11. The Gymnasium

“Better come up!” Roger called.

“Coming, sir.” The bright beam from a big torch shone out, showing the splintered wood, but scarcely penetrating the darkness beyond. The stairs creaked under Garnett’s tread. Someone spoke, outside - had the scream been heard? Roger smashed at the panel again, and the door sagged open.

“Careful, sir!”

“Yes. Shine your torch downstairs for a moment.” That left the doorway and the tiny landing in darkness, and Roger slipped into the room. He saw the square outline of a window, nearly opposite him, and felt the cold rush of wind coming across the room; so the window was open. “Are you there, Miss Paterson?” He went farther inside, while Garnett hesitated, not sure what to do next. “Just stand at the ready,” Roger called. He took out his own torch, bent down, switched it on and rolled it along the floor. The light shone on pale brown boards, and on an Indian club, lying on its side. One Indian club, on its own.

Nothing happened.

He whispered: “See if you can find the switches, they should be near the door. Careful with your own torch.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roger thought: I came with a gun for this job and gave it away. It’s time I went back to school.

“I’ve got it, sir.”

“All right, switch on.”

“But—”

“Switch on!”

Bright light shone from the ceiling, coming from pale bluish strips, and showed up the huge room, with the parallel bars, the vaulting horse, everything you would expect to find in a gymnasium. Also, it shone on the fellow to the lonely Indian club. That lay in a doorway on the other side of the room. The smoothed top was stained red - as with blood. And lying near it, crumpled up, skirt rucked above her knees, was Margaret Paterson. He couldn’t see her face or her head.

 

She wasn’t hurt.

Her right hand lay on the floor, in the middle of a little smear of blood which had come off the top of the Indian club; or looked as if it had. The room beyond was in darkness. On the floor near Margaret’s other hand was a small flat torch, switched off. Roger made sure that she was breathing, and stood up, looking down at her with a scowl. Garnett approached.

“Is she—”

“She’s all right,” Roger said. “I’m going into that other room.” He approached slowly, and from the side; a man, killer, might be in here. He reached the door, made sure that his shadow wasn’t thrown into the small room, thrust the door open, and darted inside.

Only one man was in there; he lay on the floor with his head smashed in.

Roger stretched out his hand and switched on the light of the small room. Men were coming up the stairs, he felt sure that Paterson had heard the scream and was hurrying to investigate. He turned and studied the dead man. It was a little fellow, whose left hand was stretched out, with the palm upwards and the fingers cupped.

Roger forced the fingers open and saw the sign of the wolf on the dirty palm.

He turned back, pushed past Garnett and looked at Margaret. It was the second time that day he had seen her unconscious, or feigning to be so. In spite of all that had happened, she had a fresh beauty.

Then Paterson burst into the room, with Bray on his heels. “Margaret!” Paterson shouted, and hurried toward her.

On the sofa in the drawing room, her cheeks flushed and her blue eyes bright, she made a vivid picture. All she would say was that she had gone into the gymnasium, come upon the body, screamed - and remembered nothing more until she came round, with her father bending over her. Paterson stood by her side, on guard, fending off Roger and the even more insistent Bray.

Roger tried to picture the woman as he had first seen her, so aloof and elusive at the wheel of the Chrysler; and later, looking at him over the top of the newspaper; and then, unconscious in the car and on the floor, with her hand in the blood.

It was half an hour since she had come round and been brought here. Bray’s men had split into two parties, one working in the gymnasium, the other in the study. Apart from hovering about his daughter, Paterson had done one thing willingly - telephone for a doctor. He had grudgingly identified the dead man as Lake - Loppy Lake, so called because he had a slightly deformed foot which made him limp. As grudgingly, he had named Carney Smith and Mike O’Hara. Roger telephoned the Yard, gave Sloan the names and asked him to search in Records for the three men.

O’Hara and Loppy were married.

Bray said for the fifth time: “Miss Paterson, you couldn’t have stumbled over the dead body. It was inside the small room, you were in the large one.”

“But I did! I went in, fell over it, my torch shone on his head, and I don’t know what happened. I remember screaming, that’s all. I could scream now!”

A car drew up outside; the night seemed to be filled with cars pulling up and people switching on lights in dark rooms. Roger said: “I’ll go.” He wanted a few minutes in which to steady his thoughts; and to ease his throbbing head. He touched the sticking plaster; his scalp was more tender today than it had been yesterday. He turned, and glanced down at the wolf skin.

In the hall he lit a cigarette and waited for the caller to reach the porch. That didn’t take long. He heard a bell ring in the kitchen, and opened the front door.

The man who blinked in the light from the great chandelier was short and squat. He had a bowler hat pressed low on his head; it made his small ears stick out. He was muffled up in a woollen scarf and a thick overcoat which made him look almost as broad as he was tall. His face was pink; a baby face. He was ludicrous but brisk as he stepped into the hall, swinging a small black case.

“Who are you?” He had a thin, nasal voice.

“Miss Paterson is in the drawing room,” Roger said. “Are you Dr Sorenson?”

“Yes.” Sorenson had big eyes; pale grey, quite his best feature. They were steady and calm. “Who are you? Where is Carney? What’s the trouble?” He didn’t seem interested in any answer, but went straight to the drawing room, a further indication that he was familiar with the house. “What’s been happening here? Nothing much the matter with her, is there?”

“Mr Paterson thought it worth sending for you.”

Sorenson sniffed and opened the drawing-room door. Roger stayed outside. Paterson would ask, and the doctor would insist, that Margaret be allowed to rest before she was questioned any further. Roger went upstairs. Garnett and another man were in the study; it looked much tidier than it had an hour before.

“Anything?” asked Roger.

“Not worth calling anything. The window was opened from inside. There are marks where the beggar climbed out, none where he climbed in. You can always tell.” Roger didn’t question that. “He probably had sticking plaster on his fingers, it’s a pro’s job. He was in a hurry, too. Left a lot of things that would be worth something to him, sir - he was looking for some special thing, no doubt o’ that.”

“Yes. Nothing else?”

“No, sir.”

“Thanks.” Roger went out, and hurried to the room where Margaret had been after snatching the wash-leather bag. The light here was still on, although most of them had been switched off. It was a man’s bedroom, furnished bleakly in ultra-modern style - a cold cubist room. The furniture was of limed oak; all the fittings were of chromium. The wardrobe door stood open. Roger glanced inside; a small electric lamp, operated by the door, shone on the wash-leather bag. He picked it up and weighed it in his hands; if it contained jewels, they were worth a fortune. He laughed: his first laugh for some time. A fortune, lying in a wardrobe; Paterson hadn’t troubled to pick it up! He inspected the seal more closely; it was a monogram mark, and looked like “J.P.” The wax was red; the cord, blue. He put it in his pocket and hurried out. Now he could have a quick look round by himself. He went into room after room. Most were furnished in modern style, sternly utilitarian. He found no photographs in the servants’ rooms and ran through their clothes. There was nothing of interest. He searched for cracksman’s tools and any sign of the wolf; and the only thing that caught his eye was a small, bright-handled soldering iron in the bottom drawer of the chest in Carney Smith’s room. Soldering? No, it was a branding iron. The end was darkened, as with fire, and he pressed it hard on to the edge of a Sporting Times which was folded on a chair.

A faint impression of a wolf’s head showed.

 

There were no other tools; nothing else to connect anyone in the household with Lobo.

Margaret’s room was next to her father’s. High-ceilinged, spacious, it was modern without being austere, and the curtains and furnishings were bright and gay, everything here was for comfort. Roger’s feet sank into the pile of a Persian carpet. He looked quickly through the wardrobe and every other piece of furniture and possible hiding place; he found nothing about Lobo, but there was a photograph album which made his eyes widen.

Margaret’s vitality glowed from the glossy surface of the photographs. She was shown in the garden; aboard ship; on the sands, in her car, with dogs and horses, in brief swim suits; in evening dress, at parties; only once was she alone. Usually different men were with her, all young, boyish and looking carefree.

There were also some loose photographs; he selected one of her, one of Paterson, then looked at the youths again; but ginger hair wouldn’t show up in a photograph.

He studied the postcard picture of Margaret before putting it, with Paterson’s, in his pocket. He went downstairs and outside. The wind had now reached a half-gale; it was whining through the trees; as he turned the corner toward the stables a strong gust took his breath away. After that, it was calm until he reached the open door of the staircase to the gymnasium. Here, too late, there was plenty of light. He hurried up the stairs. Lake’s body was still in the small room; the bathroom. There were three showers and one foot-bath; this place had been fitted up regardless of expense. The two Hounslow men who were working looked up, but didn’t stop what they were doing - measuring the distance between the dead man’s deformed foot and the door. One of them was on his knees, with a tape measure, the other had a pad, held against the wall, and pencil at the ready.

“Three feet, eight, and five sixteenths,” the man on his knees said. “That’s the lot for that. Anything you want us for, sir?”

“Nearly through?”

“Another ten minutes, and you can take him away. The doctor wants to see him again before he goes, though - he looked in, but couldn’t stay. Think it was the red-haired chap, sir? Or—”

“Could be.” There was no point in telling the man that it was a silly remark. “Is there anything here that you wouldn’t expect to find in a gymnasium?”

The man gave a sly grin, and nodded toward the corpse.

“Apart from that.”

“Nothing at all, sir. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“You’ve probably heard them called housebreaking implements,” Roger said, and won another grin from the man.

“Nothing like that - except the axe. You didn’t mean that, did you?” The axe stood by the door, near the head of the stairs.

“No, I didn’t mean that. I’d like a picture of every print you find here, it doesn’t matter how old, sent to the Yard by special messenger. Will you arrange that with Superintendent Bray? And if there’s a photograph of Carney Smith or anyone else, add that to the prints.”

“Very good, sir.”

Roger nodded, and went off and stared into the blustery night. He didn’t like his mood. He was leaving too much to Bray; what was worse, he was glad to do it. And he had no patience with the methodical, routine work which the men were doing. Routine brought more results than any other method, it was invaluable, and yet - this job wasn’t going to be solved by routine methods. You couldn’t fit that girl into routine; or have a ready answer to the fantastic coincidence of this affair blowing up just as he had passed the gate and the girl had passed him. If he could find a satisfactory explanation of that, he would feel happier.

Another gust of wind howled between the stables and the house.

He was restless, dissatisfied with himself, fighting against depression. He didn’t often feel that way. Although Carney and the other servants had flown, he was much further ahead with the case than there had been any reason for hoping before he’d left the Yard. Paterson was nursing a guilty secret; Margaret a secret of some kind; Lobo’s men had undoubtedly been trained here. He wouldn’t tackle Paterson about that yet; let the man stew for a bit. Yes, there was plenty of reason for satisfaction if not for congratulation, yet he remained restless and worried.

It was not because of the case; or Lobo.

He’d better face the truth; Janet had upset him badly, and was constantly in his mind. He couldn’t understand why she was so jumpy. It wasn’t simply fear of Lobo, there was something else in her mind, and she hadn’t wanted to tell him. Janet being secretive was a new and unpalatable factor. Until he got things cleared up at home, he was likely to make mistakes through lack of concentration. She had plenty of reason for complaint, because he’d been working at such high pressure.

Why not telephone her?

At one time, he’d called up whenever there was a few minutes break in his night work; of late, he’d let the habit fall into disuse. That was his fault, and - yes, he’d telephone her! He hurried back to the house and closed the door behind him. Brrr! It was colder outside than he’d thought, but it was warm here. He hurried upstairs, past the drawing room where Paterson was talking. The decision to telephone Janet had lifted a load off his mind, he felt exhilarated, no longer doubted that Janet was the explanation of his gloom. He smiled broadly and clapped his hands together as he entered the study, making Garnett and the other Hounslow man look round in surprise.

“Found something?” Garnett asked eagerly.

“Eh? Oh, no. But on the whole, this is a good night’s work, something to be pleased about. How are you doing here?”

“We’re finished - just waiting to report.”

“Wait downstairs, will you, Mr Bray will be ready soon.”

The wind howled against the window, which was now closed. The detectives gathered up their equipment and notebooks, and went out. Roger clapped his hands together again, laughed at himself, snatched up the telephone, and dialled the Bell Street number. Good! It was free, the brrr-brrr had a comforting effect. Janet would answer, of course, and—

“Hallo.” It was a woman; not Janet.

“Hallo, is Mrs West there?”

“I’m afraid she’s out. Who is—oh, that’s Mr West, isn’t it?” He recognised the West Country burr of a neighbour who sometimes sat-in for them, looking after the boys while they went out for the evening; it was six months since they’d had a living-in maid. “She’s gone to the West End, Mr West, with Mr Lessing.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, of course, she told me she would probably be out.” That was a lie; but the disappointment in that “oh” might give Mrs Wrigley wrong ideas. “It’s nice of you to sit-in for us. Any trouble from the boys?”

“No, they’re fast asleep, they’re never any trouble.”

Roger forced a laugh. “You should ask Janet sometimes! Leave a message and say that I called, will you?”

“Yes, gladly, Mr West. Good night.”

“Good night.” He put the telephone down slowly, lit a cigarette, and scowled at the window. There was no reason at all why Janet and Mark shouldn’t have an evening out; every reason why they should. Janet needed something to cheer her up, being on her own so much was the chief trouble. It was absurd to feel resentful with Mark of all people, and yet—oh, hell!

Voices sounded downstairs; as if several people were talking at once. Most of the party from the drawing room was coming out. He went to the door and stood with his hand on the handle. Paterson and Margaret came first, Margaret leaning heavily on her father’s shoulder. Dr Sorenson followed, Bray came after them. Only Bray noticed Roger, and came toward him.

They went inside the study, which was still empty.

“Doctor’s orders?” asked Roger.

“Yes, she’s going to bed. You know, I don’t like the atmosphere of this house, West. There’s much more wrong than we realise. That girl’s story is—”

“Phoney as they come.”

“You agree?” Bray’s eyes lighted up. “I had a feeling that you didn’t approve of the way I questioned her.”

“But I did! I was playing the part of Watchful Willy, trying to size them up. You’re quite right, there are things we know not of, in this joint.” His manner wasn’t natural, but Bray was too pleased to notice that. “So many things have happened so quickly that we haven’t time to get the right slant on them. We need a breathing space. Still, some things stand out. Carney and the rest of the staff got the wind up and beat it. We’ll find out where Paterson and his daughter come in, later on.”

“Think there’s a chance of holding the daughter?” Bray asked. “She had the opportunity to kill Lake, you know.”

“If I didn’t know that the redhead had been with her in the gym, I’d say we ought to take her along to the station. But the presence of the boyfriend lets her out, for the time being. That makes a good case for policemen not knowing too much, doesn’t it? We can turn our blind eye for a while.”

“Er—oh, yes. Yes.” Bray gave a rather pained smile and looked at him uncertainly from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Yes. What do you want to do next?”

“Tackle Paterson and his secretary, when she arrives. Apart from that, the usual routine. Care to get things sorted out from the reports, while I have a go at Paterson?”

Bray looked relieved. “Yes, I’ll do that.”

“Fine. First I want to speak to the Yard. I need a man.” He dialled Whitehall 1212, and soon had Sloan on the line.

He explained briefly, but comprehensively, then added: “Bill, come out here at once, will you, and watch the window immediately above the front porch; it’s Margaret Paterson’s room, and she might do a flit.”

“Right-o.”

“I wondered about that,” Bray said, when Roger rang off.

“Better be on the safe side.” Roger went out, and Bray called for Garnett. Roger walked along the passage, where shadows on the wall told of people moving about in one of the bedrooms - Margaret’s. He reached the doorway as Paterson and Sorenson came out.

Paterson, looking round, said: “You’re not to worry, Margaret. I’ll deal with these fools.”

Sorenson caught sight of Roger; his thick lips curved in sardonic humour, his fine eyes gleamed. Roger liked the squat doctor in spite of his unprepossessing appearance. Rule of thumb number one, never let personal liking affect one’s judgement; that was the first and most difficult rule of detection. He stepped past Sorenson and glanced round the door. Margaret lay in bed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, a picture to remember.

He’d gone in just to see her.

Paterson barked: “You’re not coming in here!”

Roger had to justify himself. “I hope your memory is better in the morning, Miss Paterson.”

Paterson almost pushed him out, closed the door firmly, turned the key in the lock and slipped it into his pocket; defiance in every movement.

Sorenson said: “She’ll be all right, Pat. Now I must be off, lot of calls to make. People always feel worse at night. Find that with your patients, Inspector?”

“Mine usually get frisky at night.”

“J won’t come down,” Paterson said frigidly.

“No. I’ll call in at the Pied Piper.” Sorenson bustled off, Paterson ignored Roger and went into his own bedroom. He made as if to close the door; Roger, hands deep in his pockets, stopped him from doing so. Paterson shrugged, went straight to the wardrobe, and looked inside. He frowned, bent down, and groped about the floor. He muttered a sharp imprecation, took out several pairs of shoes and tossed them behind him; two boot boxes, a pair of trees, three pairs of slippers followed.

When they were all strewn about the floor, he leaned inside, head and shoulders disappearing as he felt round the wardrobe. At last he withdrew and stood up. His face was pale and his eyes glittered. He looked anywhere but at Roger.

“What’s missing?” Roger asked.

Paterson said: “That bag of—damn it, you were here all the time! They’ve been taken from under your very nose. I’ll make you suffer for this! They were here, I saw them myself. I thought there was nothing to worry about with the police on the premises. Why—”

Roger said: “Were they so valuable?”

“They were worth—never mind what they were worth!” Paterson’s eyes glistened, he seemed really upset for the first time, couldn’t pretend any longer. “It’s criminal negligence!”

“The negligence was in leaving them in the wardrobe of an unlocked room,” said Roger. “Blame yourself, not me. Queer behaviour, isn’t it? First your daughter and then you behave as if the bag isn’t worth tuppence, then you round on me because it’s gone. What are those jewels worth?”

“That’s my business! It’s criminal! I must have those jewels.” Paterson’s face was red, now, his eyes bloodshot. “They—they weren’t mine. I was looking after them for someone else. West, you must find them!”

Roger put his hand into his coat pocket.

“Curiouser and curiouser. Negligence with your own valuables would be odd enough, but with other people’s it’s - what’s the word? Criminal?” He took the bag out, and tossed it into the air, caught it again. “I thought it better not to let them lie about for anyone to pick up. Yes, the seal is intact.”

Paterson gulped. “You—you give them to me!” He held out his hand.

“Later. Your daughter seemed satisfied that because the seal isn’t broken, the contents haven’t been touched. As a policeman, I’ve different ideas. Clever people can make a seal look as good as new. Have you a list of the contents of the bag?”

“Give that bag to me!”

Roger said quietly: “You don’t quite get it. I am a police officer, and I must know whether the contents of this bag are intact. I intend to make sure.” He took a penknife from his pocket and opened it, as if he were about to cut the cord. Paterson clenched his hands, looked as if he were prepared to snatch the bag away.

And then Roger was aware of another presence, behind him. Paterson noticed nothing; Roger sensed rather than saw it. He held the knife in one hand and the bag in the other, and repeated quietly: “Have you a list of the contents?”

“I have,” said a woman.

Paterson exclaimed: “Helen!” Roger turned slowly, and a woman smiled at him. He was obtuse.

“Who is this, please?”

“My secretary - Helen Wolf,” Paterson said.