Methylated Murder Read online

  Methylated Murder

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  I

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  II

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  The Last Word

  Copyright

  Methylated Murder

  Clifton Robbins

  Dedication

  To H.W.

  I

  The First Trail

  Chapter I

  Sybil Norton’s Suicide

  “Blackmail may be the filthiest crime in the calendar,” said Clay Harrison, puffing cheerfully at his cigar, “but if I were settling down to a career of wrong-doing for profit that is the line of business I should choose.”

  “You know you’d be too tender-hearted for such an effort, Harrison,” commented Peary, with a laugh, “and, besides, all this ‘Mr. X.’ business has made it much easier for the person blackmailed to get satisfaction without publicity. Your ‘Mr. X.’, or maybe ‘Mrs. X.’ might put you in the dock long before you began to draw any dividends.”

  They were sitting after lunch in the smoking-room of the Fountain Club. Walter Peary was a young barrister already making a name for himself in criminal practice. He had met Clay Harrison occasionally in a professional capacity in court and had already conceived a great respect for the detective. “A witness one hates to have on the wrong side,” he said of him. “Never seems to say too much or too little. Knows exactly what the jury want to hear, and puts it so as they are able to see it for themselves. I would like to shake him in cross-examination—just once. To show it can be done.”

  On his side, Clay Harrison liked the younger man because he was succeeding in a career in which he himself had been unable to reach distinction. For long, weary months, as Henry, his faithful clerk recalled with shame, Harrison had sat in chambers waiting hopelessly for briefs which never matured. He was keen on criminal law, and would have done anything for experience, but etiquette kept him within certain bounds, and the red-taped bundles of papers were always carried past his door. Friends who had consulted him, with true friendship, free of charge, on criminal law, had, however, been surprised at his skill in unravelling the human, rather than the legal, side of their own particular problems and gradually Clay Harrison had been transformed from a hopelessly struggling barrister into a “private investigator” who could command fees of the size usually attributed to the most prosperous K.C.’s.

  His knowledge of languages had been a great asset in cases where investigations had to be made beyond the Channel. Although his name was a household word because of the sensational criminal trials wherein he had given evidence and had been known to have been mainly instrumental in bringing the offender to justice, he was regarded with even greater respect in various Government departments for which he regularly carried out very confidential investigations all over Europe. Throughout his career the faithful Henry had been at his side, and might have been permitted a certain swelling of pride as, when the pair of them appeared in sane important case, members of the public had been known to nudge one another and whisper, often audibly, “That’s Henry.”

  They had just finished a typically involved murder case and Henry realised that his employer was looking extremely tired. A holiday was out of the question, so at least Harrison said. Time was money. There might be a lull in crime. Heaven forbid, muttered Henry. At any rate, while there was work to be done, it would be foolish to turn it away, Henry argued with the persistence of the old and trusted servant. So much so that Harrison compromised by agreeing to leave the chambers in the Temple between one and three each day and promising to lunch at his club and “slacken off” during those hours.

  Harrison was not a clubbable man. He always said he could not spare the time. In the normal way his meals did not make a great break in his day. Very often they were brought into the chambers from a neighbouring restaurant and consumed at his desk. He had joined the Fountain Club and had remained a member for no particular reason. Some years before, after a visit to Rome, he had been approached by a friend who had insisted on his becoming a member of the Club, whose sole qualification was that the individual belonging to it must have deposited a coin in the fountain of Trevi, at Rome, as payment for permission to return to the Eternal City. Harrison had been mildly amused and, before he realised it, had been elected a member. It was Henry who had forced him to continue to pay his annual subscription, although he hardly went near the place. To all the arguments of extravagance, Henry had returned a solemn, “You never know.”

  Harrison now felt grateful, as he had done many a time before, for Henry’s interference in his private affairs. The Fountain Club had very pleasant quarters in a side street in St. James’s and its membership comprised an interesting group of lawyers, authors, a few musicians, a painter or two and a number of gentlemen who still found it possible to live without undue labour despite their plaints of ruinous taxation. He found that he was well-known by reputation to most of them, and that a warm welcome awaited him whenever he appeared. His lunch finished, a circle gathered around him in the smoking-room and, although Henry might not have approved of such a form of recreation, they expected a certain amount of “shop” from him. It was by no means, however, a monologue, and Harrison found increasing enjoyment and stimulation from the discussions which took place.

  “If Harrison started blackmail,” said another of the circle, “I’ll back he would think of some new way of doing it.”

  “The old way would be good enough,” was Harrison’s reply.

  “But would it?” persisted Peary.

  “Possibly I might have said the old ways,” answered Harrison. “I know it sounds all very fine to conceal the name of the person who is being blackmailed but, even then, I admire the courage of the people who have taken the risk of coming into court about it. Things may be a little better, but that doesn’t mean that we’re in any way making an end of it. These cases you read about are mainly on the large scale. The most flourishing kind of blackmail is done on the small scale, and you could find examples of it in nearly every street in the suburbs.”

  “I say, Harrison, that’s a bit strong, isn’t it?” exclaimed one of his hearers.

  “After-lunch licence, possibly,” answered Harrison, with a smile. “Still, I assure you that there is a very great deal of it going on, but on a much less exciting scale than the particular cases which have gained publicity. Possibly the only original touch I should give myself would be to organise it, make what the Americans call a ‘racket’ of it. Even then, I can’t imagine that someone hasn’t thought of doing that already.”

  “It’s a nasty thought,” commented Peary.

  “Criminals occasionally have nasty characters, Peary,” said Harrison. His hearers laughed, and the circle began to break up. Peary and Harrison were left to themselves, and the barrister was just beginning an explanation with a wealth of detail of a case where he thought a little advice would assist him when Harrison noticed a young man standing timidly near their chairs. It was obvious that he wished to attract Harrison’s attention but was too nerv
ous to approach him directly.

  “Just a moment, Peary, if you don’t mind,” said Harrison. “Do you think the young man wants to speak to me?”

  “Seems to be hovering a bit,” grumbled Peary. “Why can’t people be tactful when I want to pick your brains?”

  “He also seems pretty worried,” commented Harrison, “and as he wants to talk to me alone, you’d better clear off, Peary.”

  “A man who can treat his friends like that can’t help being a success in the world,” pronounced Peary, getting up slowly. “I’m going, Harrison, but I’m thoroughly ashamed of you.”

  With an affectionate smile which somewhat cancelled his last remark, the barrister ambled away and Harrison turned to the stranger.

  “Well,” he said, “you want to talk to me?”

  The young man came up with a nervously grateful smile. “I know it’s awful cheek of me, Mr. Harrison,” he said, “to worry you in the club like this, but, after all, it’s really a professional matter.”

  “Then why not my chambers?” asked Harrison.

  “Well, you see,” replied the young man, “it takes some time getting your address from someone who knows it and, besides, I might not have found you in.”

  “Urgent?” asked Harrison.

  “Terribly urgent,” answered the young man, with a very unhappy look.

  “Very well,” said Harrison, “sit down here and tell me your name.”

  “My name is Hillyard,” replied the young man, as he perched himself insecurely on the edge of an armchair. “You wouldn’t know me. I haven’t been a member of the Fountain long and I know very few people in it. I’ve envied the people who sit round and talk to you after lunch.”

  “I am flattered. You’re a son of ‘silver’ Hillyard, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, the only son,” was the gratified reply. “How on earth did you know that?”

  “It’s my business to,” said Harrison, “but yours is not a common name, so the guess wouldn’t be difficult. As your father can’t really know how much money he has made on the silver market, I assume you have no profession?”

  “That’s true. I do nothing for a living.”

  “And why do you want my advice?”

  “It isn’t for myself,” answered Hillyard. “I have a very good friend named Tim Norton. You may have heard of him?”

  “Of course I have,” said Harrison, frowning deeply.

  “You have seen the evening papers?” asked the other.

  “Just the stop press,” was the reply. “Two lines saying that Mrs. Sybil Norton had been found shot at her home at Limewood, Surrey.”

  “That’s it,” said Hillyard, with a groan.

  “The wording of it rather suggests—” started Harrison, gently.

  “I know, and I’m afraid it’s only too true. Sybil—I can hardly say it—took her own life. There’s no suggestion of anything else. That’s the terrible part of it.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Harrison, sympathetically, “but, in those circumstances, it’s difficult to see how I can help in any way.”

  “You can’t refuse,” cried Hillyard, in an anguished tone. “It will make such a difference to Tim.”

  “I haven’t refused yet,” replied Harrison, “and I would like to help if I can.”

  “You would?” was the eager question.

  “Of course I should, so would anyone. I used to admire Mrs. Norton tremendously.”

  “You remember her then?”

  “No one who liked the theatre has been able to forget her. Why, she was definitely our most promising young actress when she married Norton—about five years ago, wasn’t it?—and gave up the stage altogether.”

  “That’s right,” said Hillyard.

  “Wouldn’t it be better, Mr. Hillyard,” said Harrison, “if you told me what you know? I might then see more clearly what you think I could do for you.”

  “Of course, of course,” was the reply. “Tim married Sybil five years ago, as you said. It wasn’t a great society affair. Sybil didn’t want that. In fact, it was some time before it leaked out at all. They settled down at Limewood Hall and have been there ever since. They entertained a bit and went out a bit, but mainly they were quite contented to be together. Ideally happy, I could swear to that.”

  “Children?”

  “None. They were rather sad about it, but they were both young and hoped for the best. I was Tim’s best friend, and so I got to know Sybil pretty well. A wonderful girl, Mr. Harrison, pure gold through and through, and a wonderful wife. I used to envy Tim his luck. Poor old Tim.”

  The young man was silent, almost overcome by his feelings, and Harrison waited.

  “You can’t imagine what a shock it is, Mr. Harrison,” he went on; “there is no earthly reason.”

  “There must be,” said Harrison, gravely.

  “That’s what Tim says.”

  “You have spoken to him since it happened?”

  “Yes, he rang me up. That’s why I came to you.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “He said he was pottering about with his dogs in the kennels,” answered Hillyard, “when his butler came running to him, scared stiff, and blurted out that Sybil had shot herself in her bedroom. He couldn’t believe the man and dashed back to the house. But there was no doubt of it. She had a little pistol of her own and she had shot herself, through the heart.”

  “No hope?”

  “None whatever, she must have died at once.”

  Again the young man stopped.

  “Any message?” asked Harrison, after a few moments.

  “Tim didn’t say anything about one,” was the reply. “I think he would have mentioned it.”

  “Possibly he was too upset,” suggested Harrison.

  “The impression he gave me was of being terribly calm,” answered Hillyard. “You know, unnaturally so. He was trying to be painfully business-like. He said she had spoken on the telephone and soon afterwards the maids had heard a shot from her room, and that is what they found.”

  “From my memories of her, I should not have called her a morbid woman.”

  “Far from it. Sybil had a very happy nature. Occasionally she was so radiant that none of us could resist her.”

  “She had been an actress,” said Harrison.

  “Yes, I know. Of course, it might have been acting, but one could hardly believe it. She was so happy with Tim, too. No, it’s the last thing in the world I should have expected of Sybil.”

  “So it all depends on the telephone call?”

  “As far as I know, that must be the case,” answered Hillyard.

  “Quite honestly, Mr. Hillyard,” said Harrison, “although I don’t want to disappoint you, I don’t really see how I can be very helpful.”

  “You’re a detective, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” was the reply. “But even then, it’s not in my line.”

  “You must, Mr. Harrison,” said Hillyard. “You see, I’ve promised Tim you will. The one thing he kept on saying on the telephone was that I must get someone to go into the whole affair for him. Somebody he could trust implicitly. I told him you belonged to the same club as myself and I would do my best to talk to you. ‘Clay Harrison,’ he said, ‘I’d rather have him than anyone in the world. Promise me you’ll do it.’ And I had to promise. Somehow it seemed to make things easier for him. I could tell by his voice. Mr. Harrison, I don’t believe I could face Tim again if I failed.”

  “You’re putting me in rather an awkward position, Mr. Hillyard,” said Harrison.

  “I want to,” cried the other. “I want to make it so awkward that you can’t refuse. Think what it means to Tim—and you did admire Sybil, you said you did.”

  Harrison still hesitated, although the pleading of the young man had shaken him considerably.

  “Think, too,” said Hillyard, “of Tim Norton standing alone in all the awful publicity there is going to be. The very fact that Sybil was on the stage is going to start
all the newspapers yapping like a pack of hounds. There’s no knowing what they’ll say or how they’ll say it. I can’t help Tim there at all. It’s only a person with your experience can do that—and he trusts you, too.”

  “Very well,” said Harrison.

  The young man took his hand excitedly and cried, “I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Harrison. I’m eternally grateful.”

  “When is the inquest, Mr. Hillyard?” asked Harrison.

  “I’ll let you know,” was the reply. “And I’ll drive you down myself. I’m thankful Tim won’t have to go through that ordeal alone.”

  “And there’s nothing else you can tell me?” asked Harrison.

  “I can’t think of anything.”

  “Very well,” replied the detective. “There’s only one point—” He stopped and did not continue.

  “Yes?”

  “On second thoughts, it doesn’t matter at the moment,” said Harrison, for why should he mention the possibility of his investigations leading to some event in Sybil Norton’s stage career which would have been far better left in its own obscurity? Time enough to deal with such a problem when it actually arose.

  Chapter II

  A Flat And A Snack Bar

  The announcement of Sybil Norton’s death in the “stop press” of the early evening newspaper caused a man in the Bloomsbury district to exclaim angrily—a man who looked like one of the ten thousand clerks at that moment streaming out of their offices for lunch and hardly expected to be emotionally affected by the news.

  He read the curt announcement again, however, and seemed to grow still more angry. Up to that moment he would have seemed to be strolling along, mainly at peace with the world, but now he strode angrily forward till he reached a block of flats in a side street not far distant from the British Museum and climbed to the third floor. Ringing the bell, he was immediately ushered in by a trimly-dressed maid who informed him that everything was laid out as usual. He walked brusquely past her, without a word of greeting, and disappeared into a room, the door of which he closed violently behind him.