The Chief Witness E-Book

Herbert Adams

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 310

Beschreibung

The Chief Witness by Herbert Adams is a classic courtroom drama packed with mystery and tension. When a high-profile murder trial captivates the public, all eyes are on the chief witness—whose testimony could make or break the case. But as secrets begin to unravel and hidden motives surface, it becomes clear that not everything is as it seems. With the stakes at an all-time high, the line between truth and deception blurs, leaving the reader questioning who they can really trust. Will justice prevail, or will the truth be buried forever in a tangle of lies and misdirection? A must-read for fans of twist-filled legal thrillers.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

The Chief Witness

I. COINCIDENCE

II: IN DEATH TOGETHER

III: THE WIDOW

IV: THE PARTNER

V: THE DAUGHTER

VI: THE BROTHER

VII: THE NEPHEW

VIII: THE MANAGING CLERK

IX: ROGER SUMS UP

X: MARGOT IN DISTRESS

XI: A RAY OF HOPE

XII: GOFF'S DEDUCTIONS

XIII: TWO WOMEN

XIV: THE LAWYER AT HOME

XV: LOTTA DENYS

XVI: THE CHOCOLATE BOX

XVII: AT THE PLAY

XVIII: THE OTHER MAN?

XIX: THE WARNING

XX: THE CHOCOLATES AGAIN

XXI: THE AFFAIR IN THE STREET

XXII: MARGOT'S CONFESSION

XXIII: LISLE'S BIG THOUGHT

XXIV: LIGHT AT LAST!

XXV: TO MEET A MURDERER

XXVI: DINNER--AND AFTER

XXVII: THE PRETTIEST LITTLE PLAN

XXVIII: THE LAKE

XXIX: PUNISHMENT AND REWARDS

Landmarks

Table of Contents

Cover

The Chief Witness

By: Herbert Adams

Edited by: Rafat Allam

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq Bookstore

No part of this publication may be reproduced whole or in part in any form without the prior written permission of the author

All rights reserved.

I. COINCIDENCE

"I WONDER," said Sir Christopher Bennion, "how many of us really become what in our youths we hoped to be? Very few, I imagine."

"You could not have a male population entirely of railway guards and airmen," his son Roger remarked.

"I was not referring to nursery fancies," replied the father, "but to a young man's ideas when he begins to take life seriously."

"I always wanted to be a millionaire-philanthropist," said Gordon Lisle. "I became a journalist. The next best thing, of course."

"Better," said Roger. "Your millionaire-philanthropist can only give away what he himself possesses. The journalist can dispose of what everyone owns anywhere."

"What is your experience, Inspector Goff?" asked the baronet, turning to the fourth of the party, a burly clean-shaven, full-faced man who was smoking a big pipe and enjoying his drink.

"Well, Sir Christopher," he replied, removing his pipe from his mouth, "if few men become what they hoped to be, I am an exception. My father was a policeman; I always wanted to be a policeman; I am a policeman."

"Born with a whistle in his mouth," murmured Roger, "and protesting loudly when his mother diluted the bottle with more than the statutory proportion of water."

The others laughed. It is always funny to picture a very big man as a baby. Actually they had met together in Goff's honour. Sir Christopher, knowing that his son had worked with the eminent detective in several important cases, had expressed a desire to meet him. So Roger had arranged the little party at his Sloane Street flat, asking Gordon Lisle to complete the number. Lisle, a fair-haired young fellow of about his own age, was the "crime editor" on a popular Sunday newspaper. It was up to him to see that its readers got the fullest possible details of all the nastiest happenings of the week, and he did his job well. He and Goff had met before, though never perhaps on such amicable terms.

"A policeman's life," Sir Christopher said, "must offer more interest and variety than most."

"I don't know," drawled Lisle, "one drunk and disorderly must be very like another, and even smelling motorists' breath to swear they are incapable of driving must pall after a time."

"There is a lot of routine work in the ranks," said Goff, unruffled, "but I have no complaint on that score."

"Murder, arson, robbery, treason, alien spies and the I.R.A.," murmured Roger. "Sheer joy all the time."

"The detection of crime," observed Sir Christopher, "is largely a matter of hard work and persistence, we all know that. But how often does coincidence come into it?"

"Rather depends, sir, what you mean by coincidence," said the inspector.

"Shrewdly put," nodded Lisle.

"Coincidence, according to Euclid," said Roger, "is falling together, or occupying the same space. He taught us how to prove it, but there I generally stuck."

"I was using the word," explained Sir Christopher, "in the customary sense, implying the unexpected. A combination of events that could not be foreseen or counted on."

"Life is made up of coincidence," Lisle declared. "John Brown on holiday stays at the same boarding house as Janet Smith, and Janet Smith becomes Mrs. Brown and the mother of the little Browns, if any. Had John Brown gone elsewhere he would have married Ethel Jones, while Janet would have become Mrs. Robinson. In after years Mrs. Robinson might meet Mrs. Brown and say, if only she realised it, 'What a queer coincidence! If your husband had gone to Bella Vista and mine to Ocean View, instead of the other way about, I should be the mother of your children!'"

"Circumstances shape our lives," agreed Sir Christopher, "but that is hardly what I meant. If this Mrs. Brown had some valuable diamonds and left her safe unlocked for the first time on the very night a burglar visited her, that I should call a very unfortunate coincidence."

"I should enquire about the insurance policy," grunted Goff, relighting his pipe.

"Meaning you do not believe in coincidence?" Roger asked.

"Not quite that, but a burglary in such circumstances generally means an inside job. Someone sees the open safe and fakes a fictitious entry."

"But suppose the burglary is genuine," said Lisle, "and while searching for something else you come across part of the loot and so catch the criminal?"

"That happens, but if we want a thing there are a thousand men up and down the land on the lookout for it. It is not surprising if one of them finds it, even if he was looking for something else at the time."

"But coincidences do occur," said Roger. "The other day I saw car JT 6001 standing next to car TJ 6001. The owners were complete strangers; I was curious enough to ask. The odds against such a thing must be enormous."

"We are told it is billions to one against a card-player being dealt a complete suit," Lisle said, "but we read about it fairly frequently."

"The most curious coincidence I ever experienced," remarked Sir Christopher, "happened before I was married. I was staying at a hotel and was told I was wanted on the telephone. I went, and a lady's voice said, 'Is that you, Chris?' 'It is,' I replied, 'who are you?' 'Julia, your sister,' was the answer. 'I think you must want someone else,' I said. 'But you are Christopher Bennion? I am Julia.' The weird thing was that I had had a sister Julia, and had attended her funeral only a few weeks before. It gave me quite a shock."

"Was it a badly-timed joke, sir?" asked Lisle.

"No. It was all perfectly genuine. Another Christopher Bennion had been at the hotel a few days previously, and his sister Julia had rung up to see if he was still there. Not common names, but it happened."

"The oddest case I know of," said Roger, "and I believe it is well authenticated, was of three men, a Canadian, a New Zealander and an Englishman, who were in hospital together in 1918 and became very good friends. Twenty years afterwards the Canadian brought his wife to London for the first time, and on the night of their arrival, sitting at the next table in a restaurant, was the New Zealander, who had brought his wife, also for the first time on a similar visit. They decided to go somewhere together and the commissionaire who called a taxi for them was their old friend the Englishman."

"I hope they took him with them," said Lisle.

"They certainly arranged a meeting."

"I can cap that," Goff observed. "One of our fellows was on holiday at Brighton, and the photographer who snaps you as you pass along the front took a picture of him and handed him a card saying where it would be on view. He had vanity enough to go along the next day to see what he looked like. There was a display board with dozens of them, and close to his photograph was one of a man we had badly wanted for some time. We had no idea where he was, but that snap put us on the trail and he was arrested the same night. An embezzlement case. He got five years."

"That shows I was right," said Sir Christopher. "Coincidence catches criminals in fact as well as in fiction."

"I am not denying that, sir. I only say if we waited for coincidences a lot of criminals would escape."

The talk went on for a long time, and each had more stories to tell. At last Sir Christopher decided he must be going, and that was the signal for the others also to depart. Roger went down to see them off.

"Still raining," said Lisle. "What a summer!"

The baronet offered him and Goff a lift in his spacious car, which was gladly accepted.

When he returned to his room, Roger saw that Goff had forgotten his pipe. A well-bitten briar, left on the little table beside an empty glass.

A very trivial thing. But, had Goff taken that pipe with him, a curious crime would never have been cleared up and an innocent man might have hanged.

II: IN DEATH TOGETHER

Inspector Gory was frowning over the usual pile of official papers when Roger called on him the next morning at Scotland Yard.

"Surprised you did not miss it," the visitor said, handing over the pipe.

"I did, when I got home," the detective replied. "I was pretty sure I had left it at your place, but I might of course have dropped it."

"An easy scent to follow! It is time you had a new one."

"Thanks for bringing it. I don't like new pipes."

He spoke rather shortly and Roger turned to go, not wanting to interrupt the work of a busy man. Goff, however, stopped him.

"We were talking last night about coincidences. If two men, brothers, committed suicide in almost identical circumstances, and at precisely the same moment, half a mile apart--what would you call that?"

"If it was by agreement, I suppose I should call it insanity. If they did it entirely independently of one another, it would be the queerest coincidence on record."

Goff grunted in his characteristic way and frowned again at the paper on his desk.

"Did it happen?" Roger asked.

"It did. At two minutes to eleven last night. Just when we were talking of such things."

"People of position?"

"An apparently well-to-do solicitor and an apparently equally well-to-do accountant."

"Generally hard-headed people," said Roger; "not the suicide type. But if they were jointly concerned in some financial affair that failed, it might account for it."

"I am awaiting a reply to enquiries as to their finances, then I am going to look into things. It all seems simple enough, but the Chief is not satisfied. Like to come with me?"

"I would," Roger replied. "To be in on such a case from the start should be very instructive, however straightforward it might be. May I ask who the people are?"

"The solicitor is Alexander Curtis, of Morant and Curtis of Lincoln's Inn. Age about fifty. He lived in a service flat in Hans Avenue, not far from Sloane Street, with his wife. No children. The body was found at seven this morning by a maid who came in to tidy up the living room."

"The wife was away?"

"No. But she says she knew nothing about it. Greatly shocked, of course. The man was shot in the head and the revolver was at his feet."

"Finger-prints in order, I suppose?"

"Being verified."

"Any sort of letter of farewell or explanation?"

"Not in either case," replied Goff, "so far as is at present known."

"Curious. How was the time fixed?"

"In falling he apparently knocked over a clock that stands on his desk and it stopped at two minutes to eleven. The doctor who was called directly the body was found gave that time as about right."

"You may find he has been ill or depressed," said Roger. "What about the other case?"

"Frederick Curtis, practising as an accountant in London Wall. A widower, living with his daughter Delia in a small house in Egerton Square, off the Brompton Road. A year or two younger than his brother Alexander. Shot in the head in precisely the same way at two minutes to eleven."

"Did he also knock a clock over?" asked Roger.

"No. When he fell he broke the glass of his wrist-watch, and that put it out of action. Doctor certifies the time of death as correct."

"When was this body found?"

"The story there is a bit different. Delia, the daughter, rather a gay young person, came in from a night club or a bottle party or something of the sort, with a bunch of her friends at about three a.m. She apparently promised them another drink and went to her father's room to get it, thinking he would have gone to bed. She discovered the body and gave the alarm."

"In each case the men were at home alone?"

"Apparently."

"And no one heard a shot?"

"Not so far as we know. But my enquiries have not yet begun. We have just had the preliminary reports."

"It may prove simple enough," said Roger, "when you learn what sort of men they were. I should look for pre-arrangement rather than coincidence. For one man to die in such a way, with no note of explanation or farewell, would be curious; but for two to do it at the same moment seems hardly credible, unless they were faced by some common disaster. You are sure Frederick was a year or two younger than Alexander?"

"That is my information. Why?"

"One hears odd stories of twins who fall ill together and share each other's sensations in a remarkable way, although it would be a very extreme case of telepathy for one to commit suicide because the other was doing so--except of course by previous agreement. But as the Curtis brothers are not twins you must look for something less fantastic."

At that moment the telephone bell sounded, and Goff listened with brief interjections to a fairly long statement.

"That's that," he muttered, replacing the receiver. "From enquiries at the banks and business houses of both the men their affairs are perfectly in order, and, so far as is known, there is no financial difficulty in either case."

"Insanity in the family?" asked Roger.

"That remains to be seen. We had better get going."

Inspector Goff decided to call first on the widow of the solicitor, Alexander Curtis. The journey did not take long and neither he nor Roger said much on the way. There were probably many questions that each of them could have asked, but it would be time enough for that when they faced those who might be able to answer them.

The block of service flats was at the corner of Hans Avenue and close to Sloane Square. A noisy position, but a very convenient one for a man with an office in Lincoln's Inn. Roger noted that the lift was automatic. They shot swiftly up to the top floor, on which was the flat for which they were bound.

Goff pressed the bell and the door was opened by a policeman in uniform, who saluted on seeing him.

"Who is here?" asked the inspector.

"Sergeant Queen, sir. Waiting for you. The others have gone."

"Mrs. Curtis in?"

"Yes, sir. In her bedroom."

Roger followed Goff into the sitting-room from which the body had not yet been removed. Sergeant Queen, a thin, alert-looking man, spoke in a subdued tone of voice.

"The photographers and the finger-print men have finished. They have taken the gun to test it. Otherwise nothing has been disturbed."

It was a comfortably furnished room that apparently served as a study as well as a general sitting-room. A costly Persian carpet, some well-padded easy chairs, and, by the window, a flat-topped dark oak desk with a leather writing chair were its most notable appointments. The body of the dead man lay on the floor near the desk. A few feet away was a small gilt clock. It was face upwards and the hands still pointed to two minutes to eleven.

Goff bent over the body and looked at the wound in the side of the head near the right temple.

"Gun held close to head," he muttered. "Must have been standing up, or he would have remained in the chair."

"Clock tested for finger-prints?" asked Roger.

"Not yet, sir," Queen replied. "We thought if we moved it, it might start going again. We left it for Inspector Goff to see."

"Do you know where on the desk it stood?"

"No, sir. Mrs. Curtis may be able to tell us that."

Goff made a careful examination of all the things that he thought might be of interest. He noted that the few papers on the desk were not disordered and that an opened book, a historical novel, lay face downwards as though the user of the room had recently been reading it.

"What is there about Charles II and his ladies that should make a man put the book down and shoot himself?" Roger enquired.

No one was prepared with a reply, and Goff, having finished his examination, asked: "Is there another sitting-room?"

"Yes, sir," said Queen. "The place where they eat."

"I will see Mrs. Curtis there."

III: THE WIDOW

It would be unjust to judge any woman's looks by her appearance a few hours after she had suddenly heard of her husband's suicide.

Helen Curtis was seated in a low chair when they entered her room, and she made a motion to them to sit down. She was about forty years of age. As a girl she had undoubtedly been attractive, with that fair-haired type of prettiness that comes from a fresh colour and an animated expression. She had coarsened with the passing years, and her blue eyes were hard. She seemed shocked at the tragedy that had befallen her, yet there was no signs of deep personal grief.

"This is a very distressing business," Goff began in his most soothing manner, "but I am sure you will help me in every way you can."

"Of course I will," she said. Her voice was low and not unpleasing.

"How long have you and your husband lived here?"

"About four years. We have a cottage in Gloucestershire as well."

"Had your husband been in good health lately?"

"He had not complained. His digestion was a little troublesome sometimes."

"He had not been depressed?"

"Not that I was aware of."

There was little sympathy in her tone. Roger, who was listening to all that was said, formed the impression that she and her husband had not got on too well together. Probably Goff thought the same. He led up to it with his usual tact.

"What is the accommodation of this flat?"

"You can see over it if you like."

"I will, but perhaps you would describe it to me."

"It is really two flats thrown into one. The whole of the floor. So there are two bedrooms, two sitting-rooms and two bath rooms."

"This is the dining-room?"

In the modern way it was not a room designed solely for meals. There was a table against the wall that folded into a very small space and there were four chairs of a suitable design to go with it, but, for the rest, the furnishing was that of a lady's sitting-room. It had a low couch, padded seats and small tables with a superfluity of ornaments.

"If we have meals up here," Mrs. Curtis said in reply to his question.

"Is that unusual?"

"There is a restaurant downstairs, and we were out a good deal."

"What did you do last night?"

For a moment the woman hesitated. Then she spoke more quickly.

"My husband brought home two tickets for the theatre, which his partner Mr. Morant had given him. He did not wish to go, so I telephoned to my sister to meet me and have some dinner first. We went to the Trocadero because that is near the theatre. Afterwards I came home alone."

"Your husband seemed in normal health and spirits when you left him?"

"I--I think so."

"He had his dinner up here, or in the restaurant?"

"I don't know. When he was alone he generally had something up here."

"To what theatre did you go?"

"To the Cardinal. It was the second night of a new play. I think Mr. Morant, or clients of his, have an interest in it."

"At what time did you get home?"

"I do not know exactly. Plays generally end about eleven. Mr. Morant spoke to me before I went out and asked me what I thought of it. I was talking to him for a little time. I suppose I was back between half-past eleven and twelve."

"I notice it is an automatic lift. You brought yourself up and went straight to your room?"

"That is so."

"You and your husband have separate rooms?"

"We have."

"Did you look into his room, or his bedroom?"

"I did not. I thought he would have gone to bed and did not wish to disturb him."

"Would that be usual when you had been out?"

"Quite usual," she said in the same hard tone.

"When did you first know what had happened?"

"When the maid came up this morning to straighten the rooms. She saw--she saw him, and she told me."

"Thank you, Mrs. Curtis. Can you account in any way for your husband shooting himself?"

"I cannot."

"Had he ever threatened to do such a thing?"

"Never. He seemed to enjoy life, in his own way." There was bitterness in her tone and Goff paused a moment before he went on again.

"Was he expecting any visitors last evening?"

"He did not say so."

"If he had any, I suppose they would come up in the lift as you did, and he would admit them?"

"Unless they rang for the porter to bring them up."

"I did not see a porter," said Goff.

"You would not, unless you rang for him."

"So visitors might come and go without being seen?"

"Most likely."

"You have of course heard that his brother, Mr. Frederick Curtis, also shot himself at apparently the same time last night?"

"Mr. Morant told me so."

"When did he tell you?"

"He telephoned a little before you came here. He said you had sent someone to the office who had told him about it. He was very kind. He said he would come round as soon as he could, in case he could be of any help."

"I see. Were the two brothers, your husband and Frederick, on good terms?"

"Very."

"Had they many interests in common?"

"How do you mean? They both played golf, and they had business together."

"What I mean is, could some common disaster or disappointment have led them both to end their lives in that way, and at the same time?"

"I cannot account for it anyhow else. But I have no idea what the disaster could have been. Mr. Morant told me there was no trouble of that kind. He could not explain it at all."

Her emotionless way of speaking was really remarkable. Roger found himself wondering whether she did not care, or whether she restrained herself with a strong will-power that would sooner or later fail her.

"You have no children?" asked Goff.

"No."

"Had your husband any other relations besides Frederick and Frederick's daughter?"

"There is another brother, Marmaduke. He is on the Stock Exchange."

"The Stock Exchange? Might the brothers have speculated through him?"

"I never heard of it. I do not like Marmaduke."

Her likes were of no particular moment and it did not seem that Goff could get much further.

"Frederick could have come here last night," he said, as though thinking aloud, "or they might have telephoned one another. We can enquire about the calls." Then he asked the name and address of the sister with whom Mrs. Curtis had spent the evening.

"Mrs. Farr, of Colston Court, Kensington," was the reply.

"Were you and your husband on good terms?" asked Goff bluntly.

Mrs. Curtis did not seem to resent the enquiry. She shrugged her shoulders. "As good terms as many other people."

As Goff had apparently nothing more to ask, Roger enquired if he might put a question.

"Your husband was a studious man, Mrs. Curtis?" he said pleasantly.

"He read a good deal," she replied. "Though he had other amusements."

"Was he of what I would call fixed habits?"

"What do you mean?" She looked at him as though wondering what lay behind the question.

"Some of us, and I believe it becomes more pronounced as we grow older, like to have the things we use always in the same place. Pipes, slippers, papers, just where we know we shall find them."

"Oh, yes, he was very much that way."

"He would wish the things on his desk always arranged the same--the inkpot, the ash-tray, the reading lamp, and so on?"

"Yes. He was quite fussy about it."

"Where did his little clock generally stand?"

"His clock? At the back of his desk, to the left."

"Always there?"

"I never remember seeing it anywhere else."

"If he was standing in front of his desk when he shot himself, could he have knocked over the clock?"

She stared at him, and some of the colour faded from her cheeks.

"I do not quite understand," she muttered.

"Unless he fell across the desk," said Roger gently, "he could not have reached the clock. From the position in which he was found, and the orderly condition of his papers, I do not think he fell across the desk."

"Perhaps--perhaps I was wrong. The clock was not always at the back of the desk."

"Had you ever known it stand anywhere else?"

"I--I think I had."

"You told Inspector Goff that you thought your husband enjoyed life in his own way. What exactly did you mean?"

She stared at him for some moments.

"I meant he liked books and that sort of thing."

"But you said he had other amusements?"

"No one can be reading all the time."

Before Roger could say any more the constable entered the room to inform his superior officer that a Mr. Morant had called and was wishing to see Mrs. Curtis.

"Bring him in," said Goff.

IV: THE PARTNER

VICTOR Morant, partner of the late Alexander Curtis, was a striking-looking man in the mid-fifties. His silver-white hair contrasted vividly with a smooth, fresh complexion, and strong black brows. He was slightly built, of barely medium height, but his was a personality not to be overlooked. He was obviously a man who knew his own mind and acted promptly in the way he saw right. He was neatly dressed with a black jacket and dark striped trousers.

When he entered the room he went straight to Mrs. Curtis and took her hand in both of his.

"You know how distressed I am," he said simply. "Please rely on me to help you in every way I can. I take it these gentlemen represent the police?"

"They do," she said.

She did not appear to return his greeting with any particular warmth. Roger's impression was that the offer to help her was from sympathy and a sense of duty, not because of any strong friendship between them.

Goff introduced himself and said he had intended to call on Mr. Morant at his office.

"Certainly," the solicitor said. "Or if you prefer it, and Mrs. Curtis permits, I can answer any questions now."

"It would save time," said Goff.

"Have you asked Mrs. Curtis all you wish to know from her?"

"For the time being," the Inspector replied.

"Then might I suggest she be allowed to retire to her room? We do not wish to cause her unnecessary distress."

"It might be best," said Goff.

Without a word Mrs. Curtis left them. She moved slowly, and Roger, who opened the door for her, thought she would have preferred to stay, to hear what was said. But she could hardly ask to be allowed to do so.

"I suppose you knew both the Curtis brothers very well?" Goff began.

"I knew Alexander very well indeed. He was my partner for twenty years. We started together. I need hardly say what a gap in my life his death will mean. With his brother Frederick I was not so intimate, though we met fairly frequently."

"Can you in any way account for their killing themselves last night?"

"Indeed I cannot. When one of your men called this morning and told me about it, I could hardly believe him. It seemed incredible, impossible. I am still bewildered and find it hard to adjust my thoughts to it."

He showed more emotion than the widow had done. Partners for a number of years may become almost more than brothers.

"Was Alexander Curtis subject to fits of depression?"

Morant considered the question for some moments before he replied.

"I do not think his private, or business affairs depressed him. He was perhaps inclined to take world affairs too seriously."

"How do you mean?"

"He regarded war as inevitable and he saw in it the destruction of our civilisation. He visualised all too clearly the suffering and desolation it would entail. Alternatively, if by some miracle war could be avoided, he was convinced that over-taxation and unemployment must bring about revolution and economic ruin."

"He was a shrewd business man?" asked Goff.

"Most decidedly."

"Yet you say these fears for the future led him to suicide?"

"On the contrary," said Mr. Morant. "These things weighed on him very much, yet I find it impossible to persuade myself they could account for so desperate an act. We often discussed public affairs, but unfortunately I could never get him to adopt my views as to the real remedy for our troubles."

"What is your remedy?" Roger enquired.

"Are you asking that as a policeman?"

"I am not a policeman," said Roger. "I have no official standing. I want to help Inspector Goff if I can."

"Mr. Roger Bennion," said Goff tersely.

Morant nodded. "Not by any chance related to Sir Christopher Bennion?" he asked.

"My father."

"Then I am delighted to meet you," the solicitor declared warmly. "I have met Sir Christopher and have a great respect for him. He might not approve of what you call my remedy, but it can be given in two words--capital levy. Not a new idea. It has been talked about, but never tried here. I do not think there will be a war but, whether there is or not, our financial position can only be remedied by the most drastic action. Our colossal debts must be wiped out by compulsory contribution from all classes according to their means. It will be painful, as all severe operations are painful. I shall be hit, as your father and every well-to-do person will be hit. But our generation, must suffer if we are to survive. I am standing for Parliament as an independent candidate and that is my battle cry."

He stopped abruptly and turned to Goff with something of a smile.

"I am sorry, Inspector. This young man started me on my pet subject. I must not waste your time with it. Except for despondency as to the future, I should say Alexander Curtis was in every way a normal hard-headed man."

"Did he take an active part in politics?" asked the Inspector.

"No. He read a lot and, unluckily, he seemed always ready to believe the worst."

"His own affairs were in order?"

"Undoubtedly. I think it will prove he died a wealthy man."

"Was his home life happy?"

Morant hesitated.

"I should say he and Mrs. Curtis understood one another. I would prefer to leave it at that."

"How long had they been married?"

"About ten years."

"Had he been married before?"

"No."

"He was at his office yesterday as usual?"

"Yes. I was out most of the day and did not see him until the late afternoon. Then I went to his room and offered him some tickets for the theatre for the evening."

"Did he accept them?"

"I suggested he should take his wife, but she came without him. I saw her when the show was over and was rather disappointed he was not there, as I had a special reason for asking him to go. But that will not interest you."

"It might," said Goff, "if we knew why he did not do so."

"It was a new play, Labour of Love, at the Cardinal Theatre. The night before was the first night, and it was not very well received. I have an interest in it, and had spent a good deal of the day with the principals and other parties concerned suggesting cuts and improvements. I wanted to get my partner's view of it; not as a theatrical expert but as that of an ordinary intelligent playgoer. So I was disappointed when Mrs. Curtis came without him."

"Was she alone?" asked Roger.

"I do not think she was, but I really did not notice her companion."

"Did her opinion interest you?"

"Not so much as her husband's would have done."

"Except for this sort of feeling of bad times ahead," said Goff, "you can suggest no reason for your partner ending his life?"

"None whatever," Morant replied, "and I do not want you to think I regard that as having been acute enough to account for it. It is just that I cannot imagine anything else."

"Then as to Frederick, the brother. I have not been into that very fully yet, but is there anything you can tell me about him? When did you last see him?"

"Two days ago he called at our office and I saw him and Alexander together. I should have said he was perfectly normal. He was a reserved man, especially since his wife died. Our young people knew one another better than he and I did."

"What young people?"

"He has a daughter, Delia," explained Morant, "and I have a niece, Margot Watney, who lives with me Delia and Margot are great friends. Frederick Curtis also has a nephew--I suppose I must say he had a nephew--Wilfrid Mounsey. The two girls and Wilfrid are, I believe, very friendly, and they have a group of other young people round them. They like to rush about together in the modern way, but it is all innocent enough. A lot of noise, but no mischief."

"Another brother, isn't there?" asked Goff. "You know him?"

"Marmaduke, the youngest of the three. He is on the Stock Exchange. I meet him occasionally, but I do not know him as well as I knew his brothers."

"Is there any taint of insanity in the family? Has Marmaduke ever shown any queer kinks?"

"I have never heard any suggestions of insanity," said Morant, "and Marmaduke certainly never displayed it. The three brothers, though not unlike in appearance, were curiously dissimilar in character. Alexander, my partner, I should describe as of the domesticated type. He was a keen lawyer, of course, but when his work was done he liked a quiet home life. If there was any friction at all between him and his wife it would have been on that account; she desiring to enjoy society in a way that did not appeal to him. He liked his evenings at home; she did not. I often thought they would have been happier if they had had children."

"So they were not happy?" said Goff.

"Happiness is a relative term. There are many stages between perfect contentment and continuous quarrels. He was not a quarrelsome man."

"Well--Frederick?"

"I should call him austere," Morant replied. "He was deeply religious and never joined in his young people's fun. While not forbidding it, he often showed his disapproval. That, at least, is the impression my niece has given me. His wife died a few years ago, as I told you. Since then he became more of a recluse."

"Would that account for his suicide?"

Morant made a gesture expressive of uncertainty.

"I cannot account for it in any other way," he said. "I some times tried to interest both him and Alexander in other things. I like to live every moment of the day--my work, the theatre and politics--but they had few outside interests."

"The surviving brother, you say, is a different sort of man?"

"You will, no doubt, see Marmaduke and judge of him for yourself," Morant replied. "If we had business on the Stock Exchange we sent it to him, just as we sent accountancy work to Frederick. He is more assertive than his brothers. Sometimes, perhaps, a little too assertive. If they were home lovers, he was not. But I do not think there is any point in my discussing him. He will, of course, be able to tell you more of his brothers than I can."

There were a few further questions, but although Morant spoke freely he was unable to throw any real light on the twofold mystery.