“The newspapers nowadays,” Appleby said, “are full of resourceful persons remembering to dial 999. And a very good thing too. But Miss Geach disliked the telephone, and so she came all the way to New Scotland Yard instead.”
The QC shook his head. “An imprecise statement, this. Was her journey from John o’ Groats or Highgate?”
“It was from Kensington, where Miss Geach had a small flat in a superior sort of warren called, if I remember correctly, Dreadnaught Mansions. Miss Geach herself, however, was somewhat timorous. Or so one had to suppose.”
“Because she disliked the telephone?”
“Because of that – and because she swooned away in my arms as I was going out to lunch. A sergeant on duty in the lobby was so outraged that he did his best to arrest her on the spot. When I got her revived and calmed down a bit she told me rather an odd tale.
“It seemed that behind the marble hall of Dreadnaught Mansions, with its proliferation of palms and resplendent commissionaire, there harboured a shameful secret, which was causing the tenants much discomfort and annoyance. There was something wrong with the drains.”
The QC looked puzzled. “But would one want to dial 999 about that?”
“You mistake me. The drains were only a remote cause of Miss Geach’s agitation. The attempt to patch them up had resulted in a serious breach in her insulation.”
“Miss Geach was insulated?”
“Yes – I believe with seaweed. In other words, noise from the flat below should have been cut out by some stuff or other packed under her floors. But the bother over the drains had in some way put this out of action, and left Miss Geach for the time being abnormally vulnerable to disturbance. The position was worst in her bedroom. There she was obliged actually to overhear a good deal of any conversation going on beneath her. And this distressed Miss Geach very much. I got the impression that, even during the day, she was in her bedroom quite a lot.”
“And Miss Geach came along to you about this?”
“She came along because – if she was at all to be credited – she had overheard a violent quarrel, followed by what she was convinced had been murder. As you know, mild-mannered elderly ladies are constantly enjoying hallucinations of that sort, and it seemed to me that the best thing to do would be to get her straight home again. If there was anything in her story, I could investigate it on the spot. So I drove her back.
“She gave me more details on the way. Just who lived immediately beneath her she didn’t know. But she had lately come to the conclusion that it must be a bachelor of unstable temperament, since what she heard for the most part was simply the voice of a youngish man talking to himself, or even shouting. At this point I was inclined to feel that poor Miss Geach’s fantasy might become merely embarrassing, and concern a sort of dream lover. But as she went on I began to take another view. I thought there might be something in it.”
The QC grinned. “My dear fellow, it’s only if there was something in it that I’m prepared to go on listening to you.”
“Very well. The first thing of which Miss Geach was aware on the relevant occasion was the owner of this attractive young male voice calling somebody a dirty hound. Then he talked with great volubility and passion about his family honour, foul slander, and the reputation of a woman who was inexpressibly dear to him.”
The QC shook his head. “One can picture – can one not? – the reluctance of your Miss Geach to listen in to such stuff. But proceed.”
“Presently the temperature appeared to be rising yet higher, and the young man’s voice was saying something about contemptible curs and blackmail. It was at this point that a second voice joined in. Miss Geach described it as a soft sinister foreign voice. And it was demanding some large sum of money. The young man replied angrily that he wouldn’t pay, and added that the whole thing was a filthy racket, and too unspeakably low. The foreign voice replied that it didn’t care a damn how low it was, the money must be paid. The young voice said something about not putting up with vulgar gangster stuff, and the foreign voice said inflexibly, ‘One thousand pounds’. The young voice then rose in real out-and-out rage, and the language, Miss Geach said, was such as she could not repeat, even to an officer of police. But the owner of the foreign voice appeared to bide his time, and when the other had blown off steam came back again with something inaudible but decisive. The young voice suddenly shouted, ‘Very well, I’ll pay – and then you can take yourself out of this and never let me see you again.’ The foreign voice made what sounded like a speech of ironical thanks, and then there was a silence of some minutes duration, before hell broke loose.”
The QC raised his eyebrows. “Hell broke loose? That was Miss Geach’s expression?”
“It was. Furniture appeared to be hurtling all over the place, and its crashing or bumping was punctuated by what she described as howls of rage. And it was this that broke the poor lady’s nerve. She bolted downstairs and into the street, intending to find a constable. But there wasn’t one in sight, and she had the odd inspiration of jumping into a taxi and driving to the Yard. When we drew up upon returning to Dreadnaught Mansions I had to take her encouragingly by the arm before she found resolution to enter again.
“I judged it in her best interest not to start inquiring about a rumpus that might never really have happened, and so I walked straight upstairs with her until we reached the flat beneath her own. Its outer door was closed, and there was a porter standing near by, eyeing it doubtfully. I questioned him and gathered that there had in fact been some sort of row; other tenants had complained, and he had been sent along to make discreet inquiries. But there had been no reply to his knocking, and he was wondering whether to hang about or return and report to the management. It seemed to me a case for going right in, and after some police stuff I got hold of a master-key and opened up.
“The flat was deserted, and there was nothing out of the way about it except in its principal apartment, a handsomely furnished living-room which had all the appearance of having been struck by a cyclone. Chairs had been pitched about, a large mirror was smashed, and a whole bookcase had come down, scattering its contents across the floor. I walked over to a desk which was still in tolerably good order, and the first thing my eye fell on was an open cheque-book. The last counterfoil was exposed, and scrawled on it in bold, angry figures was ‘£1,000’.
“At the sight of all this poor Miss Geach sank with a groan into one of the few chairs remaining in a serviceable position. And at the same moment somebody strode in behind us.
“It was a young man who, I felt at once, was vaguely familiar to me. He was flushed – indeed it came into my head that he was blushing – and he looked at us uncertainly, as if wondering whether to feel furious or foolish.
“‘I am from Scotland Yard,’ I said. ‘Are you, sir, the owner of this flat, and have you been involved in a fight in it?’ And quite suddenly as I spoke I was able to put a name to the fellow. He was Merlin Henneker, the rising young actor.
“‘A fight? Nonsense! I got worked up and threw things about a bit. So I went out to cool off. And I can’t see that it’s any business of yours.’
“‘I think perhaps it may be. Do you deny that you have had an angry interview with a blackmailer; that you were constrained to write him out a cheque for a thousand pounds; and that he has now vanished after what appears to have been a scene of great violence?’”
The QC considered. “Young Henneker must have been considerably put out.”
“Not a bit of it. Decidedly to my astonishment, he sat down and roared with laughter.
“‘Blackmail?’ he spluttered.
“‘Certainly.’ I was determined to take a firm line with him. ‘The matter concerned your family honour, and the reputation of a lady.’
“Henneker stared at me. ‘My dear sir, I see that somebody has been eavesdropping and has got matters a little mixed. I spent the morning trying to persuade a detestable little impresario that a play in which I had rashly contracted to appear is hopelessly vulgar and vieux jeu – a melodrama, stuffed with blackmail and every kind of silliness. But he was unmoved, and insisted that if I backed out I must pay the monetary penalty to which I had bound myself in the event of breaking the contract. So I paid up, and when the little brute had gone I expressed myself – privately, as I supposed – in a somewhat temperamental way about the whole matter.’
“And Merlin Henneker glanced from me to poor Miss Geach. ‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘that your friend is upset. So, unfortunately, are the decanters. So I can’t even offer you both a drink.’”