Three Blind Mice, Page 2

  "I don't," Giles interjected.

  "- has nothing whatever to do with it. He's paying seven guineas a week, and that's all that matters."

  "If he pays it, yes."

  "He's agreed to pay it. We've got his letter."

  "Did you transfer that suitcase of his to the rose room?"

  "He carried it, of course."

  "Very gallant. But it wouldn't have strained you. There's certainly no question of stones wrapped up in newspaper. It's so light that there seems to me there's probably nothing in it."

  "Ssh, here he comes," said Molly warningly.

  Christopher Wren was conducted to the library which looked, Molly thought, very nice, indeed, with its big chairs and its log fire. Dinner, she told him, would be in half an hour's time.

  In reply to a question, she explained that there were no other guests at the moment. In that case, Christopher said, how would it be if he came into the kitchen and helped?

  "I can cook you an omelette if you like," he said engagingly.

  The subsequent proceedings took place in the kitchen, and Christopher helped with the washing up.

  Somehow, Molly felt, it was not quite the right start for a conventional guest house - and Giles had not liked it at all. Oh, well, thought Molly, as she fell asleep, tomorrow when the others came it would be different.

  The morning came with dark skies and snow. Giles looked grave, and Molly's heart fell. The weather was going to make everything very difficult.

  Mrs Boyle arrived in the local taxi with chains on the wheels, and the driver brought pessimistic reports of the state of the road.

  "Drifts afore nightfall," he prophesied.

  Mrs Boyle herself did not lighten the prevailing gloom. She was a large, forbidding-looking woman with a resonant voice and a masterful manner. Her natural aggressiveness had been heightened by a war career of persistent and militant usefulness.

  "If I had not believed this was a running concern, I should never have come," she said. "I naturally thought it was a well-established guest house, properly run on scientific lines."

  "There is no obligation for you to remain if you are not satisfied, Mrs Boyle," said Giles. "No, indeed, and I shall not think of doing so."

  "Perhaps, Mrs Boyle," said Giles, "you would like to ring up for a taxi. The roads are not yet blocked. If there has been any misapprehension it would, perhaps, be better if you went elsewhere." He added, "We have had so many applications for rooms that we shall be able to fill your place quite easily - indeed, in future we are charging a higher rate for our rooms."

  Mrs Boyle threw him a sharp glance. "I am certainly not going to leave before I have tried what the place is like. Perhaps you would let me have a rather large bath towel, Mrs Davis. I am not accustomed to drying myself on a pocket handkerchief."

  Giles grinned at Molly behind Mrs Boyle's retreating back. "Darling, you were wonderful," said Molly. "The way you stood up to her." "Bullies soon climb down when they get their own medicine," said Giles. "Oh, dear," said Molly. "I wonder how she'll get on with Christopher Wren." "She won't," said Giles.

  And, indeed, that very afternoon, Mrs Boyle remarked to Molly, "That's a very peculiar young man," with distinct disfavour in her voice.

  The baker arrived looking like an Arctic explorer and delivered the bread with the warning that his next call, due in two days' time, might not materialize.

  "Hold-ups everywhere," he announced. "Got plenty of stores in, I hope?"

  "Oh, yes," said Molly. "We've got lots of tins. I'd better take extra flour, though."

  She thought vaguely that there was something the Irish made called soda bread. If the worst came to the worst she could probably make that.

  The baker had also brought the papers, and she spread them out on the hall table. Foreign affairs had receded in importance. The weather and the murder of Mrs Lyon occupied the front page.

  She was staring at the blurred reproduction of the dead woman's features when Christopher Wren's voice behind her said, "Rather a sordid murder, don't you think? Such a drab-looking woman and such a drab street. One can't feel, can one, that there is any story behind it?"

  "I've no doubt," said Mrs Boyle with a snort, "that the creature got no more than she deserved."

  "Oh." Mr Wren turned to her with engaging eagerness. "So you think it's definitely a sex crime, do you?"

  "I suggested nothing of the kind, Mr Wren."

  "But she was strangled, wasn't she? I wonder -" he held out his long white hands - "what it would feel like to strangle anyone."

  "Really, Mr Wren!"

  Christopher moved nearer to her, lowering his voice. "Have you considered, Mrs Boyle, just what it would feel like to be strangled?"

  Mrs Boyle said again, even more indignantly, "Really, Mr Wren!"

  Molly read hurriedly out, '"The man the police are anxious to interview was wearing a dark overcoat and a light Homburg hat, was of medium height, and wore a woolen scarf.'"

  "In fact," said Christopher Wren, "he looked just like everybody else." He laughed. "Yes," said Molly. "Just like everybody else."

  In his room at Scotland Yard, Inspector Parminter said to Detective Sergeant Kane, "I'll see those two workmen now."

  "Yes, sir."

  "What are they like?"

  "Decent class workingmen. Rather slow reactions. Dependable."

  "Right." Inspector Parminter nodded.

  Presently two embarrassed-looking men in their best clothes were shown into his room.

  Parminter summed them up with a quick eye. He was an adept at setting people at their ease.

  "So you think you've some information that might be useful to us on the Lyon case," he said. "Good of you to come along. Sit down. Smoke?"

  He waited while they accepted cigarettes and lit up.

  "Pretty awful weather outside."

  "It is that, sir."

  "Well, now, then - let's have it."

  The two men looked at each other, embarrassed now that it came to the difficulties of narration.

  "Go ahead, Joe," said the bigger of the two.

  Joe went ahead. "It was like this, see. We 'adn't got a match."

  "Where was this?"

  "Jarman Street - we was working on the road there - gas mains."

  Inspector Parminter nodded. Later he would get down to exact details of time and place. Jarman Street, he knew was in the close vicinity of Culver Street where the tragedy had taken place.

  "You hadn't got a match," he repeated encouragingly.

  "No. Finished my box, I 'ad, and Bill's lighter wouldn't work, and so I spoke to a bloke as was passing. 'Can you give us a match, mister?' I says. Didn't think nothing particular, I didn't, not then. He was just passing - like lots of others -1 just 'appened to arsk 'im."

  Again Parminter nodded.

  "Well, he give us a match, 'e did. Didn't say nothing. 'Cruel cold,' Bill said to 'im, and he just answered, whispering-like, 'Yes, it is.' Got a cold on his chest, I thought. He was all wrapped up, anyway. 'Thanks mister,' I says and gives him back his matches, and he moves off quick, so quick that when I sees 'e'd dropped something, it's almost too late to call 'im back. It was a little notebook as he must 'ave pulled out of 'is pocket when he got the matches out. 'Hi, mister/ I calls after 'im, 'you've dropped something.' But he didn't seem to hear - he just quickens up and bolts round the corner, didn't 'e, Bill?"

  "That's right," agreed Bill. "Like a scurrying rabbit."

  "Into the Harrow Road, that was, and it didn't seem as we'd catch up with him there, not the rate 'e was going, and, anyway, by then it was a bit late - it was only a little book, not a wallet or anything like that - maybe it wasn't important. 'Funny bloke,' I says. 'His hat pulled down over his eyes, and all buttoned up - like a crook on the pictures,' I says to Bill, didn't I, Bill?"

  "That's what you said," agreed Bill.

  "Funny I should have said that, not that I thought anything at the time. Just in a hurry to get home, that's what I thought,
and I didn't blame 'im. Not 'arf cold, it was!"

  "Not' arf," agreed Bill.

  "So I says to Bill, 'Let's 'ave a look at this little book and see if it's important.' Well, sir, I took a look. 'Only a couple of addresses,' I says to Bill. Seventy-Four Culver Street and some blinking manor 'ouse."

  "Ritzy," said Bill with a snort of disapproval.

  Joe continued his tale with a certain gusto now that he had got wound up.

  '"Seventy-Four Culver Street,' I says to Bill. 'That's just round the corner from 'ere. When we knock off, we'll take it round' - and then I sees something written across the top of the page. 'What's this?' I says to Bill. And he takes it and reads it out. '"Three blind mice" -must be off 'is Knocker,' he says - and just at that very moment - yes, it was that very moment, sir, we 'ears some woman yelling, 'Murder!' a couple of streets away!"

  Joe paused at this artistic climax.

  "Didn't half yell, did she?" he resumed. "'Here,' I says to Bill, 'you nip along.' And by and by he comes back and says there's a big crowd and the police are there and some woman's had her throat cut or been strangled and that was the landlady who found her, yelling for the police. 'Where was it?' I says to him. 'In Culver Street,' he says. 'What number?' I asks, and he says he didn't rightly notice."

  Bill coughed and shuffled his feet with the sheepish air of one who has not done himself justice.

  "So I says, 'We'll nip around and make sure,' and when we finds it's number seventy-four we talked it over, and 'Maybe,' Bill says, 'the address in the notebook's got nothing to do with it,' and I says as maybe it has, and, anyway, after we've talked it over and heard the police want to interview a man who left the 'ouse about that time, well, we come along 'ere and ask if we can see the gentleman who's handling the case, and I'm sure I 'ope as we aren't wasting your time."

  "You acted very properly," said Parminter approvingly. "You've brought the notebook with you? Thank you. Now -"

  His questions became brisk and professional. He got places, times, dates - the only thing he did not get was a description of the man who had dropped the notebook. Instead he got the same description as he had already got from a hysterical landlady, the description of a hat pulled down over the eyes, a buttoned-up coat, a muffler swathed round the lower part of a face, a voice that was only a whisper, gloved hands.

  When the men had gone he remained staring down at the little book lying open on his table. Presently it would go to the appropriate department to see what evidence, if any, of fingerprints it might reveal. But now his attention was held by the two addresses and by the line of small handwriting along the top of the page.

  He turned his head as Sergeant Kane came into the room. "Come here, Kane. Look at this."

  Kane stood behind him and let out a low whistle as he read out, '"Three Blind Mice!' Well, I'm dashed!"

  "Yes." Parminter opened a drawer and took out a half sheet of notepaper which he laid beside the notebook on his desk. It had been found pinned carefully to the murdered woman.

  On it was written, This is the first. Below was a childish drawing of three mice and a bar of music.

  Kane whistled the tune softly. Three Blind Mice, See how they run -

  "That's it, all right. That's the signature tune."

  "Crazy, isn't it, sir?"

  "Yes." Parminter frowned. "The identification of the woman is quite certain?"

  "Yes, sir. Here's the report from the fingerprints department. Mrs Lyon, as she called herself, was really Maureen Gregg. She was released from Holloway two months ago on completion of her sentence."

  Parminter said thoughtfully, "She went to Seventy-Four Culver Street calling herself Maureen Lyon. She occasionally drank a bit and she had been known to bring a man home with her once or twice. She displayed no fear of anything or anyone. There's no reason to believe she thought herself in any danger. This man rings the bell, asks for her, and is told by the landlady to go up to the second floor. She can't describe him, says only that he was of medium height and seemed to have a bad cold and lost his voice. She went back again to the basement and heard nothing of a suspicious nature. She did not hear the man go out. Ten minutes or so later she took tea to her lodger and discovered her strangled."

  "This wasn't a casual murder, Kane. It was carefully planned."

  He paused and then added abruptly, "I wonder how many houses there are in England called Monkswell Manor?"

  "There might be only one, sir."

  "That would probably be too much luck. But get on with it. There's no time to lose."

  The sergeant's eye rested appreciatively on two entries in the notebook - 74 Culver Street; Monkswell Manor. He said, "So you think -"

  Parminter said swiftly, "Yes. Don't you?"

  "Could be. Monkswell Manor - now where - Do you know, sir, I could swear I've seen that name quite lately."

  "Where?"

  "That's what I'm trying to remember. Wait a minute - Newspaper - Times. Back page. Wait a minute - Hotels and boarding-houses - Half a sec, sir - it's an old one. I was doing the crossword."

  He hurried out of the room and returned in triumph, "Here you are, sir, look." The inspector followed the pointing finger.

  "Monkswell Manor, Harpleden, Berks." He drew the telephone toward him. "Get me the Berkshire County police."

  With the arrival of Major Metcalf, Monkswell Manor settled into its routine as a going concern. Major Metcalf was neither formidable like Mrs Boyle, nor erratic like Christopher Wren. He was a stolid, middle-aged man of spruce military appearance, who had done most of his service in India. He appeared satisfied with his room and its furniture, and while he and Mrs Boyle did not actually find mutual friends, he had known cousins of friends of hers - "the Yorkshire branch," out in Poonah. His luggage, however, two heavy pigskin cases, satisfied even Giles's suspicious nature.

  Truth to tell, Molly and Giles did not have much time for speculating about their guests. Between them, dinner was cooked, served, eaten, and washed up satisfactorily. Major Metcalf praised the coffee, and Giles and Molly retired to bed, tired but triumphant - to be roused about two in the morning by the persistent ringing of a bell.

  "Damn," said Giles. "It's the front door. What on earth -"

  "Hurry up," said Molly. "Go and see."

  Casting a reproachful glance at her, Giles wrapped his dressing-gown round him and descended the stairs. Molly heard the bolts being drawn back and a murmur of voices in the hall. Presently, driven by curiosity, she crept out of bed and went to peep from the top of the stairs. In the hall below, Giles was assisting a bearded stranger out of a snow-covered overcoat. Fragments of conversation floated up to her.

  "Brrr." It was an explosive foreign sound. "My fingers are so cold I cannot feel them. And my feet -" A stamping sound was heard.

  "Come in here." Giles threw open the library door. "It's warm. You'd better wait here while I get a room ready."

  "I am indeed fortunate," said the stranger politely.

  Molly peered inquisitively through the banisters. She saw an elderly man with a small black beard and Mephistophelean eyebrows. A man who moved with a young and jaunty step in spite of the gray at his temples.

  Giles shut the library door on him and came quickly up the stairs. Molly rose from her crouching position.

  "Who is it?" she demanded.

  Giles grinned. "Another guest for the guest house. Car overturned in a snowdrift. He got himself out and was making his way as best he could - it's a howling blizzard still, listen to it - along the road when he saw our board. He said it was like an answer to prayer."

  "You think he's-all right?"

  "Darling, this isn't the sort of night for a housebreaker to be doing his rounds."

  "He's a foreigner, isn't he?"

  "Yes. His name's Paravicini. I saw his wallet -1 rather think he showed it on purpose -simply crammed with notes. Which room shall we give him?"

  "The green room. It's all tidy and ready. We'll just have to make up the bed."

&nb
sp; "I suppose I'll have to lend him pajamas. All his things are in the car. He said he had to climb out through the window."

  Molly fetched sheets, pillowcases, and towels.

  As they hurriedly made the bed up, Giles said, "It's coming down thick. We're going to be snowed up, Molly, completely cut off. Rather exciting in a way, isn't it?"

  "I don't know," said Molly doubtfully. "Do you think I can make soda bread, Giles?" "Of course you can. You can make anything," said her loyal husband.

  "I've never tried to make bread. It's the sort of thing one takes for granted. It may be new or it may be stale but it's just something the baker brings. But if we're snowed up there won't be a baker."

  "Nor a butcher, nor a postman. No newspapers. And probably no telephone." "Just the wireless telling us what to do?" "At any rate we make our own electric light."

  "You must run the engine again tomorrow. And we must keep the central heating well stoked."

  "I suppose our next lot of coke won't come in now. We're very low."

  "Oh, bother. Giles, I feel we are in for a simply frightful time. Hurry up and get Para -whatever his name is. I'll go back to bed."

  Morning brought confirmation of Giles's forebodings. Snow was piled five feet high, drifting up against the doors and windows. Outside it was still snowing. The world was white, silent, and - in some subtle way - menacing.

  Mrs Boyle sat at breakfast. There was no one else in the dining-room. At the adjoining table, Major Metcalf's place had been cleared away. Mr Wren's table was still laid for breakfast. One early riser, presumably, and one late one. Mrs Boyle herself knew definitely that there was only one proper time for breakfast, nine o'clock.

  Mrs Boyle had finished her excellent omelette and was champing toast between her strong white teeth. She was in a grudging and undecided mood. Monkswell Manor was not at all what she had imagined it would be. She had hoped for bridge, for faded spinsters whom she could impress with her social position and connections, and to whom she could hint at the importance and secrecy of her war service.

  The end of the war had left Mrs Boyle marooned, as it were, on a desert shore. She had always been a busy woman, talking fluently of efficiency and organization. Her vigor and drive had prevented people asking whether she was, indeed, a good or efficient organizer.