"He did. James Adwinter, of Queen Anne Street."

Daphne Wrayne made a note of it.

"Please go on, Sir John."

"I asked him if he was drawing out any money and he said he was would I tell him what his balance was. I sent out and found it was about thirty thousand pounds. In front of me he took his cheque book and wrote a cheque for 25,000. I sent for one of my cashiers and we paid it over to him in thousand-pound notes. Now comes the amazing part of the story. Two days ago he came into the bank and presented a cheque for 15,000. The cashier told him he hadn't got it, and reminded him of the 25,000 one. He indignantly denied it said he'd been out of town for nearly a fortnight, and he could prove it. Declared that someone must have impersonated him. This morning we received a letter from his solicitors threatening us with an action."

"But the signature, Sir John? If it was Richard Henry Gorleston's usual signature with no irregularity-"

"That's the trouble, Miss Wrayne. This," handing her a cheque, "is his usual signature. This," handing her another, "is the disputed cheque."

Daphne Wrayne's eyebrows went up as she scanned it.

"How did you come to pa.s.s this cheque without comment?" she queried. "The difference is not very great, I admit, but still "

"Miss Wrayne, I put it to you! You have an old client whom you know well. He comes in, sits down and talks to you, writes out a cheque. You send for your cashier who knows him equally well. You've seen him write the cheque. You're satisfied. You cash it without question."

"Oh, I know. But will the law exonerate you?"

"I'm afraid it won't," a little ruefully.

"Tell me, Sir John," after a slight pause, "had you any shadow of doubt when this man presented that 25,000 cheque but that he was Richard Gorleston?"

"Not the faintest, Miss Wrayne."

"When he came in two days ago was he wearing spectacles?"

"He wasn't. He said he'd never worn them in his life, and never heard of Adwinter."

"What was his manner like?"

"Oh, he was naturally very upset, but he quite appreciated our position, though he said, of course, that we should have noticed the difference in the signature. He went on to say that he'd known for some time that he had a 'double', but he'd never been able to run him to earth."

The girl wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully.

"He told you he'd been out of London all the time. Did he say where?"