Vernon Loder - The Shop Window Murders

Mr Crayte hastened to explain. ‘Oh, they wouldn’t dare to with Mr Mander. I meant among ourselves.’

‘May I ask the names of the antipathies?’

‘Well, it is all over now, but there was rather a scene between the manager of the shipping department and the manager of the furniture. A strictly departmental quarrel, if I may put it so.’

‘Apart from that, may we take it that the rest of the executive staff are good friends?’

‘Well, no. Friends is another thing. Outside our business relations, there may be a certain amount of hostility. I mean to say, men thrown together, as we are, don’t necessarily like each other.’

‘For example?’

Crayte looked at him cautiously, but Mr Melis’s expression was so bland and ingenuous, and his own love for gossip so keen, that he went on to amplify his statement. ‘Kephim and Cane have never hit it off. But I can understand that. Mr Kephim worked up. He has a fine salary now, and is worth it, but he worked up. I will say Mr Cane is a bit of a snob—I mean to say, he rather showed by his manner that he looked down on Mr Kephim.’

‘When, officially, he should have looked up,’ murmured Mr Melis, with a quick glance at Devenish; ‘but after all we are only here to inquire into the murder of Mr Mander. Mr Cane was not on bad terms with the deceased, was he?’

‘Oh, no. Quite the contrary. Mr Mander was rather proud of having a D.S.O. in charge there, and Cane was always pleasant with him.’

Devenish put in a question: ‘Who flew the gyrocopter that time it landed on the roof here?’

‘Who flew it? Let me see? Oh, it was the mechanic who helped Mr Mander with his experiments in the country. What was the name—Wepkin—Weffin—No, Webley. I remember the man very well, since I asked him to explain the way the thing worked, and he appeared to me appallingly stupid.’

‘Although he was able to fly this difficult type of machine?’ said the inspector.

Melis laughed. ‘My dear fellow, when I was in West Africa, I had a negro chauffeur. He was an expert driver, but a complete fool. Some very brainless people have a genius for mechanics. He turned to Crayte, and added: ‘Well, we are very much obliged to you. By the way, do either of these receivers communicate with Mr Mander’s flat above?’

‘This one,’ said Mr Crayte, raising it.

‘Would you mind asking his butler to come down here?’ said Melis. ‘Ah, thank you. Then we shan’t keep you any longer.’

Mr Crayte rang up the butler, told him to come down, and then left the room. Melis stared at Devenish.

‘Now is that a link, or isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘Departmental quarrels apart, we have Cane and Kephim the only dogs that bark and bite.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Devenish thoughtfully, ‘I can imagine that, if it wasn’t for the girl in the case, sir. A man might want to murder one fellow and put it on another he disliked, but he wouldn’t kill a girl to top up, and he couldn’t know that the other fellow hadn’t an alibi.’

‘But suppose the other fellow is Kephim?’ said Melis. ‘And Cane had means of knowing that Kephim was coming here last night. No; that is out of the question, for Kephim wouldn’t be likely to come on a flying machine, and if those marks on the roof do not denote an actual landing, they were put there to suggest that the murderer arrived by air. But, say Kephim determined to do the deed and put it on Cane. Would that go better? As you say, Kephim is a crack shot.’

‘There is still the girl,’ said Devenish. ‘Why kill his fiancée?’

Melis leaned back in his chair, lit another cigarette, and half-closed his eyes. He was a good amateur actor, and carrying that art into official life was the only thing his subordinates had against him.

‘There is a psychological side to this crime that does not seem to have occurred to you, inspector. If it has, I apologise. To put a murdered man and woman in a shop window, where they would inevitably be exposed to the public gaze, what does that suggest?’

‘Revenge; with something personal and bitter in it,’ said Devenish. ‘Not a murder for gain. I see what you mean, sir.’

Melis nodded. ‘Mander is top-dog. With him are promotions, and increased emoluments. He seems—I only say he seems—to have fascinated one wealthy woman, while he was still in a subordinate position. To a poorer woman under him, he might assume the aspect of a little god.’

Devenish bit his lip. ‘The evidence tends that way, sir, but—’

The butler knocked and came in, to apologise for his tardiness. Melis told him to sit down, then bent, picked up a despatch-box, and took from it a slender weapon, the handle covered with tissue paper, and laid it on the table.

‘I suppose there is no chance that this came from your master’s flat?’

The butler suppressed a slight shudder. ‘Excuse me, sir. May I look at it closer?’

Melis nodded, and gently exposed the handle, being careful not to touch it with his fingers. ‘Well?’

I remember it, I think,’ said the butler. ‘I do believe it was the sample Mr Winson showed him one evening at dinner.’

Melis pressed for details, and the butler gave them. A famous Birmingham manufacturer had dined at the flat one night. He and Mander had discussed a contract for a half a million ‘Eastern daggers’, to be made in Birmingham, and sold in the Oriental department for trophies, and paper-knives. The manufacturer had brought a sample with him, and laid it on the table. Mr Mander had kept it, and—

‘Then run up, and see if it is still there,’ said Melis.

‘I’ll go up with him, sir,’ said Devenish. ‘I have locked that part of the flat up. Evidently this telephone connects with the servants’—’

‘With my pantry, sir,’ said the butler, getting up.

‘Where did Mr Mander keep the dagger?’ asked the inspector, as they ascended a minute later.

‘On the ormolu table in the drawing-room, sir.’

Devenish nodded, took the keys of the flat from his pocket, and the lift stopped.

The butler led the way into the drawing-room a few moments later, crossed to the ormolu table, and gave a little cry: ‘It’s gone, sir! It was here yesterday, when I came in after lunch to see that the fire was lit.’

‘You are sure you recognise it?’ said Devenish.

‘I am sure I do, sir. I had an oppportunity to see it on the table, and I saw those curly marks on the blade, and the odd-shaped handle.’

Devenish nodded, and let the man out, telling him he could go back to his quarters. Then he relocked the flat, and went back to the assistant-commissioner.

Mr Melis raised questioning eyebrows, was told that the knife, or dagger, had indeed gone from the flat above, and rose. ‘Well, Devenish,’ he said, ‘I have an appetite for lunch, and an engagement afterwards. Come along and report this evening, will you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the inspector replied. ‘I sent the sergeant to inquire at Miss Tumour’s flat. I think I shall go round myself, after I have had something to eat.’

‘Do!’ said Melis, with his best amateur actor’s air, picked up his gloves and hat—he never wore an overcoat—and walked out.

For some time after he had gone, Devenish sat drumming his fingers on his knee, and thinking hard. He was still at it when his sergeant came in, saluted, and approached.

‘Miss Tumour went out last night at a quarter to ten, sir,’ he told Devenish, ‘but she didn’t say where she was going, so the porter at the flats told me.’

‘And Mr Kephim?’

‘Mr Kephim, they think, left after eleven. But no one heard him come in again.’

‘Any night-porter at those flats?’

‘Yes, sir, but he did not notice Mr Kephim return. I thought it would be best to come back and tell you, without waiting to make any more inquiries.’