Deeds of Darkness Page 2

  ‘If you mean her hat,’ said Brack, ‘it’s in my office. Mabel found it on the seat beside the woman. It was crushed out of shape.’

  ‘Is that all that the usherette found?’

  ‘A dead body and a battered hat is more than enough, Inspector.’

  Marmion stood up. ‘Where’s her handbag?’

  ‘There was no sign of that. Perhaps she didn’t bring one.’

  ‘Then how did she pay the fare to get her here?’ asked Keedy. ‘And if she was coming for what she thought was a romantic tryst, she would certainly have brought a hairbrush and a powder compact.’

  ‘I bow to your greater experience in these matters,’ said Marmion.

  There was a faint irony in his voice that went unnoticed by the manager. The detectives were not simply linked together by their profession. Keedy was engaged to Marmion’s daughter, Alice, so he had now effectively become one of the family. It had not been an entirely welcome development to Marmion but he’d come to accept it in time. He moved back so that the photographer could start work and he began to rehearse aloud what might have happened.

  ‘He brings her here with a view to killing her. He lulls her into a compliant mood. Having chosen his moment with care, he dispatches her and leaves her upright in her seat so that nobody notices anything untoward when the lights come on. By that time,’ said Marmion, looking around, ‘he’s sneaked out of the cinema with her handbag.’

  ‘It would be conspicuous,’ Keedy pointed out.

  ‘Exactly – so he’d take what he wanted then get rid of it.’ He turned to the manager. ‘Is there any other way out of here?’

  Brack indicated some curtains at the front of the auditorium. ‘That’s the emergency exit.’

  ‘Then he probably left that way.’ A nod sent Keedy hurrying towards the curtains. ‘If he’d gone into the foyer with a handbag, someone would have spotted him. He planned an alternative escape.’

  They heard a metallic clang as the barrier was lifted on the emergency exit. A door creaked open. In less than a minute, Keedy came back through the curtains with a bag in his hands.

  ‘You were right, Inspector,’ he said. ‘It was in the dustbin outside.’ He gave the handbag to Marmion. ‘Feel that leather. It’s good quality.’

  Marmion opened the bag and conducted a quick search of the contents.

  ‘There are two things missing,’ he said. ‘The killer stole her purse and her house key. That gives us a possible motive for murder.’

  ‘Do we know who she is and where she lives?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘This may tell us, Sergeant.’ He extracted an envelope and looked at the looping calligraphy. ‘Her name is Charlotte Reid and she lives – or, at least, she did live – in Bayswater.’

  It was a paradox. Mabel Tyler actually found the dead body but it was Iris Fielding on whom the murder had the more devastating effect. All that she’d done was to sit in her booth and issue tickets to the patrons yet she felt horribly involved in the event. Alone with Mabel in the manager’s office, she was still trembling.

  ‘I must have seen him, Mabel,’ she kept saying as she wiped away tears. ‘I must have sold him – and her, of course – a ticket.’

  ‘Try to put it out of your mind.’

  ‘How can I? It’s frightening. I’ll have nightmares.’

  Mabel had the same fear but she tried to control her emotions so that she could console her friend. Iris had the greater need. Mabel Tyler was a slight woman in her twenties with a birdlike habit of looking quickly in all directions as if afraid of danger. Twenty years older and several stone heavier, Iris Fielding was efficient at her job but uneasy when out of the safety of her little booth. Iris was married but Mabel remained resolutely single, even though she usually responded chirpily to male patrons who flirted with her. A troubling thought struck her.

  ‘You only sold him a ticket, Iris,’ she said. ‘I must have shown him to a seat and even chatted to him. Think how that must make me feel. I helped a killer.’

  ‘So did I,’ wailed Iris.

  Before the older woman could wallow in self-recrimination again, the door opened abruptly and the manager entered with Keedy. He introduced the sergeant to the two women. Mabel managed a wan smile of welcome but Iris simply dabbed at her moist eyes with a handkerchief.

  ‘Sergeant Keedy would like to take a statement from both of you,’ said Brack. ‘Inspector Marmion is in charge of the case but he’s supervising the removal of the body.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘We’re closed for the rest of the day. Is it worth opening tomorrow, I wonder? What if nobody turns up?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I will, Mr Brack,’ said Iris.

  ‘Well, I’ll be here,’ volunteered Mabel.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Brack. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Sergeant. I want to make sure that the corpse actually leaves my cinema.’

  He went out through the open door and closed it behind him. Keedy took his measure of the two women before pulling out his notepad and pencil. Iris was seated and Mabel stood behind her. Keedy suggested that the usherette should sit down as well. When she did so, he perched on the edge of the desk.

  ‘I’ll start with you, Miss Tyler, if I may.’

  ‘I was the first one to see him,’ claimed Iris as if it gave her seniority. ‘I sold him and the woman a ticket before Mabel even set eyes on him.’

  ‘Can you give me an accurate description of the man?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘Well, no, I can’t. He was just one of dozens of faces I saw.’

  ‘Yes, I had a look inside that ticket booth. You can’t see very much from inside there, can you? In other words, you’re not really able to help us, are you, Mrs Fielding?’ Iris looked hurt. ‘Let’s go back to you, Miss Tyler, shall we? I know that this will be something of an ordeal for you but I’d like you to tell me what happened from the moment you entered the auditorium when the film was over.’

  Mabel cleared her throat, then told her story without embellishment. Keedy was thankful for her brevity and lack of self-indulgence. Iris, he sensed, would be far more melodramatic, intent on wringing full value out of her chance encounter with the killer. He impressed on both of them the importance of not talking to the press.

  ‘Will I have to appear in court?’ asked Mabel, worriedly.

  ‘I think that’s highly unlikely,’ said Keedy. ‘What you’ve told me is useful but it’s not evidence that will lead us to make an arrest.’

  ‘What about me?’ demanded Iris. ‘Don’t I get interviewed like Mabel?’

  ‘Not unless you have something significant to add to what you’ve just heard. As you say, Mrs Fielding, faces flash past you. It would be impossible to remember any of them in detail.’ He waited for a response that never came. ‘If you do recall anything that might help us,’ he added, ‘you can contact Inspector Marmion or me at Scotland Yard.’ He put the notebook and pencil away. ‘Well, that’s it, ladies. Thank you very much. Mr Brack said that you were free to go when I’d spoken to you. My advice would be to leave by the emergency exit. Word travels fast in London. Reporters will already be lurking in wait outside.’

  ‘I don’t mind talking to them,’ boasted Iris.

  ‘Well, I do,’ said Mabel, firmly. ‘Come on, Iris. We’ll leave by the other exit. I never thought I’d hear myself saying this but, to be honest, I’ve had enough of Charlie Chaplin for one day.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  When the commissioner walked into his office, Claude Chatfield was seated behind his desk, poring over a document. He leapt instinctively to his feet. Sir Edward Henry waved him back into his chair.

  ‘Sit down, Superintendent,’ he said. ‘You’re not on parade.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I just came to see if there was any more news.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Sir Edward.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  The commissioner was an impeccably dressed man in his sixties with a curling moustache that matched his wavy hair. At an age when most men h
ad retired, he had remained in a demanding post out of a sense of commitment and patriotism. Chatfield was ambitious enough to covet the position that the older man held but he kept his long-term aspirations well concealed.

  ‘Policing the capital would be so much easier,’ said Sir Edward, ‘if every one of our vehicles was equipped with telephones. Detectives could then keep in touch with us at every stage of their investigation.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘It won’t happen in my time, I know that. We don’t have the appropriate technology and – even if we did – I doubt if our budget would stretch to it.’

  ‘There is another problem.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Some of our detectives would be reluctant to keep us up to date with what’s going on. I’m thinking particularly of Inspector Marmion. When he’s in charge of a case, he doesn’t make contact with me as often as I’d like.’

  ‘Marmion is a first-rate policeman. He gets results.’

  ‘He might get them even more quickly if he took me fully into his confidence. I know what it’s like to lead a murder investigation. I could be of help.’

  ‘I’m sure that the inspector knows that.’

  ‘He’s been gone for well over an hour. I’d expect a telephone call by now.’

  ‘Marmion will ring when he’s good and ready.’

  ‘He’d better,’ said Chatfield under his breath.

  The commissioner stroked his moustache. ‘We’d better brace ourselves, I suppose,’ he said. ‘The press will have a field day over this. A woman goes to the cinema for what she believes to be harmless entertainment and she gets herself killed. It’s going to be on every front page tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s why I need all the facts at my fingertips, Sir Edward. When I hold a press conference later on, I have to be fully briefed. As for it being a harmless entertainment,’ he went on, ‘I don’t think that’s how some cinema patrons view it. They’re tempted by the opportunity to take full advantage of the darkness. Cinemas are a licence for lechery.’

  ‘That may be so in some cases, Superintendent, and I share your qualms about the subdued lighting. But I still believe that most people go in order to see films. I read somewhere that almost twenty million cinema tickets are sold each week. Just think of that – twenty million!’

  ‘We don’t need to wait until the Germans invade us,’ complained Chatfield. ‘The American film industry has already done it. And this dreadful fellow, Charlie Chaplin – born and brought up in this country – is a major part of it.’

  ‘In my view,’ said the commissioner, ‘we should be proud of that. Chaplin is one of our most prized exports.’

  ‘He’s a British citizen,’ argued Chatfield, ‘and of an age when he should be fighting for King and Country. People who fill the cinemas over here to laugh at him should realise that. They ought to be ashamed.’

  Sir Edward gave a wry smile. ‘Then I suppose that I must hang my head along with the rest of them.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I belong to the misguided masses you’ve just condemned, Superintendent. I not only took my grandchildren to see a Charlie Chaplin film last year but – dare I confess this? – I thoroughly enjoyed it.’

  The house was a neat villa in a tree-lined Bayswater terrace. When their car drew up outside it, the detectives got out to appraise the building. Marmion looked up at it with approval.

  ‘This is the sort of place you and Alice need when you get married.’

  ‘Then I look forward to receiving help from my father-in-law,’ said Keedy, ‘because I’m never going to afford a house like this on a sergeant’s income.’

  ‘You have to put something aside out of every pay packet, Joe.’

  ‘I have too many bills to do that.’

  ‘Then make economies,’ suggested Marmion. ‘Drink less beer and buy cheaper clothing. You don’t have to look so smart all the time.’

  ‘Yes, I do, Harv. It’s a matter of self-respect.’

  ‘Your job is to catch villains. They don’t care two hoots if you’re wearing a Savile Row suit or a loincloth with leather tassels on it.’ They’d reached the front door now. ‘I doubt very much if anyone is at home.’

  ‘Let’s see.’

  Keedy left nothing to chance. He rang the doorbell and used the knocker. The noises reverberated throughout the house but they brought nobody to the door. When Keedy repeated the process, there was still no response. A woman walked down the street towards them. Short, fat and elderly, she had a motherly smile.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she enquired.

  ‘Do you live here?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘No, that’s where Mr and Mrs Reid live. I’m their neighbour. I live next door.’

  ‘You must know the couple well, then.’

  ‘Yes, I do – my name is Mrs Cinderby.’

  ‘Then we’re very pleased to see you, Mrs Cinderby,’ said Marmion, taking out his warrant card to show her. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Marmion and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Keedy.’

  She was alarmed. ‘You’re policemen,’ she gasped. ‘Has Mrs Reid done anything wrong? I can’t believe that’s why you’re here, Inspector. She’s the most law-abiding woman in the world.’

  ‘Where might we find Mr Reid?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll have to go to France for that. He’s in the army.’

  ‘I had a feeling that he might be,’ whispered Keedy.

  ‘We’re anxious to speak to members of Mrs Reid’s family,’ explained Marmion. ‘But our immediate need is to get inside the house. Mrs Reid has met with an accident, you see.’

  ‘What sort of accident?’ asked the neighbour. ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘I can’t go into any detail, I’m afraid.’ He checked his watch. ‘You strike me as an observant woman, Mrs Cinderby. Have you noticed anyone outside the house in the last … well, let’s make it two hours or so?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, Inspector. I spent the afternoon with my daughter who lives in Swiss Cottage. I’ve just come from there.’ The detectives looked disappointed. ‘But I can help you get inside the house, if it’s important.’

  Keedy rallied. ‘It’s very important, Mrs Cinderby.’

  ‘Then the person you want is Mrs Bond across the road.’ She pointed to the villa opposite. ‘She and Mrs Reid are good friends. Talk to Alma Bond – she keeps a spare key to the Reid house.’

  A glance from Marmion was enough to send Keedy striding across the road. Mrs Cinderby was evidently a woman who was on friendly terms with her neighbours. Marmion pressed for detail.

  ‘How long have Mr and Mrs Reid been married?’

  ‘Five or six years, I’d say.’

  ‘What does Mr Reid do for a living?’

  ‘He’s a civil servant, Inspector – or, at least, he was. Then he volunteered and they made him a lieutenant. Charlotte – that’s Mrs Reid – is very proud of him.’

  ‘Are they happily married?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the woman with a measure of indignation. ‘Of course they are. You only have to look at them to know that. They’re wonderful neighbours and they adore each other.’

  ‘They have no children, I assume.’

  ‘No, that’s something for the future.’

  Marmion’s heart lurched. Charlotte Reid’s chances of motherhood had been brutally extinguished in the back row of a cinema. He felt sorry for her neighbour. Mrs Cinderby was going to have a profound shock when she learnt the truth and the same was true of Alma Bond. The close friend opposite would have no need of the key to the Reid household now. Marmion glanced across the road. Joe Keedy was having an animated conversation with an attractive, fair-haired woman in her late twenties. After taking a key from her, he held up a palm to stop her from trying to follow him. Whatever Keedy said was unable to appease her. Alma Bond stood outside her front door with her arms folded and watched intently.

  ‘She insisted on letting us in,’ said Keedy, rejoining Marmion.

  ‘I’m glad that you kept her at bay
.’

  ‘According to her, Mrs Reid went out shopping this afternoon.’

  ‘I see. Let’s take a look inside.’ He turned to Mrs Cinderby. ‘Thank you very much. You’ve been a great help.’

  As he moved away, she plucked at his sleeve. ‘This accident she’s had,’ she said, face furrowed with concern. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Cinderby. I’m afraid that it’s very bad.’

  ‘You’re late, Matthew.’

  ‘I got held up.’

  ‘Did you have a long meeting at St Martin-in-the-Fields?’

  ‘No,’ said Hearn, ‘it was mercifully short for once. On the way there, I made a point of going down Coventry Street to that cinema. People were streaming in. I felt that I simply had to point out the insidious effect that a film like that can have.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope you were careful,’ said his wife, anxiously.

  ‘I was doing my Christian duty, my dear. I was denouncing an evil.’

  ‘But that can be so dangerous sometimes.’

  Beatrice Hearn was a plump woman in her fifties with a handsome face marred by the deep lines etched into her skin. She wore tiny spectacles and peered over them in consternation. When they were younger, she’d always admired her husband’s bravery and willingness to stand up for his beliefs. Now that they were older, however, she wished that he would exercise more discretion.

  ‘Remember what happened to the vicar of All Saints,’ she advised. ‘When he admonished that soldier who was relieving himself against one of the headstones in the churchyard, he was given the most foul-mouthed abuse. War has changed people, Matthew. It’s coarsened them. The soldier threatened to hit the vicar.’

  ‘I’ll go on saying what I’m moved to say, Beatrice.’

  ‘I’d hate it if anything happened to you.’

  ‘I can look after myself,’ he promised, giving her an affectionate squeeze. ‘I feel sorry for the vicar of All Saints. Tom Redwood is a wonderful man but he also happens to be rather short and slim. I doubt if a drunken soldier would dare to threaten me,’ he continued, pulling himself up to his full height. ‘He’d have more sense.’