Devious Murder (7 page)

‘That is Mr. Cairncross's department,' she said. ‘If you've finished with my husband and me we'll leave you. We have work to do.'

Morgan made a gesture of shaking hands, but his wife hauled him off before he could complete the ceremony.

‘A queer couple,' said Cairncross, treacherously, as the Morgans disappeared, the husband following her meekly without a look behind.

‘Why queer?' asked Cromwell.

Cairncross chuckled malevolently as though he owed them a grudge.

‘She's the brains of the outfit. Poor Morgan does as he's told.
He seems to enjoy it. It stimulates him and he thinks the world of her. As for her; she keeps her love for Mrs. Havenith. Adores her. I'm sure she'd kill anybody who harmed her.…'

‘What about the burglar alarms?' interjected Cromwell.

‘This way.…'

Cairncross led them to a door under the stairs, which he opened with a key on his key-ring. He switched on the light and revealed an object like a gas stove, except that it was bristling with electrical points and wires.

‘Nobody's admitted here except me. Not even the Haveniths,' said Cairncross proudly. ‘And, of course, the mechanics of the firm who supplied it.'

He pointed out the ramifications and various virtues of the outfit.

‘Every window and outside door is wired. As soon as anybody sets off the alarm the police station terminal functions. Before the intruder's got properly inside the house the police are here. I'm already on the spot when they arrive because I'm only round the corner, in my flat, you see. Added to that, bells and electric lights go on outside, in the hall and in the corridors. There are also one or two other things happen which I alone know.…'

Cairncross smote his chest as though the tricks were safely locked up there.

‘I'd prefer you didn't press me to divulge them. You never know who's listening.'

Cromwell said he wouldn't for the world press Cairncross to betray his secrets.

‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. Was there anything more?'

Cromwell almost asked Cairncross to show him how the contraption worked, but it wasn't worth the hullabaloo the security man had described.

‘Finally,' said Cairncross, thumbing over his key-ring and eventually producing a key of curious shape.

‘See that? There's only me has that key.…'

He pointed to an object like a Yale lock set in the wall of the cubby-hole.

‘That's the control key. It turns the whole system on or off. Without this key, once the alarm's set going it keeps on and on till I turn it off.'

‘Suppose you sleep through it all?'

‘Sleep? Me? I'm one of those who sleep with one eye open. In any case the bell in my bedroom would wake the dead. No, they'll not catch old Cairncross napping.…'

They felt they'd had quite enough for one afternoon and bade Cairncross good day. As they left he asked them to remember that he was at their disposal at any time of the day or night.

On the way back Cromwell and Littlejohn called at Afton Lodge, Camberwell, to see Alfred Blunt at the old folks' home. He was enjoying afternoon tea with a number of other inmates who had rallied round him to make him forget his misfortunes. He seemed glad to see his visitors and Littlejohn introduced him to Cromwell.

‘Any news yet, sir?'

‘Not yet, Mr. Blunt. But we're doing our best.'

‘I'm sure you are, sir. I've been hoping you'd call. We won't need to go to Tamworth with Charles. To cut a long story short, he left me a private envelope which I promised not to divulge or open unless something happened to him. I didn't mention it when last you were here. To tell the truth, I'd forgotten in the shock. Well, I opened it after you'd gone. Charles wants to be cremated at Golders Green
and his ashes put in his mother's grave at Tamworth. There were also in the envelope his passport and a savings book in my name with £5,000 in it. He didn't forget me, you see. Always a good son. Though what I'll do with all that money I don't know. Perhaps I'll give it to this home. They've been good to me and I don't need much in the time I've got left.'

‘I'm very glad Charles has looked after you so well, Mr. Blunt. Did he ever tell you he had a banking account somewhere? He seems to have been pretty well off. He would surely not carry his cash about in his pocket.'

‘He never mentioned it. And I'd be the last to ask him. It would have looked as if I was interfering in his private affairs.'

‘Did he ever tell you the name of his employers, the whisky agents?'

‘If he ever did mention it, I've forgotten who it was. I'm sorry, Mr. Littlejohn; I'm not being much help. But my memory isn't what it was. I'll be forgetting my own name next.…'

The old man seemed to be growing confused in his mind and Littlejohn decided that he had better not press for more information. It would have been useful to learn how Gentleman Charles had conducted his financial affairs. However.…

‘And that was all you found in the envelope, Mr. Blunt? The passport, the savings bank passbook, and was there a letter about his cremation?'

‘That's all. It wasn't really a letter. Just a paper with his wishes on it in the event of his death. I have it in my room. I'll get it.…'

He went off without more ado, returning with a large square envelope, and he passed it over to Littlejohn, who shook out the contents on his knee.

It was as Alfred Blunt had stated; just the two booklets and a piece of plain notepaper bearing Charles's last wish and his signature on it. Littlejohn thrust his hand in the envelope and pulled out a small piece of plain cardboard.

‘I'd forgotten that,' said the old man. ‘I don't know what it's about. Perhaps it was the number of his car.'

The card bore a solitary number, nothing more. QZ53647.

‘Did he own a car?'

‘Not that I know of. He always came to see me in a taxi. I don't think he had a car. It must be some number he didn't want to forget, so he made a note of it.'

‘May I keep all these, Mr. Blunt? I'll see you get them back.'

‘That's all right.'

‘Thank you very much. We'll let you get on with your tea now, sir. I'll call to see you again very soon. If you wish I'll take you to Golder's Green and after that to Tam-worth if you want to see the ashes buried.'

‘That's very kind of you, Mr. Littlejohn. You'll get in touch with me, then?'

They took him back to his friends, who were eagerly waiting for news of what the visit was about.

‘What do you think of the number, Bob?' asked Littlejohn when they were on their way again.

‘Could it be a private account number with a continental bank?'

‘I was thinking the same myself.…'

Littlejohn took out the passport.

‘It looks as if Charles Blunt made his father the custodian of his private affairs. Nobody would have thought of looking there. He and the old man seem to have trusted each other implicitly, as well they might.'

The passport was a well-used one with a bad photograph
of Charles and several pages of foreign entrance stamps, all of them either Paris, Amsterdam or Geneva.

‘We'll contact Interpol and find out if they've any idea what the number is about and if, from the set-up of the letters and number, they recognise the bank.'

He opened the bank book.

‘The total payment in is made up of £100 a time which seems to indicate cash transactions. That won't be much help to us. However, we can ask the savings bank if they remember Charles and can give us any details of his dealings with them.'

‘What about calling on Mr. Binder and his domestic agency while we're about it?'

‘Why not? We may as well clear up the loose ends as soon as possible.'

Well Lane was an old block of offices, shortly due for demolition. Binder's premises were on the ground floor and resembled those of an old-fashioned solicitor, leather upholstered, well-polished, the kind that might have impressed a conscientious butler of a type now long gone. There was a small ante-room, marked
Knock and Enter
, which they did.

A middle-aged lady sitting at a desk with two telephones and a typewriter received them. Before they could speak she gave them both a keen glance as though sizing them up. Were they would-be coachmen, butlers, or chauffeurs …?

‘Are you already on our books?'

It had gone far enough, although Cromwell's sense of humour might have carried it further had it been permissible. They made themselves known and asked for Mr. Binder. The receptionist's imagination got the better of her and she saw her employer being hustled out in handcuffs. Then she rushed away as though the premises were on fire, returned quickly, and bade them follow her.

They passed through a place like a doctor's waiting-room, where presumably clients gathered anxiously to seek for jobs. There were one or two customers there, including a man more like a sailor than a domestic servant, smoking a cheroot. The receptionist told him in passing to put it out, which he immediately did by grinding it to ashes on the floor.

Mr. Binder was in his office, rocking to and fro in a massive swivel chair. He was a florid man with his sideburns done in the modern style of hairdressing, which made him resemble a butler himself. He, too, eyed his visitors up and down as though measuring them for a job. He had two voices, one for employers and the other for employees. He decided that the former was best for the police. Such visits were very rare as Binder's was a most respectable agency and Mr. Binder flattered himself that he could sort the wheat of domestic service from the chaff.

‘What can I do for you, gentlemen? We haven't been breaking the law, I hope,' he said in his most lathery tone.

Littlejohn left him to Cromwell.

‘I believe, Mr. Binder, that you are in the habit of supplying temporary maids to Mrs. Havenith, of
The Limes
.…'

‘Tolham,' said Mr. Binder to show that he knew all about it. ‘That is so, we have that honour.'

‘This you have done over the past few …'

‘… weeks,' added Mr. Binder. ‘That is so. They all finished a few days ago. Four of them. Young ladies. Excellent.'

‘Could you give us their names and addresses?'

Mr. Binder turned pale and rocked to and fro, as though it comforted him.

‘I hope none of them has misbehaved.'

‘No. There's only been a murder next door. We're
seeking anyone who might have been at
The Limes
when it occurred.'

‘Oh, dear! Tragic. I hope none of our clients did it.'

‘Of course not!'

Mr. Binder opened a drawer in his desk, took out a bottle and a small medicine glass, and gave himself a drink. There was a smell of brandy on the air.

‘Pardon me, I've had a coronary recently,' he said putting the bottle away, having thus excused himself for not asking his visitors to share.

Then his face lit up.

‘Excuse me,' he said again and rang a bell on his desk. The frightened receptionist appeared and looked frantically at her employer, as though he'd been arrested and was ready to leave her in charge of the business.

‘Miss Buttress,' he said to her. ‘Is Miss Marlene Blower still waiting?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Ask her to step this way, please.'

‘I didn't want to interview her here,' said Cromwell, nettled. ‘All I asked for was names and addresses.'

But it was too late. Miss Blower was ushered in. She looked first at Littlejohn and then at Cromwell and gave Mr. Binder an appealing look as though they'd come to hire her for some dire purpose.

‘These gentlemen are from the police,' said Mr. Binder.

Miss Blower thereupon fainted and fell on the floor.

It was difficult to know whether Miss Blower's fainting fit was spontaneous or phony and it would have needed an expert with appropriate apparatus to make sure. However, it gave Marlene time to recover her aplomb and after a couple of healthy swigs at Mr. Binder's brandy, which he surrendered reluctantly, she apologised profusely for causing a commotion, said she's never done it in her life before, and would never do it again. She expressed herself quite ready to listen to what the police had to say.

‘I hope I haven't done anything wrong,' she said anxiously. ‘My conscience is clear.…'

Cromwell reassured her.

‘Have you a private room, where we could interview Miss Blower without taking up more of your own time?' he asked Mr. Binder, who seemed very relieved by the request and said it would be a pleasure. He thereupon took a large key from his desk, opened a door on his right with it, and led them in.

The place looked like a private chapel of some undertaker or strict religious sect. There were rows of metal and canvas chairs spread about and, at the head of the array, a
reading desk with a huge Bible and a carafe of stale-looking water on it. ‘Love One Another' in large letters on the wall behind the lectern. There was a shabby carpet on the floor and the walls were painted a dismal brown.