Antonia, who had entered the room at the beginning of this scene, and had been a silent but critical audience of the whole, watched him go out, and then looked at Violet with a certain amount of contempt. “Well, you've mucked that pretty successfully,” she observed. “I should have thought anyone with a grain of sense would have known better than to have tried to pull that trick on Kenneth.”
“Would you?” said Violet smoothly.
“I should. If you'd stuck to your original No he probably wouldn't have gone - not that I can see that it matters whether he goes or doesn't. But if you wanted to make him utterly pig-headed about the whole thing, you've gone the right way to work. I never thought you were such an ass. Help me to do up this frock for the lord's sake! Giles will be here by seven, and I've got a couple of letters I must write before I go.”
Giles arrived at seven o'clock to find her standing in the middle of the room with Violet kneeling on the floor at her feet, mending a tear in the hem of her chiffon frock.
Antonia said penitently: “Oh, Giles, I'm so sorry to be late, but I had to dash off two letters, and then I went and stuck my heel through this accursed skirt. I shan't be a minute.”
“If only you'd stand still!” begged Violet. “You've got some ink on your finger, too.”
“I'll wash it off. Thanks awfully, Violet. Could you also find a couple of stamps, and stick them on my letters? Top drawer of my bureau, I think.”
“Yes, I'll see to them,” said Violet soothingly. “Hurry up and wash and get your cloak.” She found the stamps, after a little search, fixed them to the letters, and said with her slow smile: “Rather a miracle to find a stamp in this house. Tell Tony I've taken the letters and will post them on my way home, will you, Mr Carrington?”
“You are not going to the ball?” Giles asked. “I thought-”
“No, I am not going,” she replied. “I shall spend a quiet evening at home instead. I hope you enjoy your theatre. Good-night!”
He escorted her to the front door, and opened it for her. As he shut it again behind her Antonia came out of her bedroom, her evening-coat tumbled over her arm. He took it from her, and helped her to put it on. “Violet has gone,” he remarked. “I thought you told me she was going to the Albert Hall show after all?”
“Yes, but she changed her mind, and came to tell Kenneth so just now. So the balloon went up good and proper. Have you got my letters?”
“Violet took them.”
“Oh, that's all right then. I've been writing a pretty thank-you letter to Roger.”
“A what?” demanded Giles.
She grinned. “Yes, I thought you'd be surprised. But it had to be done. According to Rudolph, he drifted into the Shan Hills office this morning, and sent for Rudolph, and told him it was all right about cooking the accounts, and said he wasn't going to do anything about it. Rudolph rang me up at lunch-time, and I must say I think it's extremely decent of Roger - particularly as he doesn't like Rudolph. And if only we can clear Rudolph of suspicion of having done Arnold in, I can break off the engagement with a clear conscience,” she added happily.
Chapter Eighteen
Giles Carrington had just finished his breakfast next morning when the telephone rang, and his man came in after a short pause to say that Superintendent Hannasyde would like to speak to him.
Giles laid down his napkin, rose in a leisurely way to his feet and strolled out into the hall of his flat, and picked up the telephone receiver. “Hullo!” he said. “Carrington speaking. What can I do for you? Very bright and early, aren't you?”
The Superintendent's voice sounded unwontedly sharp. “I'm speaking from Scotland Yard. Roger Vereker is dead.”
The lazy smile was wiped from Giles Carrington's face. He said incredulously: “What? Say that again!”
“Roger — Vereker — is — dead,” enunciated the Superintendent with great clarity.
“Good God! But how — where?”
“In his flat. I've only just had the news.”
“But - you don't mean murdered, do you?”
“I don't know. The Divisional Inspector seems to think it's suicide. I'm going round immediately.”
“I'll join you there,” Giles said.
“Good; I hoped you would. We may want you,” replied Hannasyde.
Roger Vereker's flat was in a new block erected between Queen's Gate and Exhibition Road. Giles Carrington arrived there shortly behind the Superintendent, and was admitted to Roger's flat on the second floor by the plain-clothes man stationed at the door. In the hall of the flat Sergeant Hemingway was interrogating a frightened housemaid, who explained, between sobs, that she had come up to "do" the flat at seven o'clock that morning, and had found the poor gentleman dead in his chair. She did not suppose she would ever recover from the shock.
The Sergeant nodded to Giles. “Good-morning, sir. You'll find the Superintendent in there,” he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the sitting-room.
Nothing had been touched there as yet, and the first thing that met Giles's eyes as he entered the room was the figure of Roger Vereker, seated in a chair turned a little away from his desk. He had fallen forward; his head rested on the edge of the desk, and his right arm hung loosely down to the ground. An automatic pistol lay on the floor just under his hand, and there was an ugly wound in his right temple, from which the blood had run down his face and arm, to form a congealing pool on the carpet.
The Superintendent was listening to what a dapper Inspector had to say, but he looked round as Giles entered, and smiled. “Good man. I hope you don't mind; we'll have it taken away in a minute.”
“I can put up with it,” Giles said rather shortly, his frowning eyes on Roger's body.
The Superintendent said: “You're quick. I've only just arrived myself. I'm afraid he's been dead some hours.” He turned back to the Inspector, and nodded to him to continue.
The Inspector had not much to tell. A maidservant, whose duty it was to sweep and dust the flat before breakfast, had entered at seven o'clock, using a pass-key, and had been surprised to find the hall light still on. She had switched it off, concluding that it had been forgotten overnight, and had then noticed a streak of light under the sitting-room door. She had opened the door and had found the room lit by electricity, all the curtains drawn, the ashes of a dead fire in the grate, and Roger Vereker dead in his chair. She had let fall her dustpan and brushes, and rushed screaming from the flat, downstairs, to sob out her discovery to the hall-porter.
The porter's first action had been to go upstairs and see for himself, but one glance had been enough to satisfy him that this was a case for the police, and before notifying the manager of the flats, who occupied a suite on the ground floor, he had rung up the police-station.
A Sergeant had come round at once, with the police surgeon, and, upon discovering the name of the deceased, had instantly connected it with the Vereker case, which he had been following in the newspapers with a good deal of interest. He had taken care not to touch anything in the flat, but had notified the Station Sergeant, who, in his turn, had rung up the Divisional Inspector.
“And though it looks like an ordinary suicide, Superintendent, I thought it proper to advise you before going any further,” ended the Inspector.
“Quite right,” Hannasyde answered. He glanced down at the pistol, and then at the dead man, his lips slightly pursed. “We'll have a photograph, I think,” he decided, and opened the door to give a brief order.
Sergeant Hemingway came in with the photographer, and went to stand beside Giles Carrington while the flashlight-photograph was taken, and the dead man's body removed. “Looks like we know who murdered Arnold Vereker, sir,” he said cheerfully.
“It does, doesn't it?” agreed Giles.
The Sergeant looked sharply up at him. “You don't think so, sir? Now, why?”