Unnatural death
“You would die.”
“With what symptoms?”
“None to speak of. Just a gasp or two. The lungs would make a desperate
effort to keep things going. Then you’d just stop. Like heart failure.
It would _be_ heart failure.”
“How well I know it. . . That sneeze in the carburettor—a gasping, as
you say. And what would be the post-mortem symptoms?”
“None. Just the appearances of heart failure. And, of course, the little
mark of the needle, if you happened to be looking for it.”
“You’re sure of all this, doctor?” said Parker.
“Well, it’s simple, isn’t it? A plain problem in mechanics. Of course
that would happen. It must happen.”
“Could it be proved?” insisted Parker.
“That’s more difficult.”
“We must try,” said Parker. “It’s ingenious, and it explains a lot of
things. Doctor, will you go down to the mortuary again and see if you
can find any puncture mark on the body. I really think you’ve got the
explanation of the whole thing, Peter. Oh, dear! Who’s on the ’phone
now? . . . What?—_what?_—oh, hell!—Well, that’s torn it. She’ll never
come back now. Warn all the ports—send out an all-stations call—watch
the railways and go through Bloomsbury with a toothcomb—that’s the part
she knows best. I’m coming straight up to Town now—yes, immediately.
Right you are.” He hung up the receiver with a few brief, choice
expressions.
“That adjectival imbecile, Pillington, has let out all he knows. The
whole story is in the early editions of the _Banner_. We’re doing no
good here. Mary Whittaker will know the game’s up, and she’ll be out of
the country in two twos, if she isn’t already. Coming back to Town,
Wimsey?”
“Naturally. Take you up in the car. Lose no time. Ring the bell for
Bunter, would you? Oh, Bunter, we’re going up to Town. How soon can we
start?”
“At once, my lord. I have been holding your lordship’s and Mr. Parker’s
things ready packed from hour to hour, in case a hurried adjournment
should be necessary.”
“Good man.”
“And there is a letter for you, Mr. Parker, sir.”
“Oh, thanks. Ah, yes. The finger-prints off the cheque. H’m. Two sets
only—besides those of the cashier, of course—Cousin Hallelujah’s and a
female set, presumably those of Mary Whittaker. Yes, obviously—here are
the four fingers of the left hand, just as one would place them to hold
the cheque flat while signing.
“Pardon me, sir—but might I look at that photograph?”
“Certainly. Take a copy for yourself. I know it interests you as a
photographer. Well, cheerio, doctor. See you in Town some time. Come on,
Peter.”
Lord Peter came on. And that, as Dr. Faulkner would say, was why Miss
Climpson’s second letter was brought up from the police-station too late
to catch him.
They reached Town at twelve—owing to Wimsey’s brisk work at the
wheel—and went straight to Scotland Yard, dropping Bunter, at his own
request, as he was anxious to return to the flat. They found the Chief
Commissioner in rather a brusque mood—angry with the _Banner_ and
annoyed with Parker for having failed to muzzle Pillington.
“God knows where she will be found next. She’s probably got a disguise
and a get-away all ready.”
“Probably gone already,” said Wimsey. “She could easily have left
England on the Monday or Tuesday and nobody a penny the wiser. If the
coast had seemed clear, she’d have come back and taken possession of her
goods again. Now she’ll stay abroad. That’s all.”
“I’m very much afraid you’re right,” agreed Parker, gloomily.
“Meanwhile, what is Mrs. Forrest doing?”
“Behaving quite normally. She’s been carefully shadowed, of course, but
not interfered with in any way. We’ve got three men out there now—one as
a coster—one as a dear friend of the hall-porter’s who drops in every so
often with racing tips, and an odd-job man doing a spot of work in the
back-yard. They report that she has been in and out, shopping and so on,
but mostly having her meals at home. No one has called. The men deputed
to shadow her away from the flat have watched carefully to see if she
speaks to anyone or slips money to anyone. We’re pretty sure the two
haven’t met yet.”
“Excuse me, sir.” An officer put his head in at the door. “Here’s Lord
Peter Wimsey’s man, sir, with an urgent message.”
Bunter entered, trimly correct in bearing, but with a glitter in his
eye. He laid down two photographs on the table.
“Excuse me, my lord and gentlemen, but would you be so good as to cast
your eyes on these two photographs?”
“Finger-prints?” said the chief, interrogatively.
“One of them is our own official photograph of the prints on the £10,000
cheque,” said Parker. “The other—where did you get this, Bunter? It
looks like the same set of prints, but it’s not one of ours.”
“They appeared similar, sir, to my uninstructed eye. I thought it better
to place the matter before you.”
“Send Dewsby here,” said the Chief Commissioner.
Dewsby was the head of the fingerprint department, and he had no
hesitation at all.
“They are undoubtedly the same prints,” he said.
A light was slowly breaking in on Wimsey.
“Bunter—did these come off that wine-glass?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“But they are Mrs. Forrest’s!”
“So I understood you to say, my lord, and I have filed them under that
name.”
“Then, if the signature on the cheque is genuine—”
“We haven’t far to look for our bird,” said Parker, brutally. “A double
identity; damn the woman, she’s made us waste a lot of time. Well, I
think we shall get her now, on the Findlater murder at least, and
possibly on the Gotobed business.”
“But I understood there was an alibi for that,” said the Chief.
“There was,” said Parker, grimly, “but the witness was the girl that’s
just been murdered. Looks as though she had made up her mind to split
and was got rid of.”
“Looks as though several people had had a near squeak of it,” said
Wimsey.
“Including you. That yellow hair was a wig, then.”
“Probably. It never looked natural, you know. When I was there that
night she had on one of those close turban affairs—she might have been
bald for all one could see.”
“Did you notice the scar on the fingers of the right hand?”
“I did not—for the very good reason that her fingers were stiff with
rings to the knuckles. There was pretty good sense behind her ugly bad
taste. I suppose I was to be drugged—or, failing that, caressed into
slumber and then—shall we say, put out of circulation! Highly
distressin’ incident. Amorous clubman dies in a flat. Relations very
anxious to hush matter up. I was selected, I suppose, because I was seen
with Evelyn Cropper at Liverpool. Bertha Gotobed got the same sort of
dose, too, I take it. Met by old employer, accidentally, on leaving
work—£5 note and nice little dinner—lashings of champagne—poor kid as
drunk as a blind fiddler—bundled into the car—finished off there and
trundled out to Epping in company with a ham sandwich and a bottle of
Bass. Easy, ain’t it—when you know how?”
“That being so,” said the Chief Commissioner, “the sooner we get hold of
her the better. You’d better go at once, Inspector; take a warrant for
Whittaker or Forrest—and any help you may require.”
“May I come?” asked Wimsey, when they were outside the building.
“Why not? You may be useful. With the men we’ve got there already we
shan’t need any extra help.”
The car whizzed swiftly through Pall Mall, up St. James’s Street and
along Piccadilly. Half-way up South Audley Street they passed the
fruit-seller, with whom Parker exchanged an almost imperceptible signal.
A few doors below the entrance to the flats they got out and were almost
immediately joined by the hall-porter’s sporting friend.
“I was just going out to call you up,” said the latter. “She’s arrived.”
“What, the Whittaker woman?”
“Yes. Went up about two minutes ago.”
“Is Forrest there too?”
“Yes. She came in just before the other woman.”
“Queer,” said Parker. “Another good theory gone west. Are you sure it’s
Whittaker?”
“Well, she’s made up with old-fashioned clothes and greyish hair and so
on. But she’s the right height and general appearance. And she’s running
the old blue spectacle stunt again. I think it’s the right one—though of
course I didn’t get close to her, remembering your instructions.”
“Well, we’ll have a look, anyhow. Come along.”
The coster had joined them now, and they all entered together.
“Did the old girl go up to Forrest’s flat all right?” asked the third
detective of the porter.
“That’s right. Went straight to the door and started something about a
subscription. Then Mrs. Forrest pulled her in quick and slammed the
door. Nobody’s come down since.”
“Right. We’ll take ourselves up—and mind you don’t let anybody give us
the slip by the staircase. Now then, Wimsey, she knows you as Templeton,
but she may still not know for certain that you’re working with us. Ring
the bell, and when the door’s opened, stick your foot inside. We’ll
stand just round the corner here and be ready to rush.”
This manœuvre was executed. They heard the bell trill loudly.
Nobody came to answer it, however. Wimsey rang again, and then bent his
ear to the door.
“Charles,” he cried suddenly, “there’s something going on here.” His
face was white. “Be quick! I couldn’t stand _another_—!”
Parker hastened up and listened. Then he caught Peter’s stick and
hammered on the door, so that the hollow liftshaft echoed with the
clamour.
“Come on there—open the door—this is the police.”
And all the time, a horrid, stealthy thumping and gurgling sounded
inside—dragging of something heavy and a scuffling noise. Then a loud
crash, as though a piece of furniture had been flung to the floor—and
then a loud hoarse scream, cut brutally off in the middle.
“Break in the door,” said Wimsey, the sweat pouring down his face.
Parker signalled to the heavier of the two policemen. He came along,
shoulder first, lunging. The door shook and cracked. They stamped and
panted in the narrow space.
The door gave way, and they tumbled into the hall. Everything was
ominously quiet.
“Oh, quick!” sobbed Peter.
A door on the right stood open. A glance assured them that there was
nothing there. They sprang to the sitting-room door and pushed it. It
opened about a foot. Something bulky impeded its progress. They shoved
violently and the obstacle gave. Wimsey leapt over it—it was a tall
cabinet, fallen, with broken china strewing the floor. The room bore
signs of a violent struggle—tables flung down, a broken chair, a smashed
lamp. He dashed for the bedroom, with Parker hard at his heels.
The body of a woman lay limply on the bed. Her long, grizzled hair hung
in a dark rope over the pillow and blood was on her head and throat. But
the blood was running freely, and Wimsey could have shouted for joy at
the sight. Dead men do not bleed.
Parker gave only one glance at the injured woman. He made promptly for
the dressing-room beyond. A shot sang past his head—there was a snarl
and a shriek—and the episode was over. The constable stood shaking his
bitten hand, while Parker put the come-along-o’-me grip on the quarry.
He recognised her readily, though the peroxide wig had fallen awry and
the blue eyes were bleared with terror and fury.
“That’ll do,” said Parker, quietly, “the game’s up. It’s not a bit of
use. Come, be reasonable. You don’t want us to put the bracelets on, do
you? Mary Whittaker, alias Forrest, I arrest you on the charge—” he
hesitated for a moment and she saw it.
“On what charge? What have you got against me?”
“Of attempting to murder this lady, for a start,” said Parker.
“The old fool!” she said, contemptuously, “she forced her way in here
and attacked me. Is that all?”
“Very probably not,” said Parker. “I warn you that anything you say may
be taken down and used in evidence at your trial.”