Death Among the Sunbathers (3 page)

‘That's right, I remember now,' agreed Mitchell. He turned back to Ashton. ‘Fellow on a motor-bike caught her up?' he asked. ‘Do you mean he stopped her?'

‘Yes, following her he seemed,' Ashton answered. ‘He slowed down outside my place and I was just wondering whether he would be taking something or whether he was another of 'em wanting to know the way where he could have a sun bath instead of a regular Saturday night like everyone else, when he caught sight seemingly of the Bayard Seven on the top of the rise beyond the line and went off on top speed – fair vanished he did, doing eighty or more.'

‘Did he catch her up, do you know?'

‘Couldn't help, moving at that speed. And when he did they had a sort of row together seemingly.'

‘Did they, though?' exclaimed Mitchell, interested. ‘Could you see them? Or hear?'

‘It wasn't me, it was George,' Ashton explained. ‘He was in a field close by where the fellow on the bike overtook her, and he says he could see 'em throwing their arms about, so to speak, and kind of hollering at each other.'

Mitchell expressed a wish to see the George referred to, who, when produced from the constantly augmenting collection of spectators doing their best to get in the way of the police and busily telling each other all about it, proved to be a not very intelligent, middle-aged labourer. All he had to say was that he had seen the motor-cyclist overtake the Bayard Seven, had seen the car stop, and had gathered from their gestures and their rather loud voices that the motorcyclist and the driver of the Bayard Seven were quarrelling. Finally the lady banged her car door and drove off faster than before, and the motor-cyclist returned by the way he had come. George had not been near enough, however, to catch any of the actual conversation, nor had it occurred to him to try, and of course no one had thought of taking the number of the cycle, though the make – it was a B.A.D. – had been duly noted. The description of the cyclist himself was hardly more satisfactory – full, reddish face, dark hair and eyes, small dark toothbrush moustache, was about all Mitchell succeeded in obtaining from Ashton and George together, and one of them was certain that he was wearing overalls and a cap, and the other was sure that he had been wearing a leather coat and no hat at all. It did not seem much to go on, but Ashton, a little jealous of the success of George and the attention his story had excited, remembered now that another motor-cyclist had preceded the arrival of this one. He, too, had asked the way to Leadeane Grange, but he had not proceeded there, and after sitting outside the George and Dragon for nearly an hour with a glass of lemonade he never touched, as if waiting for someone, had finally gone off back again by the way he had come in the direction of town.

‘And I wasn't sorry we was closed except for minerals and such like,' Ashton added, ‘for it was easy to see he had had all the drink was good for him.'

‘He could manage his cycle all right?' Mitchell asked.

‘Oh, yes, it wasn't that he was far gone, only you could tell all right by the funny look in his eyes and the way he tripped in his talk every now and again. In our line you soon get to know when a man's had his whack, same as this chap had – and then some.'

‘What was he like?' Mitchell asked.

Ashton looked worried.

‘I should know him again,' he said, and seemed to think that a fully satisfactory reply.

About all that further questioning extracted was that the stranger had been a big man and either fair or else dark, Ashton wasn't quite sure which. He was nearly as indefinite about everything else, and then suddenly he brightened up.

‘There was one thing I noticed,' he said. ‘He had a bit of a thick ear, same as if he had done a bit of boxing in his time.'

‘A point to remember,' conceded Mitchell; and saw that Ferris, too, had noticed the significance of these last words.

‘If that was Curtis and he did it,' Ferris muttered to the superintendent aside, ‘and we went at once, we might get him red-handed so to speak.'

‘Not likely to be as easy as that,' Mitchell answered, as he and the inspector, followed by two plain clothes men, climbed into the car Jacks was soon driving London-wards again. ‘Anyhow, we've made some progress. Two mysterious motor-cyclists, one of them seen quarrelling with her and one of them possibly her husband – but no proof, Ferris, remember, that that lady in that Bayard Seven was identical with this other one, and not too much chance of identifying either of the cyclists on the evidence of George – or Ashton either. But it'll bear looking into, bear quite a lot of looking into.'

‘I don't know if you noticed it, sir, and I dare say it's only a coincidence,' Ferris observed, ‘but the description of the man the lady in the Bayard Seven is supposed to have been quarrelling with would fit Mr Hunter, of Howland Yard.'

‘Why, so it would,' admitted Mitchell. ‘I hadn't thought of that, but then it would fit plenty of others as well – fit hundreds of other men. Bear looking into all the same. We'll have to set Owen on to that. I rather wish Owen had been here to-night – might have proved useful.'

Ferris looked as if he did not share that opinion. He was in fact slightly jealous of Owen, a young man not long in the force who had certainly done well in the case of the murder of Sir Christopher Clarke, but probably owed his success more to luck than anything else. Mitchell, however, had certainly taken a fancy to him, and seemed inclined to think at once of him whenever any special mission needed executing. Mitchell went on as if talking more to himself than to Ferris:

‘It's none of it clear. Whoever it was quarrelled with whoever the lady may have been, seems to have left her and gone straight back to town. And if it was Curtis who hung about outside the George and Dragon, he seems to have gone off before the Bayard Seven lady appeared, and to have gone off back to town, too.'

‘Ashton said he had been drinking,' Ferris remarked. ‘When a man's been drinking–'

Mitchell nodded an agreement.

‘Oh, it'll bear looking into,' he said, ‘and the first job indicated is an interview with Mr Curtis.'

When, however, they reached the Chelsea address they had discovered in the burning car – it proved to be on the first floor in one of those large, new blocks of flats that are springing up all over London – it was to find themselves unable to secure any answer. They knocked and rang in vain. Then they tried ringing up from an adjacent call-box without getting any reply. The porter in charge had seen both Mr and Mrs Curtis go out as usual that morning, one to his place of business, one to the office of the
Daily Announcer
, where, as Mitchell had guessed, Mrs Curtis was on the staff, but did not think either of them had returned. The daily woman they employed was only there in the mornings and had gone long since. There seemed nothing for it but to wait till Mr Curtis should return; and so, leaving one of the plain-clothes men there on watch to notify them the moment he appeared, Mitchell and Ferris went on to the office of the
Daily Announcer
.

The
Daily Announcer
, one of those great national papers that today provide the people of this country with all their needs, from their opinions and beliefs down to their sets of standard authors in best imitation half calf, possesses, as all the world knows, offices in Ludgate Hill that for their magnificent modernity have become one of the sights of London, so modem indeed as to make those of their most up-to-date Fleet Street rival appear almost antediluvian. Nowhere in the building is any material used save rustless steel that is for ever as bright as though a regiment of charladies did nothing but polish it all day long, and glass of the new type that is warranted to keep out all those harmful rays that nature so inconsiderately mingles with its sunshine. Even the easy chairs in the waiting-room are of shining steel; and the gossip that says that those in the editor's private sanctum are of homely wood upholstered in the style that father knew, is most likely merely malicious – but only those can tell for certain who have ever penetrated into that awesome chamber, and they are too few in number, and most likely in any case too dazzled by the splendour of the presence, for their evidence to be available. A superb house telephone system enables every member of the staff to communicate with anyone else in the building without leaving his desk, and it is often possible to ring up the man in the room across the corridor opposite yours, and then get up and go and have your talk with him, and come back again to find you have already been put through.

In fact, the
Announcer
is the last word in efficiency. Wherever a machine could do a man's work, a machine was installed. As for their news service, that functioned with a really marvellous certainty and speed, and this evening for instance they had already the news of the tragedy on the 
Leadeane Road, though not as yet the further fact that it was murder and no accident that had occurred. But already reporters were out, gathering every detail.

The news editor, Mr Reynolds, hearing of the arrival of two high Scotland Yard officials, received them himself, for his instinct told him at once it must be more than a mere accident, however tragic. And when he heard that foul play had taken place, he was shocked as a man, distressed as a colleague, and as a news editor thrilled with the thought of the headlines with which he would be able to bring out the next morning's issue. ‘Exclusive
Announcer
interview with Police Chiefs' would be the smallest of them.

Miss Frankland, Mrs Curtis in private life, was, he said at once, a valued member of their staff. She had been with them some years, an extraordinarily capable, energetic journalist, whose heart and soul were in her profession; ambitious, too, for it was known she cherished the hope of becoming some day the first woman editor of one of the great national papers. After all, as she was accustomed to say, a woman had already been a Cabinet Minister, and why should not another woman climb to still more dazzling heights and win through even to the editorial chair of one of the great dailies? A dazzling thought, but what man has done, woman will do.

Two or three years before, she had married, a weakness in a woman with a career, but she had been wise enough to let it make no difference to her work. Indeed, it was a standing joke in the office that on the eve of her wedding she had offered to put it off for a day or two, if no one else could be found to fill a certain assignment. Fortunately so extreme a measure had not been necessary, but it showed how keen she was.

‘Not long ago,' added Mr Reynolds, to emphasize still further this point, ‘we had to ring her up on an emergency story one night she and her husband were giving a dinner party to some friends, and she came right along and never said a word.'

‘Well, now, think of that,' murmured Mitchell when Mr Reynolds paused for him to express his admiration, but all the same in private Mitchell wondered if husband and friends had been equally complaisant, or whether they, or at least the husband, had been tempted to say perhaps a word or two. Then he asked, ‘Is Mr Curtis the gentleman who was well known at one time as an amateur boxer?'

Mr Reynolds had no idea. The sports editor might know, but he did not. It was evident that Mr Reynolds's interest in his staff was as entirely confined to their journalistic abilities as his interest in the universe was confined to its ability to provide headlines for his next issue – a man of one idea, in fact, which accounts for his value, his standing, and his reputation.

It appeared, however, from something else he said that Miss Frankland's standing in the office permitted her a certain initiative, and it was at her own request she had been allowed to go that afternoon to visit the sun bathing establishment at Leadeane Grange in order to write it up.

‘Though the
Daily Intelligence
did it a month or two ago, added Mr Reynolds, ‘so what made her think of doing it again I've no idea – unless,' he added thoughtfully, ‘she was on the track of some scandal – a lot of Society people go there.'

To Mr Reynolds, Society had but one interest – that of providing a scandal now and again. But he admitted that so far as he knew the Leadeane Grange sun bathing establishment was conducted with the utmost discretion.

‘Lot of well-known people go there – latest fad, you know. Lord Carripore goes twice a week regularly – I know that because we had to send there to interview him about the big fire that took place on one of the American liners the other day.'

‘I remember that,' agreed Mitchell. ‘Now I come to think of it, it was there I had to send Owen to look for him with that note from the Commissioner,' he added to Ferris, and then explained to Reynolds, ‘Owen's one of our young men. Lord Carripore wants us to make some inquiries, but they haven't come to anything so far. You have no idea if there was anything special that took Miss Frankland there?'

‘You might ask Miss Martin if you like,' suggested Mr Reynolds; ‘she runs our woman's page and was very friendly with Miss Frankland. Most likely Miss Frankland had something in her mind. She had a wonderful nose,' he added admiringly.

‘Nose?' repeated Mitchell, slightly puzzled.

‘For news,' explained Reynolds. ‘She could smell out a story quicker than almost anyone I've ever known. Of course she went off on a false scent at times, like everyone, but I wouldn't mind betting there was some reason she had for being keen on visiting Leadeane, though it may have been just she thought she could write it up better than the
Daily Intelligence
people did.'

Then in his turn he began to question Mitchell very gently, very discreetly, very thoroughly, and Mitchell answered almost like a good little boy in Sunday school, so free and frank and innocent he was, till when he rose to go, and while Reynolds was already visualizing with excited approval the splendid headlines he would splash across the issue now preparing, Mitchell launched his devastating, sledge-hammer, high-explosive knock-out.