The front door was open. We passed through it into a rather surprisinglyspacious hall. It was furnished with restraint—well-polished dark oak andgleaming brass1. At the back, where the staircase would normally appear,was a white panelled wall with a door in it.
“My brother-in-law’s part of the house,” said Miss de Haviland. “Theground floor is Philip and Magda’s.”
We went through a doorway2 on the left into a large drawing room. Ithad pale-blue panelled walls, furniture covered in heavy brocade, and onevery available table and on the walls were hung photographs and pic-tures of actors, dancers, and stage scenes and designs. A Degas of balletdancers hung over the mantelpiece. There were masses of flowers, enorm-ous brown chrysanthemums3 and great vases of carnations4.
“I suppose,” said Miss de Haviland, “that you want to see Philip?”
Did I want to see Philip? I had no idea. All I had wanted to do was to seeSophia. That I had done. She had given emphatic5 encouragement to theOld Man’s plan—but she had now receded6 from the scene and was pre-sumably somewhere telephoning about fish, having given me no indica-tion of how to proceed. Was I to approach Philip Leonides as a young mananxious to marry his daughter, or as a casual friend who had dropped in(surely not at such a moment!) or as an associate of the police?
Miss de Haviland gave me no time to consider her question. It was, in-deed, not a question at all, but more an assertion. Miss de Haviland, Ijudged, was more inclined to assert than to question.
“We’ll go to the library,” she said.
She led me out of the drawing room, along a corridor and in through an-other door.
It was a big room, full of books. The books did not confine themselves tothe bookcases that reached up to the ceiling. They were on chairs andtables and even on the floor. And yet there was no sense of disarray7 aboutthem.
The room was cold. There was some smell absent in it that I was con-scious of having expected. It smelt8 of the mustiness of old books and just alittle beeswax. In a second or two I realized what I missed. It was the scentof tobacco. Philip Leonides was not a smoker9.
He got up from behind his table as we entered—a tall man, aged10 some-where around fifty, an extraordinarily11 handsome man. Everyone had laidso much emphasis on the ugliness of Aristide Leonides, that for somereason I expected his son to be ugly too. Certainly I was not prepared forthis perfection of feature—the straight nose, the flawless line of jaw13, thefair hair touched with grey that swept back from a well-shaped forehead.
“This is Charles Hayward, Philip,” said Edith de Haviland.
“Ah, how do you do?”
I could not tell if he had ever heard of me. The hand he gave me wascold. His face was quite incurious. It made me rather nervous. He stoodthere, patient and uninterested.
“Where are those awful policemen?” demanded Miss de Haviland.
“Have they been in here?”
“I believe Chief-Inspector14”—(he glanced down at a card on the desk)—“er—Taverner is coming to talk to me presently.”
“Where is he now?”
“I’ve no idea, Aunt Edith. Upstairs, I suppose.”
“With Brenda?”
“I really don’t know.”
Looking at Philip Leonides, it seemed quite impossible that a murdercould have been committed anywhere in his vicinity.
“Is Magda up yet?”
“I don’t know. She’s not usually up before eleven.”
“That sounds like her,” said Edith de Haviland.
What sounded like Mrs. Philip Leonides was a high voice talking veryrapidly and approaching fast. The door behind me burst open and a wo-man came in. I don’t know how she managed to give the impression of itsbeing three women rather than one who entered.
She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder15 and was wearing a peachsatin négligé which she was holding up with one hand. A cascade16 of Titianhair rippled17 down her back. Her face had that almost shocking air of nud-ity that a woman’s has nowadays when it is not made up at all. Her eyeswere blue and enormous and she was talking very rapidly in a husky,rather attractive voice with a very clear enunciation18.
“Darling, I can’t stand it—I simply can’t stand it—just think of the no-tices—it isn’t in the papers yet, but of course it will be—and I simply can’tmake up my mind what I ought to wear at the inquest—very, very sub-dued—not black though, perhaps dark purple—and I simply haven’t got acoupon left—I’ve lost the address of that dreadful man who sells them tome—you know, the garage somewhere near Shaftesbury Avenue—and if Iwent up there in the car the police would follow me, and they might askthe most awkward questions, mightn’t they? I mean, what could one say?
How calm you are, Philip! How can you be so calm? Don’t you realize wecan leave this awful house now? Freedom—freedom! Oh, how unkind—the poor old Sweetie—of course we’d never have left him while he wasalive. He really did dote on us, didn’t he—in spite of all the trouble thatwoman upstairs tried to make between us. I’m quite sure that if we hadgone away and left him to her, he’d have cut us right out of everything.
Horrible creature! After all, poor old Sweetie Pie was just on ninety—allthe family feeling in the world couldn’t have stood up against a dreadfulwoman who was on the spot. You know, Philip, I really believe that thiswould be a wonderful opportunity to put on the Edith Thompson play.
This murder would give us a lot of advance publicity19. Bildenstein said hecould get the Thespian—that dreary20 play in verse about miners is comingoff any minute—it’s a wonderful part—wonderful. I know they say I mustalways play comedy because of my nose—but you know there’s quite a lotof comedy to be got out of Edith Thompson—I don’t think the author real-ized that—comedy always heightens the suspense21. I know just how I’dplay it—commonplace, silly, make-believe up to the last minute and then—”
She cast out an arm—the cigarette fell out of the holder on to the pol-ished mahogany of Philip’s desk and began to burn it. Impassively hereached for it and dropped it into the wastepaper basket.
“And then,” whispered Magda Leonides, her eyes suddenly widening,her face stiffening22, “just terror….”
The stark23 fear stayed on her face for about twenty seconds, then herface relaxed, crumpled24, a bewildered child was about to burst into tears.
Suddenly all emotion was wiped away as though by a sponge and, turn-ing to me, she asked in a businesslike tone:
“Don’t you think that would be the way to play Edith Thompson?”
I said I thought that would be exactly the way to play Edith Thompson.
At the moment I could only remember very vaguely25 who Edith Thompsonwas, but I was anxious to start off well with Sophia’s mother.
“Rather like Brenda, really, wasn’t she?” said Magda. “D’you know, Inever thought of that. It’s very interesting. Shall I point that out to the in-spector?”
The man behind the desk frowned very slightly.
“There’s really no need, Magda,” he said, “for you to see him at all. I cantell him anything he wants to know.”
“Not see him?” Her voice went up. “But of course I must see him! Darling,darling, you’re so terribly unimaginative! You don’t realize the import-ance of details. He’ll want to know exactly how and when everythinghappened, all the little things one noticed and wondered about at the time—”
“Mother,” said Sophia, coming through the open door, “you’re not to tellthe inspector a lot of lies.”
“Sophia—darling….”
“I know, precious, that you’ve got it all set and that you’re ready to givea most beautiful performance. But you’ve got it wrong. Quite wrong.”
“Nonsense. You don’t know—”
“I do know. You’ve got to play it quite differently, darling. Subdued—saying very little—holding it all back—on your guard—protecting the fam-ily.”
Magda Leonides’ face showed the na?ve perplexity of a child.
“Darling,” she said, “do you really think—”
“Yes, I do. Throw it away. That’s the idea.”
Sophia added, as a little pleased smile began to show on her mother’sface:
“I’ve made you some chocolate. It’s in the drawing room.”
“Oh—good—I’m starving—”
She paused in the doorway.
“You don’t know,” she said, and the words appeared to be addressedeither to me or to the bookshelf behind my head, “how lovely it is to havea daughter!”
On this exit line she went out.
“God knows,” said Miss de Haviland, “what she will say to the police!”
“She’ll be all right,” said Sophia.
“She might say anything.”
“Don’t worry,” said Sophia. “She’ll play it the way the producer says. I’mthe producer!”
She went out after her mother, then wheeled back to say:
“Here’s Chief-Inspector Taverner to see you, Father. You don’t mind ifCharles stays, do you?”
I thought that a very faint air of bewilderment showed on Philip Le-onides’ face. It well might! But his incurious habit served me in goodstead. He murmured:
“Oh certainly—certainly,” in a rather vague voice.
Chief-Inspector Taverner came in, solid, dependable, and with an air ofbusinesslike promptitude that was somehow soothing26.
“Just a little unpleasantness,” his manner seemed to say, “and then weshall be out of the house for good—and nobody will be more pleased thanI shall. We don’t want to hang about, I can assure you….”
I don’t know how he managed, without any words at all, but merely bydrawing up a chair to the desk, to convey what he did, but it worked. I satdown unobtrusively a little way off.
“Yes, Chief-Inspector?” said Philip.
Miss de Haviland said abruptly27:
“You don’t want me, Chief-Inspector?”
“Not just at the moment, Miss de Haviland. Later, if I might have a fewwords with you—”
“Of course. I shall be upstairs.”
She went out, shutting the door behind her.
“Well, Chief-Inspector?” Philip repeated.
“I know you’re a very busy gentleman and I don’t want to disturb youfor long. But I may mention to you in confidence that our suspicions areconfirmed. Your father did not die a natural death. His death was the res-ult of an overdose of physostigmine—more usually known as eserine.”
Philip bowed his head. He showed no particular emotion.
“I don’t know whether that suggests anything to you?” Taverner wenton.
“What should it suggest? My own view is that my father must havetaken the poison by accident.”
“You really think so, Mr. Leonides?”
“Yes, it seems to me perfectly28 possible. He was close on ninety, remem-ber, and with very imperfect eyesight.”
“So he emptied the contents of his eyedrop bottle into an insulin bottle.
Does that really seem to you a credible29 suggestion, Mr. Leonides?”
Philip did not reply. His face became even more impassive.
Taverner went on:
“We have found the eyedrop bottle, empty—in the dustbin, with no fin-gerprints on it. That in itself is curious. In the normal way there shouldhave been fingerprints30. Certainly your father’s, possibly his wife’s, or thevalet….”
Philip Leonides looked up.
“What about the valet?” he said. “What about Johnson?”
“You are suggesting Johnson as the possible criminal? He certainly hadopportunity. But when we come to motive31 it is different. It was yourfather’s custom to pay him a bonus every year—each year the bonus wasincreased. Your father made it clear to him that this was in lieu of anysum that he might otherwise have left him in his will. The bonus now,after seven years” service, has reached a very considerable sum everyyear and is still rising. It was obviously to Johnson’s interest that yourfather should live as long as possible. Moreover, they were on excellentterms, and Johnson’s record of past service is unimpeachable33 — he is athoroughly skilled and faithful valet attendant.” He paused. “We do notsuspect Johnson.”
Philip replied tonelessly: “I see.”
“Now, Mr. Leonides, perhaps you will give me a detailed34 account of yourown movements on the day of your father’s death?”
“Certainly, Chief-Inspector. I was here, in this room, all that day—withthe exception of meals, of course.”
“Did you see your father at all?”
“I said good morning to him after breakfast as was my custom.”
“Were you alone with him then?”
“My—er—stepmother was in the room.”
“Did he seem quite as usual?”
With a slight hint of irony35, Philip replied:
“He showed no foreknowledge that he was to be murdered that day.”
“Is your father’s portion of the house entirely36 separate from this?”
“Yes, the only access to it is through the door in the hall.”
“Is that door kept locked?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“I have never known it to be so.”
“Anyone could go freely between that part of the house and this?”
“Certainly. It was only separate from the point of view of domestic con-venience.”
“How did you first hear of your father’s death?”
“My brother Roger, who occupies the west wing of the floor above, camerushing down to tell me that my father had had a sudden seizure37. He haddifficulty in breathing and seemed very ill.”
“What did you do?”
“I telephoned through to the doctor, which nobody seemed to havethought of doing. The doctor was out—but I left a message for him to comeas soon as possible. I then went upstairs.”
“And then?”
“My father was clearly very ill. He died before the doctor came.”
There was no emotion in Philip’s voice. It was a simple statement of fact.
“Where was the rest of your family?”
“My wife was in London. She returned shortly afterwards. Sophia wasalso absent, I believe. The two younger ones, Eustace and Josephine, wereat home.”
“I hope you won’t misunderstand me, Mr. Leonides, if I ask you exactlyhow your father’s death will affect your financial position.”
“I quite appreciate that you want to know all the facts. My father madeus financially independent a great many years ago. My brother he madeChairman and principal shareholder38 of Associated Catering—his largestcompany, and put the management of it entirely in his hands. He madeover to me what he considered an equivalent sum—actually I think it wasa hundred and fifty thousand pounds in various bonds and securities—sothat I could use the capital as I chose. He also settled very generousamounts on my two sisters, who have since died.”
“But he left himself still a very rich man?”
“No, actually he only retained for himself a comparatively modest in-come. He said it would give him an interest in life. Since that time”—forthe first time a faint smile creased32 Philip’s lips—“he has become, as theresult of various undertakings39, an even richer man than he was before.”
“Your brother and yourself came here to live. That was not the result ofany financial—difficulties?”
“Certainly not. It was a mere12 matter of convenience. My father alwaystold us that we were welcome to make a home with him. For various do-mestic reasons this was a convenient thing for me to do.
“I was also,” added Philip deliberately40, “extremely fond of my father. Icame here with my family in 1937. I pay no rent, but I pay my proportionof the rates.”
“And your brother?”
“My brother came here as a result of the blitz, when his house in Lon-don was bombed in 1943.”
“Now, Mr. Leonides, have you any idea what your father’s testamentarydispositions are?”
“A very clear idea. He re-made his will in 1946. My father was not a se-cretive man. He had a great sense of family. He held a family conclave41 atwhich his solicitor42 was also present and who, at his request, made clear tous the terms of the will. These terms I expect you already know. Mr. Gait-skill will doubtless have informed you. Roughly, a sum of a hundred thou-sand pounds free of duty was left to my stepmother in addition to heralready very generous marriage settlement. The residue43 of his propertywas divided into three portions, one to myself, one to my brother, and athird in trust for the three grandchildren. The estate is a large one, but thedeath duties, of course, will be very heavy.”
“Any bequests44 to servants or to charity?”
“No bequests of any kind. The wages paid to servants were increasedannually if they remained in his service.”
“You are not—you will excuse my asking—in actual need of money, Mr.
Leonides?”
“Income tax, as you know, is somewhat heavy, Chief-Inspector—but myincome amply suffices for my needs—and for my wife’s. Moreover, myfather frequently made us all very generous gifts, and had any emergencyarisen, he would have come to the rescue immediately.”
Philip added coldly and clearly:
“I can assure you that I had no financial reason for desiring my father’sdeath, Chief-Inspector.”
“I am very sorry, Mr. Leonides, if you think I suggested anything of thekind. But we have to get at all the facts. Now I’m afraid I must ask yousome rather delicate questions. They refer to the relations between yourfather and his wife. Were they on happy terms together?”
“As far as I know, perfectly.”
“No quarrels?”
“I do not think so.”
“There was a—great disparity in age?”
“There was.”
“Did you—excuse me—approve of your father’s second marriage.”
“My approval was not asked.”
“That is not an answer, Mr. Leonides.”
“Since you press the point, I will say that I considered the marriage un-wise.”
“Did you remonstrate45 with your father about it.”
“When I heard of it, it was an accomplished46 fact.”
“Rather a shock to you—eh?”
Philip did not reply.
“Was there any bad feeling about the matter?”
“My father was at perfect liberty to do as he pleased.”
“Your relations with Mrs. Leonides have been amicable47?”
“Perfectly.”
“You are on friendly terms with her?”
“We very seldom meet.”
Chief-Inspector Taverner shifted his ground.
“Can you tell me something about Mr. Laurence Brown?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. He was engaged by my father.”
“But he was engaged to teach your children, Mr. Leonides.”
“True. My son was a sufferer from infantile paralysis—fortunately alight case—and it was considered not advisable to send him to a publicschool. My father suggested that he and my young daughter Josephineshould have a private tutor—the choice at the time was rather limited—since the tutor in question must be ineligible48 for military service. Thisyoung man’s credentials49 were satisfactory, my father and my aunt (whohas always looked after the children’s welfare) were satisfied, and I acqui-esced. I may add that I have no fault to find with his teaching, which hasbeen conscientious50 and adequate.”
“His living quarters are in your father’s part of the house, not here?”
“There was more room up there.”
“Have you ever noticed—I am sorry to ask this—any signs of intimacybetween Laurence Brown and your stepmother?”
“I have had no opportunity of observing anything of the kind.”
“Have you heard any gossip or tittle-tattle on the subject?”
“I don’t listen to gossip or tittle-tattle, Chief-Inspector.”
“Very creditable,” said Inspector Taverner. “So you’ve seen no evil,heard no evil, and aren’t speaking any evil?”
“If you like to put it that way, Chief-Inspector.”
Inspector Taverner got up.
“Well,” he said, “thank you very much, Mr. Leonides.”
I followed him unobtrusively out of the room.
“Whew,” said Taverner, “he’s a cold fish!”
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1
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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smoker
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| n.吸烟者，吸烟车厢，吸烟室 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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fingerprints
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| n.指纹( fingerprint的名词复数 )v.指纹( fingerprint的第三人称单数 ) | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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unimpeachable
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detailed
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irony
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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seizure
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shareholder
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| n.股东，股票持有人 | |
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undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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bequests
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| n.遗赠( bequest的名词复数 )；遗产，遗赠物 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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ineligible
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| adj.无资格的，不适当的 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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