Duplicate Death Read online

  ‘Straight on. If Miss Pickhill arrives – can I go, or must I wait till that man gets back?’

  ‘No, I’ll trust Mr Harte to keep an eye on you,’ he replied, opening the door.

  She lingered for a moment. ‘Thanks! I – I’m sorry I was rude to you before!’

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘You’ve been quite helpful.’

  He shut both her and Timothy out, and went to sit down at the desk, picking up the telephone. ‘Hallo?’

  ‘Is it yourself, sir?’ asked the voice of Inspector Grant.

  ‘It is. Where are you speaking from?’

  ‘From your office, sir. Mr Poulton was driven from Charles Street straight to Northolt Aerodrome, and has left for Paris.’

  Sixteen

  So long a silence followed this announcement that Inspector Grant presently said: ‘Are you still there, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ Hemingway replied. ‘Where did you find this out?’

  ‘When I left you, I went to Belgrave Square. It was the butler told me that Mr Poulton was flying to Paris for a business conference tomorrow morning. I asked him when he expected Mr Poulton to return, and he told me, tomorrow evening. As to that, I have my doubts!’

  ‘Did you get on to Northolt?’

  ‘Cinnteach! But I was too late, for the plane had taken off already. I have seen the chauffeur. He has had his orders since the day before yesterday.’

  ‘Has he also got orders to meet some plane tomorrow?’

  ‘Ma seadh! But what does that prove? He may go to Northolt, and come away without his master, it seems to me! Would you have me apply for extradition?’

  ‘No. Not a bit of use. I haven’t enough on him to have a hope of getting it.’

  ‘Ciod e so? Is there another that has as much motive for these murders?’

  ‘That’s what I don’t know yet. You can take it from me that Big Business interests aren’t going to be annoyed on the evidence I’ve got. You can go round to Poulton’s office first thing in the morning, and check up on this conference story. Meanwhile, I’m getting a lot of funny ideas about this case. I have to keep telling myself that first thoughts are best. I’m staying here till Mrs Haddington’s sister turns up. You nip round to wherever it is Mr Sydney Butterwick hangs out – you’ve got the address, haven’t you? Park Lane, or something – and get his story out of him. Unless you get something startling from him, you needn’t show up again till tomorrow morning.’

  ‘And where,’ asked the Inspector politely, ‘will you be going yourself, Chief Inspector, when you leave Charles Street?’

  Hemingway grinned. ‘Back to the Yard!’

  ‘I will be seeing you there, then,’ said the Inspector.

  ‘All right, Sandy. You’re several kinds of silly ass, but, barring your habit of breathing that Gaelic at me, I don’t know when I’ve had a sub I got on with better!’

  ‘Moran taing! ‘ said the Inspector.

  A click indicated that he had replaced his receiver. Hemingway followed his example, mentally registering a vow to discover the meaning of this cryptic valediction at the earliest opportunity. He went into the hall, where one of his men was sitting. To him, he issued instructions to lock and seal the doors into Mrs Haddington’s bedroom and boudoir. The officer had scarcely reached the half-landing when the front-door bell rang. Forestalling Thrimby, who had retired to his underground fastness, Hemingway opened the door, and admitted into the house Miss Violet Pickhill, who bore all the appearance of one who had snatched up the first hat and coat that chanced to meet her eyes. Fumbling within the folds of the coat, she drew forth her pince-nez, on the end of a thin chain, and jabbed them on to her nose. Through them she subjected the Chief Inspector to a suspicious scrutiny. ‘Who may you be?’ she demanded.

  Hemingway announced himself, and was annoyed to detect a note of apology in his own voice.

  ‘Disgusting!’ said Miss Pickhill. She removed the pincenez from her nose, and added in a milder tone: ‘I don’t mean you, but to think it should have come to this! Well, I always knew Lily was heading for trouble! Time and again I’ve told her that her behaviour was enough to make my poor father turn in his grave, and now we see how right I was! Where’s my niece?’

  ‘Miss Haddington hasn’t come in yet,’ said Hemingway. ‘The servants seem to think she went off to some party or other, but she’s expected to come home for her dinner. Miss Birtley – Mrs Haddington’s secretary –’

  ‘I know very well who Miss Birtley is!’ interrupted Miss Pickhill. ‘She rang me up, and I thought the better of her for having done so! It showed a very proper spirit, whatever my sister may say! Not, of course,’ she corrected herself punctiliously, ‘that my sister can say any thing now, for I will tell you at once that I am not a believer in this Spiritualism, and never shall be!’

  At this point, and considerably to the Chief Inspector’s relief, the taxi-driver created a diversion by appearing on the scene for the purpose of dumping a suitcase inside the hall, and of collecting his just dues. Miss Pickhill groped in her capacious handbag, and handed these to him, forestalling criticism by informing him that if he wanted to receive a more handsome gratuity he should not have put his fares up. She clinched the matter by adding that if he had anything to say he might address his remarks to Hemingway, whom she introduced to him under the title of ‘this policeman.’ The taxi-driver wisely decided to withdraw without uttering the expostulation trembling on his tongue, and Miss Pickhill, shutting the door on him, turned to Hemingway, and demanded to be put in possession of the facts of her sister’s murder.

  He took her into the library, and told her briefly that her sister had been strangled in her own boudoir. She ejaculated first that it was a judgment on her, and then commanded Hemingway to tell her who had perpetrated the deed. Rather to his surprise, she accepted without comment his reply, that he was unable to enlighten her. She said: ‘Well, I was saying only yesterday to Mr Broseley – he is our Vicar, and a most enlightened man! – that a woman without religion is like a ship without a rudder. I may say that he entirely agreed with me! We were not, of course, discussing my poor sister. Whatever I may have thought, I hope I am too loyal to discuss any of my family, even with dear Mr Broseley! But it all goes to show! From the moment she married Hubert Haddington – right against her father’s wishes, I may say! – Lily (for call her Lilias I never would!) took a turn for the worse! My father always said – he had a very unconventional way of expressing himself, though a thorough Churchman! – that Hubert was a bad hat. Of course, Lily took after the Whalleys: there’s no getting round that! My mother’s people – not that I wish to say a word against them, but there’s no denying that they were not Pickhills! My mother, naturally, was different, but I well recall hearing my dear father saying that her relations were some of them most uncongenial people. Quite irreligious, I fear, and with what my father used to call an eye to the main-chance. It was the same with Lily. As hard as nails! The only person she ever cared twopence for was my niece, and, as is always the way, she spoiled her atrociously! Often and often I’ve told her so, but you might as well have talked to a brick wall! And what has been the result? The child spends her whole life making up her face, and going to cocktail-parties, and my poor sister has been murdered! Of course, if he weren’t dead already, I should have said that Mr Seaton-Carew had done it!’

  ‘Would you, madam?’ said Hemingway, in a conversational tone which would not have deceived Inspector Grant for even the fraction of a second. ‘Now, I wonder what makes you say that?’

  ‘I always trust my instinct,’ said Miss Pickhill darkly. ‘It’s never at fault – never! The instant I clapped eyes on him I knew! A friend of Hubert Haddington’s, I need hardly say! Pray do not ask me what his relationship with my unhappy sister was! That is something I prefer not to think about! Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil!’

  ‘Very proper, madam!’ approved Hemingway. ‘What, if I may ask, was the late Mr Haddington’s professi