Death and the Professor: A Golden Age Mystery Page 4

  ‘Emile, we would like you, if you’ll permit it, to help us in a little experiment.’ the chairman said.

  ‘Sirs.’

  The professor opened the door of the service room. ‘It is empty, as you see,’ he said. He picked up the silver cigarette box from the dining-table, and carried it to the service room placing it on the serving-flap. He returned to the company. ‘W-we are s-six,’ he said, ‘and all together. Emile, he will go into the service room and the door will be closed. He will lie down on the floor like Banting.’ He demonstrated the lying himself.

  ‘Ah, there is one important thing. The g-guests in the house had no suspicion that a man would die. You, my friends have. It is necessary that the rooms should be in darkness. When I turn off the lights, Sir Edward will count slowly up to ten. At ten, Emile will walk into the service-room. Sir Edward will count ten once more. And he will then clap his hands simulating a shot. And then you will rush into the service-room exactly as the guests did on that evening. And so we trap a murderer.’

  The lights went out. At the call of ten they heard Emile walk to the door and enter the service-room. At the call of ten again the A.C. clapped his hands, and rushed into the service-room. With the exception of Emile on the floor, the room was empty. They walked back into the dining-room, and dismissed the waiter. They eyed the smiling professor.

  ‘Y-you see,’ he said, and pointed to the table.

  On it was the silver cigarette box which had been placed on the ledge of the serving-room. The chairman stared.

  ‘Who brought that out?’ he asked and looked round the members. Each shook a negative head.

  ‘T-the m-murderer of poor Emile escaped, you see, and he put back the box on the table,’ the professor said.

  The A.C. sat down. His face was grave. ‘It was one of the eight,’ he said. ‘And yet, they were together. Tell me, Professor.’

  ‘It h-had to b-be, Sir Edward. Logic, purely applied, can make no error. Because there were eight people in the lounge when Banting went upstairs, and after Banting was dead, d-does not mean there were eight there all the time. And because four men were in the room of Banting together, is not to assume that four men went in together. There was one who left the company before Banting. He slipped unostentatiously through the kitchen entrance and went up the servants’ staircase to Banting’s room. Mary would be in a bedroom on her duties. Banting surprised him and was shot. And the murderer was trapped. But he had the genius.

  ‘As the alarmed guests hammered at the door, he stood quietly, his back to the wall at the side of the door. When they unlocked it, threw it open and rushed in, he stepped from his hiding behind the door and joined them — as I did just now. The others expected him to be with them in the room and they were sure he came with them.’

  ‘Masterly,’ the chairman said, and there was a chorus of agreement. The professor waved a hand. ‘It i-is n-nothing,’ he said. ‘Logic — it is irrefutable.’

  ‘Which?’ The A.C. asked the question, he seemed to be speaking to himself.

  ‘B-but t-there can be only one,’ the professor said. ‘He did not know that Banting was left-handed. Who would that be, but one who had not been long enough in the company to know it. T-there w-was one, you said, w-who h-had been there only a day or two.’

  ‘Norris,’ the A.C. said; and went to telephone.

  6

  Four meetings of the Dilettantes sped their destined course before there developed any problem of mundane interest. That is not to say that the distinguished members had not, in the meantime, pursued their infinite scholarship. Two sessions had been united in an excursus into philosophy, and the confusion into which the modern trend of thought has thrown it. But you are hardly likely to be excited in the modern scepticism which has narrowed and limited the scope of the traditional philosophy of Lindsay; or in the problem of whether the truth of philosophy is, as Bergson has asserted, that ‘intuition’ is the means by which the true nature of reality as a continuous flow is realized; or whether it is by means of reason that men have believed information about the universe is to be obtained; or, thirdly, whether the truth lies in pragmatism — that reason functions only to serve our purpose, and the so-called truths at which it arrives are, in fact, only those which it suits us to believe. Suffice it to say that the argument was waged on the high academic standard natural to the Dilettantes, with the case for Reason, pure and unadulterated, expounded by the professor — as was to be expected from a logician.

  It was at the second of the September gatherings that Mr. Norman Charles, the psychiatrist, mentioned an incident which had provided the popular Press with a front page sensation. No topic for discussion had been arranged for the evening, and desultory conversation was proceeding over the vintage port of 1927 brought by the chairman from his own cellar — a vintage which Portugal has not equalled since that happy year.

  Charles had poked his cigar in the direction of Allen. ‘That Bath case is an extraordinary affair, is it not, Sir Edward?’ he suggested. ‘I should have liked the opportunity to examine the mind of a man who suddenly and so unaccountably lapses from a life of rectitude into a crazy act of criminality.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Sir Noël Maurice postulated from the chair. ‘I should say simply a case of human greed, a growing failing in society these days.’

  The professor peered from beneath his shock of greying hair, glancing quickly from one to the other of the two men. ‘I d-do n-not read the n-newspapers,’ he announced. ‘W-what w-would it be t-that has h-happened?’

  The chairman caught the A.C.’s eye. ‘Well, Edward?’ he queried. ‘It may precipitate us into an instructive study of the vagaries of the human mind.’ He laughed. ‘I suspect that to be the reason for Charles raising it.’

  The Assistant Commissioner (Crime) of Scotland Yard nodded. ‘It’ll be the agenda for the evening,’ he agreed. He swallowed a sip of port — ‘I hope you have more of this vintage, Noël’ — and drew on his cigar.

  ‘Well, it’s rather a simple case,’ he began. ‘The two people concerned are John Benton, and his partner. Benton was 68 years of age. He had lived all his life in Bath where he occupied a prominent position as a citizen and tradesman. He was a jeweller, head of the firm of J. Benton & Co., which he had himself founded twenty years ago. The firm had a good reputation not only in Bath, but throughout the county, most of the county families entrusting him with their jewellery for cleaning, re-setting and so on. As many of the families have London residences, he had a considerable clientele here as well.’

  The A.C. paused to flip the ash from his cigar and to pull it up to a red glow. Then he continued: ‘Benton was a man of leisurely habits. He took his time over repairs — he was a craftsman, by the way — and he was old-fashioned in a business sense; he preferred sitting in his shop waiting for customers to come rather than go after business. Two years ago he took into partnership a young man named Thomas Derja, who had been twelve months with another firm of jewellers in the city, and was well regarded in the trade. Derja had saved £2,000 and with it bought a small share in the firm.

  ‘Now, he was as active in business as Benton was somnambulistic. He set out to attract business. He made appointments with members of wealthy families in the district and discussed with them their jewellery, suggesting the modernizing of the settings, thereby adding to the value. He also noted Society notifications of engagements, births and so on, and in this manner sold jewelled celebrations. The effect of all this was a substantial increase in the firm’s revenue which, up to Derja’s coming had been declining, a natural effect of taxation and death duties on the old wealthy families.’

  At this stage of the story the chairman held up a hand to interrupt. ‘I suggest we give Edward a breathing space while we refill our glasses,’ he said. ‘During that time we can digest the details he has given us.’ Some five minutes were thus occupied in sampling quietly the vintage port. Then, refreshed and fortified, the A.C. resumed.

  ‘You will appreciate,’ he said, ‘that what I have told you is the result of intensive inquiries by Scotland Yard officers — from townspeople and the assistants in Benton & Co. The latter are emphatic in their view that Derja was a valuable acquisition to the firm. In appearance he is a slim, dark young man of 36 with an attractive personality and considerable appeal to women. Most of his sales were to members of the fair sex.

  ‘About twelve months ago he was seized with another business brain-wave. It is common knowledge that quite a few of the older county families are in considerably reduced financial circumstances, particularly where it is obvious that they will in the near future have to consider finding death duties. Derja worked on this, along singularly enticing lines. Old Benton knew just what jewellery such people had, because he had been cleaning and preserving it for years, gems that had been bought by them in their more opulent days — and he knew their present indigence. Derja, armed with his partner’s knowledge, and with his authority, approached them and suggested they should convert their more extravagant jewellery into cash. To their horrified reaction that they would never have it known that they were compelled to sell their jewels, he assured them there would be no question of any publicity; such sales would be carried out by the firm by private treaty, and the name of the seller would not be revealed; the goods would be the property of a lady — or gentleman.’

  ‘It worked. Opportunities for wearing elaborate diamond ornaments these days are restricted; in twelve months Derja negotiated sales amounting to some £80,000 on which the firm drew a commission of ten per cent. All this is square and above board; the sales, and commission, are entered in the firm’s private sales book; and the amounts of commission are in the ledgers.’

  7

  The company was following the A.C.’s
narration with absorbed interest. The professor had been leaning forward, his right elbow on the table supporting his forearm, the hand of which was cupping his chin. Now and then he relaxed his attitude to take copious pinches of snuff, the evidence of which was spattered on the lapel of his ancient jacket; but even so he still peered at the speaker through the thick lenses of his spectacles.

  Charles’s eyes were staring past the speaker; he seemed pre-occupied as though, as a psychiatrist, he was probing into the personalities of the men the A.C. was describing. The police chief waited, the lingers of his right hand twisting the black silk ribbon of his monocle; he was apparently assembling in his mind the points of the investigation and how best to present them. Presently, he came to a decision and dropped his monocle to the full length of its ribbon.

  ‘It was one of these sales that brought tragedy and police investigations,’ he said. Mr. Derja had for disposal a £5,000 necklace belonging to a Mrs. Helen Mildenhurst, an elderly woman, and an invalid. She said she saw no likelihood of ever again going into those circles and occasions where £5,000 necklaces are worn, and might as well have the money. The firm put the transaction through, selling the necklace to Mr. Isaac Bonheimer. You probably know he can well afford it; and the problem of occasions for wearing it would not arise with Mrs. B, who once sold cockles from a stall in the East End of London; she will probably wear it for breakfast!

  ‘The necklace was to be handed over last Tuesday, and the partners agreed to deliver it together. It is important now to mark the events of the day. Mr. Benton had spent the previous day refurbishing the necklace. At 8.25 o’clock Mr. Derja called at the shop for his partner. Benton had arrived a minute or two earlier. Then Mr. Benton went to the safe and took out the necklace in its case and placed it in an inside pocket of his jacket. The pair then took a taxi to the station at 8.30 and subsequently boarded the 9.18 train to London. They had seats in the Pullman car — two single chairs facing each other across a table. The car was half filled. Full breakfasts were being served which Mr. Derja says neither of them wanted, having had a snack meal at their homes.

  ‘But at Swindon Mr. Benton, his partner says, stated that he felt a little peckish. As luck would have it a trolley selling fruit and other things stopped opposite the Pullman. Derja let down the window and bought a packet of wrapped ham sandwiches. Now I will give you Mr. Derja’s account of the subsequent happenings. He said: ‘After the train had restarted we ordered two cups of coffee. I asked the steward for a knife with which to cut the two rounds of sandwiches, but he was a bit annoyed at our buying food off the platform and didn’t bring one. So I borrowed Mr. Benton’s knife and cut a sandwich in half. I took one piece and Mr. Benton the other. We drank some of the coffee and started to eat. Next thing I knew was that Mr. Benton gasped, gave a kind of gurgle and slipped down half under the table. Then someone said he was dead.’

  The pathologist broke in. ‘He had not complained of feeling unwell?’

  ‘No. He appeared in his usual health.’

  ‘And spirits?’

  ‘We made exhaustive inquiries of his wife and the staff at the shop. The reply was that he was his usual self, and had been pleased at the deal which the firm was putting through.’

  The A.C. looked inquiringly at Charles, but the pathologist nodded his satisfaction; and Sir Edward continued. ‘At this point there was for us a fortuitous interruption. In the car was a Mr. William Archer, a private investigator, but who had served twenty years with the Bath C.I.D. He helped to extricate Mr. Benton from underneath the seat, and lay him along the centre corridor of the Pullman coach. Then, as he explained later, he did not like the look of him. He bent over him, saw that his eyes were open and staring, with the pupils dilated. He felt the skin at the back of the neck and found it to be cold. He called the chief steward, had a few words with him, and as a result the car was cleared of passengers and the doors at each end locked. At Reading the train was slowed to a near-stop and the guard threw a note in front of a porter. When the train reached London we were waiting.’

  He laughed. ‘Give me some more of that excellent port, Noël,’ he said to the chairman. ‘It’s dry work talking.’ For a few moments he relaxed in his chair; and then continued:

  ‘In the meantime a startling development occurred. Up to then Mr. Derja had assumed that his partner had died from a heart attack. Mr. Archer undeceived him — unwittingly. He mentioned poison. Whereupon Mr. Derja shrieked. ‘From poison?’ he said. ‘Do you mean he’s taken — my God, the diamonds’. He rushed over to the body, but was pulled back by Archer, and warned not to touch Mr. Benton. It was then that he told the story of the diamonds. Mr. Archer realized that if there were diamonds they had better be in safe keeping. He went to Benton and feeling inside his breast pocket extracted the case. He opened it and revealed the necklace. Mr. Derja wiped perspiration from his brow. Archer held up the case for him to see. ‘Are these the diamonds?’ he asked.

  ‘Now an extraordinary thing occurred; and I will give it to you as Mr. Archer told us. He said:

  ‘As I held up the case and asked Mr. Derja said ‘Yes . . . I was afraid . . .’ Then he stopped. A flash had come from the necklace as the lights in the car struck it. Derja called out ‘What was that?’ ‘What was what?’ I asked. ‘Please let me see those diamonds,’ he said. I passed them over and he pulled a jeweller’s eyepiece from a pocket and bent over the case. In a minute he straightened up. He was breathing heavily, and his hands were open and shutting. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Sir, something has happened. This . . . and . . . this . . .’ he pointed to some of the diamonds . . . ‘are not diamonds at all. They are false. They are prisms. I knew it when the stones flashed in the light. The diamond gives a blue colour, not prism colours. They are faked. So he commits suicide . . . he is a faker.’

  ‘That is the story we heard when Superintendent Jones and our Inspector met the train on arrival in London.’

  8

  There was a little stir among the listening Dilettantes — like a breeze rustling leaves. The A.C. had been speaking quietly and undemonstratively, but he had a flair for the dramatic which the tranquillity of his delivery accentuated rather than diminished. Some great actors have it; Eleanora Duse was more moving in repose than in her histrionics; the declamations of Olivier are never so effective as were the quiet modulations of Martin-Harvey or Forbes-Robertson.

  The silence which followed the stir was broken by the chairman. ‘It must have been quite a moment,’ he said. ‘On the stage it would be immense. But why should Derja jump to the conclusion that his partner was a faker and had committed suicide. Could not the stones have been there all the time?’

  ‘The replacements might have been done by the original owner,’ Purcell suggested. The A.C. smiled slightly and eyed them quizzically.

  ‘Ah! That is the acme of the affair,’ he said. ‘When the sale was first mooted and Mr. Bonheimer contacted and interested, Derja took the necklace to London for Mr. and Mrs. Bonheimer to see. Mr. Bonheimer quite naturally wanted a valuation and the necklace was taken to a valuer accompanied by the principals and Derja. The firm was Alpen & Moore, pretty well-known people. After a thorough examination they gave the Bonheimers a written valuation for; £5,000, ‘or more’. A copy was also given to Derja. That was on Friday of last week. On that Bonheimer agreed to buy, the deal to be carried through on Tuesday.’

  ‘Well, dash it, Edward, where’s the acme about that?’ the chairman asked. ‘Good lord, I should have wanted an opinion on the thing other than that of an old woman and Derja.’

  The A.C. chuckled. ‘Don’t be impatient, Noël, I haven’t touched the summit, yet. On Tuesday morning a letter arrived at Bentons from Bonheimer. The post there is delivered at 7 o’clock. The letter was waiting for him when he entered the shop at 8.25. It asked that Benton when he reached London with the necklace should go straight to the offices of a Hatton Garden firm for a valuation for insurance purposes. Mr. Bonheimer would meet him there.’