Crime at Tattenham Corner (13 page)

Mrs. Jimmy switched on the light.

“Well, you are doing it all right – properly,” she said admiringly.

All the superfluous furniture, of which the room contained a good deal, had been pushed aside, most of it into the back part, which was separated from the front by folding doors and which evidently served the purpose of a dining-room. In the space thus cleared in the front room five wooden chairs were standing in close proximity to a small round table.

“Yes. I guess we are about ready. When are your guests going to arrive?” Miss Margetson inquired, in a voice to which Pamela took an instant dislike.

It was a soft, purring,
false
voice, the girl said to herself, and there was a decided American accent. She had been looking forward to seeing the medium to whom such marvellous powers had been vouchsafed; but now, as Winifred Margetson smiled and shook hands, Pamela felt only a distinct thrill of disappointment. She had seldom seen a face that repelled her more than the medium's. It was sallow and wrinkled, the dark skin everywhere crossed by a network of tiny lines. The mouth, the widest Pamela had ever noticed, was so thin-lipped that lips might have been said to be absent altogether; the even rows of teeth were obviously false and ill-fitting, and probably owing to this fact the corners of the mouth drooped to an extent that gave the whole face an extraordinarily crafty expression. The eyes were big and staring. Possibly open to things not of this earth, they appeared to see nothing close at hand. The sleek, dyed hair was brushed back and cut short, except that a bushy curl was trained over each large ear. The bustless, hipless, waistless figure looked as if two boards had been joined together and clothed in the preposterous garments of the present day. 

Winifred Margetson was not the sort of woman in whom Pamela could imagine her fastidious father taking the smallest interest. The thought passed through her mind somewhat profanely that his tastes must have altered in the other world if he made his wishes known through the medium of Miss Margetson.

But the bell outside was tinkling. There were more arrivals.

“Lady Fanyard, Miss Fanyard, Mrs. de Conroy,” the pert maid announced.

Mrs. Jimmy introduced Pamela with a wave of her hand.

“My niece, Pamela Burslem.” The sound of her name did not excite the interest Pamela had half expected. The new-comers turned lack-lustre eyes upon her; if they had ever heard of the Burslem case it had entirely disappeared from their memory. All three were well dressed and evidently belonged to the moneyed class, but none of them looked particularly intelligent; their chins by one consent appeared to be absent.

Miss Margetson retired apparently to make some last preparations, and after a minute Mrs. Jimmy followed her.

Lady Fanyard turned to Pamela, her eyes upturned, her hands clasped in an ecstasy.

“Isn't she wonderful – our dear Miss Margetson?”

“I dare say she may be, but I do not know anything about her,” Pamela said candidly. 

“Ah! You are not convinced? You are only an inquirer?” Lady Fanyard brought her eyes down to Pamela's face. “But I could tell you the most marvellous things. Winifred has made life a different thing for me.”

She was stopped by the return of Mrs. Jimmy with the wonderful Winifred, clad now in a flowing garment of filmy black, and with something of the expression of the mystic in her great, dark eyes and her small, wrinkled face. She glided to the table, and seating herself leaned back and raised her eyes upwards as if lost in ecstasy.

Mrs. Jimmy beckoned to them to sit round the table, the visitors having removed their hats and gloves. She placed Pamela exactly opposite the medium; then she bade them all place their hands on the table, not touching one another but to spread out every finger separately.

Then suddenly she switched off the light and the room was in absolute pitch darkness. Pamela found out afterwards that there were shutters behind the blinds, which Mrs. Jimmy had managed to close noiselessly. For a minute or two there was silence – silence so dead that Pamela could almost hear herself breathe.

Then the voice of the medium.

“There is a beautiful hymn – ‘Lead, kindly light.' That is the first line. We will sing it while the spirits are on their way to us to make our darkness and gloom the perfect light of the next sphere.” She stopped.

Then in a quavering voice somebody started the first line of Newman's hymn. The others joined in, more or less distinctly. When the last notes had died away there was silence again.

Then, Pamela told herself that it must be her fancy, but it really did seem to the girl that the darkness was full of moving things. Once she could have fancied a bat-like shape was skimming over the table before her. At last, apparently from a distance, there came a small shrill voice:

“I am Fan-Fan. I want to see – to see –”

“Ah, yes, yes!” the medium spoke, and now her voice had lost some of its purring note; it sounded tired and limp. “Yes, yes, Fan-Fan, who have you come to see?”

“A new lady. Somebody who wants to know.” The voice was getting clearer, nearer. “And I bring with me some one who is trying to get to her. He says she must have patience – he is coming – but it is not long since he crossed. He is not sure – it is difficult – but he is trying.”

Pamela drew a deep breath. She did not doubt – how could she? – that the words referred to her. She waited, her whole being concentrated in the longing to receive some sign from her father.

Then Fan-Fan spoke again; now her voice had weakened again.

“He is here! But it has been difficult – very difficult! In a minute he will speak. But it cannot be for long. The lady must have patience.”

“Yes, yes!” Pamela was beginning, but a low, shocked hush ran round the room.

Then in the silence that followed there came in a man's deep voice the girl's name.

“Pam – child, are you here?”

It sounded like a man's voice, but though the expression “Pam – child” was Sir John's usual way of addressing his daughter, Pamela could not recognize any tone of her father's.

“Yes, I am here,” she hesitated. “But, dad –”

“You wanted me – I have come, but it has not been easy and you must not keep me,” the voice went on. “Be quick, Pam.”

“Yes, yes!” the girl said again. It was not easy to speak with all these strangers round, and the voice – the voice that was not her father's voice though it used her father's words – seemingly floating in the air. She felt half frightened, half doubtful. Yet the much-longed-for opportunity was here. She told herself that she must – she must avail herself of it.

“Are you happy, dad?” she asked in a voice that would quiver in spite of her best efforts.

“It was too soon. They were too quick for me. My work was not done and I want you and Sophie.”

Somehow the use of her stepmother's Christian name seemed more convincing to Pamela than anything else.

“Oh, dad,” she burst out, “tell me who did it – who shot you.”

“No, no! I can't. It is not allowed,” the voice began to grow fainter as if the speaker were getting farther away.

“And where is Ellerby?” the girl questioned desperately.

“I don't know. But he is happy – he is helping those he loves.” There was another pause, then the voice went on. “I – I must go. They are calling me away. Be good, Pam – child. Sophie will help you, and be kind to Aunt Kitty. She has done more for me than anyone since I came over.”

“I will, I will!” the girl promised. “But – but, dad, can't you help me – tell me –”

“No, not now. I cannot stay. Only remember I am watching you, Pam. Good-bye!” There was a sound as if some one was blowing a kiss, then silence.

“Oh, dad, come back!” Pam cried desperately.

But there came no answer – only that dense, impenetrable darkness.

“Vidame and Green! Here we are!”

Inspector Stoddart was the speaker. He and Harbord got out of a bus at Victoria and had walked down Witwick Street. Vidame & Green's was quite a small shop; a stock of hosiery in the windows looked as though it was seldom altered.

Nevertheless it was obviously fairly well frequented, and there were several customers in the shop when the detectives entered. Two assistants were serving, and a dapper-looking little man in spectacles came forward.

“Mr. Vidame?” the inspector said inquiringly.

The little man coughed. “There is no Mr. Vidame, sir. My name is Mercier. I married Mr. Green's daughter, and I am the only representative of the firm in the business, though I am glad to say Mr. Green is still living at Hampstead. But anything I can do for you, gentlemen? I may say that our goods are among the most reliable in London.”

Inspector Stoddart handed him a card. “If you could spare me a few minutes, Mr Mercier –”

Mr. Mercier's colour visibly altered as he saw the name.

“Certainly, inspector. Will you come to my office?” He led the way to a small room at the rear of the shop. “Now, gentlemen, I am at your service, though I am at a loss to understand –”

Stoddart took out of his pocket the tie-on label that had been found in Ellerby's room at Porthwick Square and which had on it Messrs. Vidame & Green's name. He handed it to Mr. Mercier.

“I presume this had been used for some purchase made in your shop? The figures 25/6/2 represent no doubt the date when the article, whatever it was, was bought. This number on the other side – 5 – I take it refers to the assistant who served your customer?”

“Exactly, inspector,” Mr. Mercier said. “These labels are put on every parcel which is made up on the premises. I insist on it, as in the case of any dissatisfaction it is necessary to know all the details.”

“Can we see the assistant who made up the parcel to which this label was attached?”

“Certainly you can.” Mr. Mercier took up the speaking-tube which stood on his desk and spoke down it. Then he went to the door and returned with a tall, reedy-looking youth. “This is our Mr. Thompson, inspector. I am sure that any information he can give you –”

“Our Mr. Thompson” looked distinctly scared as he turned his prominent, light eyes on the detectives.

Mr. Mercier held out the label. “You served this customer?”

Mr. Thompson looked at the label, rather as if he thought it might bite. “Yes, sir, I did.”

“You can remember the transaction?”

There was a pause while Mr. Thompson tentatively touched the label and apparently racked his brains, then he said:

“Yes, sir. I do. More especially as the customer made several purchases and I had seen him in the shop before.”

“Have you seen him in the shop since?” Stoddart inquired.

Mr. Thompson began to look worried. “I can't call to mind that I have, sir. I have not seen him this last week, I am sure. But then I might not have noticed him if one of the other assistants had been attending to him.”

The inspector took out his notebook. “Now, can you give me any sort of description of this customer of yours?”

“I do not know that I could, sir.” Mr. Thompson hesitated and stammered. “He was not, so to speak, anything particular to look at.”

“Old or young?” the inspector questioned.

“Oh, not to say old, sir. Nor yet young. Oh, not young by any means.”

“Middle-aged, perhaps you would say,” Stoddart suggested.

Mr. Thompson looked relieved. “Yes, sir. That's right. Middle-aged I should call him.”

“Now about his hair, was he fair or dark?” the inspector pursued.

Mr. Thompson's bewilderment apparently increased.

“I am sure I couldn't say, sir. I can't call to mind that I ever saw his hair. He was clean-shaven, I know.”

“Should you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” This time Mr. Thompson had no doubts.

The inspector took a case from his pocket and held out the photograph it contained.

“Is this like your customer?”

Mr. Thompson took the card in his hand gingerly. He stared at it, he held it in different positions, and apparently studied it with meticulous care. At last he looked up at the inspector.

“I don't know. I couldn't say. I never saw him laughing like that – and without his hat,” he said despairingly. “It might be him and then again it might not.”

“Um! Not very illuminating,” the inspector said, retrieving the photograph and replacing it in its case. “Well, Mr. Thompson, with regard to this customer of yours, can you tell us how many times you served him – approximately, of course – and anything with regard to his purchases?”

The assistant took a notebook from his pocket and glanced at it, then his face brightened.

“Yes, sir, I can. I remember perfectly now. I have served this same gentleman on three occasions. And each time the purchase has been the same – a dozen day shirts and three pyjama suits. The thing that has struck me as peculiar about it, and that has fixed it in my mind, is that each time the gentleman mentioned the fact that they were for himself, and yet each time they were different sizes.”

“Different sizes!” echoed the inspector. “That seems curious. I could understand a man making a mistake once – got a little thinner or a little stouter, maybe – but it seems odd he should do it twice.”

“Perhaps he was not so much thinner or stouter as he had expected,” Harbord suggested. “He did not ask you to change them, then” – returning to Mr. Thompson – “or I take it for granted you would have done so.”

“Certainly, sir. No, he never made any such suggestion.”

“And he never had parcels sent to his address, I suppose?”

Mr. Thompson shook his head. “Not when I served him. I offered to send them, of course; they made such a big parcel for him to carry. But he refused. He had not far to go, he said, and he always preferred to be independent. But once I noticed he got into a taxi outside.”