The Guilty Abroad Page 6

  Then I snapped out of my reverie; action was the best antidote to this sudden fit of apprehension. “Which way are we going?”

  “Let’s go thataway,” said McPhee, pointing down the street to our left. “Like that fancy boy said, the coppers usually lurk around over on King’s Road, which is the next big street. If we don’t find ’em there, we can cut back over to that tobacco shop for the telephone. And if they ain’t home, we’ll figure out which way to jump next.”

  “Very well, Mr. McPhee, lead the way,” I said. After we’d gone a few paces I added, “I hope you’ll remember what you said about not leaving your wife to face the police alone.”

  “Don’t worry, sonny,” said McPhee. “The days is long gone since ol’ Ed could outrun a young sprat like you. ’Sides, you know I went right out of that room after I doused the lights, so there ain’t nothing the law can pin on me, this time. I might have had something to worry about, back in my rowdy days, but I’m a reformed man. And you can go to the bank with that.”

  “I certainly hope so,” I said. I meant it, too. I was undoubtedly a faster runner than McPhee, but in a fog this dense, he probably would not have much trouble if he wanted to evade me—especially if I let my attention wander. I made up my mind to keep a close eye on him. I thought the fog had gotten thicker even in the few moments we had been outdoors, and the air had certainly become colder. I buttoned up my collar, wishing I had brought a scarf with me tonight.

  We came to a larger cross street, and McPhee said, “There’s usually a cop over that way”—he pointed to the left—“at least in the daytime when the shops are open, so they can confiscate an apple or a piece of cheese when they’re in the mood.” He chuckled. “I reckon that’s the first place to look.”

  “Let’s hope we find him quickly,” I said. “I’m freezing out here.”

  “Ah, that’s the way it always goes with the police,” said McPhee. “Smack-dab in your face when you don’t want ’em, and never there when you could use a helping hand. It’s downright aggravatin’, either way. Enough to make a fellow lose faith in the government.”

  “I had no idea you had faith in government to begin with,” I said as we walked down the cobbled street. I would have preferred going a bit faster, but there was no hurrying McPhee—and I certainly did not want to get ahead of him.

  McPhee laughed, with what seemed false heartiness. “That’s a good one, sonny. I guess if you hang around with ol’ Sam long enough, some of his jokes are like to rub off on you. We’ll make you into a reg’lar fellow, yet.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what sort of man McPhee considered to be a “reg’lar fellow,” let alone whether I wished to be included in that class of humanity. However, I saw no advantage in contradicting him. We walked onward through the lowering fog. At last, in the diffuse light of a street lamp, I discerned a dark-clad figure with the characteristic rounded helmet of a London bobby. “There’s our policeman,” I said, then raising my voice, “Good evening, Constable.”

  “And the same to you,” said a deep voice. Under the light, I could see the figure turn to face in our direction. “ ’Ow can I ’elp you?”

  “Let me do the talking,” whispered McPhee, then before I could agree or disagree, he called out in a louder voice, “Everything’s fine, just fine. But we got us a little problem we sure could use some help with.”

  That hardly seemed an adequate way to characterize a murdered man in his apartment, but I said nothing for the time being. However, I made up my mind to challenge any outright misstatements of fact McPhee might make.

  The policeman had walked forward to meet us, and by now we were close enough to make out his features. He was solidly built, a bit above average height, with a square, clean-shaven jaw and large dark eyes. I would have guessed his age somewhere in his thirties. “What’s the problem, then?” he said, eyeing us both up and down. “You two are Yanks, are you not?”

  “You got that one right,” said McPhee, adopting the hearty manner he employed when greeting strangers. “Ed McPhee’s the name, and this here’s Mr. Wentworth, works for my old partner Mark Twain—I reckon you’ve heard of him, even in these parts.”

  “Aye, that I ’ave,” said the policeman, not obviously impressed. He pointedly ignored McPhee’s proffered handshake. “Now, what can I ’elp you with? Are you two staying ’ere in Chelsea?”

  McPhee rubbed his hands together. “So we are, so we are, but that ain’t the problem—in fact, that ain’t no kind of problem at all. Awful nice place, as far as I can see, and I been all over the world, to Mexico and everyplace. But the problem is, I have some folks up to my place for a sort of meeting, quality folks, you understand, Mr. Mark Twain and Sir Denis DeCoursey and all. Well, one of ’ems took mighty sick. I reckon you ought to come take a look.”

  “Sick, eh? Well, I’d think you’d want a doctor for that, not a constable.”

  “Why, the fellow’s a doctor himself—or was one, I guess is the right way to put it,” said McPhee. I wondered how long it was going to take him to admit that Dr. Parkhurst was dead, let alone that he’d apparently been murdered.

  “Was one?” said the policeman, lifting his eyebrows. “Just what is that supposed to mean, now?”

  “Well, it seems as if the fellow had a little accident . . .” McPhee began. I could stand his equivocation no longer.

  “The doctor is dead,” I said bluntly. “In fact, we believe he’s been murdered.”

  “Murdered, is it?” Now the policeman took a definite interest. “Now, I expect we’ll go and ’ave a look at that. Just where did you say this murder was?”

  “The place is right off Old Church Street there,” said McPhee, pointing back the way we’d come. He gave me an exasperated look, as if to reprimand me for telling the truth before he was ready to let it all out, but I paid him no heed. The policeman needed to know what he was getting into.

  “You wait right ’ere,” said the policeman, in a voice that made it clear he was not issuing an idle request. He grasped the whistle hanging on a lanyard around his neck and blew three sharp blasts. From some distance away came a response—two whistle blasts, a pause, and then two more. The policeman nodded and said, “Right, then. There’ll be one of the lads along in short order. We’ll wait ’ere for ’im.”

  Sure enough, in perhaps two minutes, another policeman came into view, walking briskly and swinging his truncheon. “What’s the word, Albert?” he said as he saw his fellow.

  “ ’Ullo, Charles. These two tell me there’s a dead man in Old Church Street, apt to be a murder,” said the first policeman. “What address did you say?”

  Before McPhee could answer I gave him the number. “The second-story flat, in the back.”

  “There you ’ave it. Tell the station I’m going with these two American gentlemen to see what’s ’appened,” said Albert, indicating us with his hand. “ ’Ave ’em send me a lad or two to ’elp sort it all out. They’ll want to send over a doctor, too, in case the bloke’s still breathing.”

  “Aye, that they will,” said Charles. “I’ll report straightaway. Best be sharp, lad—if it’s murder, like as not you’ll be seeing the chief inspector this night.” He nodded, turned, and walked off into the fog.

  “Well, gentlemen, that’s done. Now, let’s go see what the story’s all about,” said the policeman. We turned and started the short trek back to McPhee’s apartment through the chilly fog.

  McPhee kept up a line of irrelevant banter the entire way. “I’m mighty glad we found you as quick as we did,” he said to the policeman. “Sir Denis and his lady, and Mark Twain—he’s my old pal from the river, known him for years—they said, ‘Ed, we’re in a heap of trouble, and no doubt about it.’ And I told ’em, ‘Don’t you worry, boys, I’ll fetch a bobby in and he’ll get straight to the bottom of this mess.’ And so I done it, just like I said I would. Any help you need to figure things out, Ed McPhee’s your man.” For his part, the policeman greeted this obvious attempt to curry favo
r with the silence it deserved.

  We reached our destination soon enough. Cold and damp as it was, I almost wished I could stay outside rather than go back into that room and look at the lifeless body sprawled upon the sofa. But, to judge by my previous encounters with the police, we were in for a long interrogation. Probably even the ladies would be put to the question—even if none of them were suspects, they were certainly witnesses. Although none of us could have seen much in the pitch darkness of that sitting . . .

  I wondered how long it would be before I could get back to my warm bed, and whether I would have any luck getting to sleep at all that night. Then I remembered that one of the group who had begun the sitting would not be sleeping in his own bed tonight. Poor Dr. Parkhurst was well beyond any thoughts of warmth and comfort, and I suddenly felt guilty wanting them for myself.

  6

  McPhee and I led the policeman up the stairs to the apartment where the séance had been held. McPhee opened the door, and we were greeted by a cloud of tobacco smoke almost as thick as the fog outside. Mr. Clemens and Sir Denis DeCoursey had pipes burning briskly, and Cedric Villiers was smoking a sweet-smelling cigarette in a long amber holder. I suppose that to tobacco addicts, the chance to smoke was comforting. The three of them had (very understandably) decided that the little anteroom where McPhee had waited during the séance was a more pleasant spot to sit than the larger room with the doctor’s body. Villiers had taken up the deck of cards McPhee had been playing with, and was dealing them out in some sort of crisscross pattern on the table.

  “Thank goodness,” said Sir Denis, rising to his feet. “It’s good to see you, Constable. We’ve got rather a sticky affair here.”

  “I’ll do what I can, sir,” said the policeman. “But I’m afraid you’ll all ’ave to wait until someone comes from the station—the inspector or ’oever takes ’is place. If we’ve really got a murdered man ’ere, that is to say—might I see the body?” His manner was deferential, but quite firm.

  “Yes, of course—right in here,” said Sir Denis. He opened the door to the séance room.

  The lights were even brighter than when I’d left—there were several candles now burning in addition to the gas, and Dr. Parkhurst’s body was clearly illuminated. Someone had poked up the fire, as well, and added a few lumps of coal to the grate. The policeman walked over to the body and looked closely at it, not touching it, then looked up at us. “ ’E’s been shot, all right. There won’t be much work for the doctor. ’As ’e been moved at all?”

  “Yes, he was over at that table when it happened,” said Mr. Clemens. “We all were.”

  “Aye,” said the policeman, turning around. He saw the drying blood on the carpet and nodded. “And where did the shot come from?”

  “Damned if I know,” said Mr. Clemens, scowling. “I was sitting right at the table with him, and I didn’t hear any gun go off. Didn’t see a flash, either. I’m getting up in years, but I didn’t think I was going deaf and blind, yet.”

  “But there was an absolute racket of knocking and banging,” said Sir Denis. “Whoever did the shooting must have picked his time for the noise to cover up the report. Still, I’m surprised I didn’t notice it—I’ve been shooting since I was a lad, and I’d wager I’ve heard every kind of firearm made.”

  “Perhaps the shot was from a distance,” I suggested. “Then it wouldn’t have been as loud, would it?”

  “How could it have been fired from any kind of distance, in a room no more than fifteen feet across?” said Mr. Clemens, raising his eyebrows. “Besides, the whole place was darker than the inside of a black cat—you couldn’t see your hand before your face in here, let alone pick out one man to shoot at.”

  “Well, dark or not, the gentleman’s got a bullet wound in ’is ’ead,” said the constable. “You’ll all ’ave to remain ’ere until the inspector comes to take your statements. Until then, I’ll ask you please not to touch anything so as not to muddle up the evidence. And it ’ud be best not to discuss what you saw or ’eard so as not to confuse your stories.”

  “I don’t have no story,” said Slippery Ed McPhee. “I wasn’t even in the room when the shot went off—didn’t even know about it till it was over. I wish you’d let me say a word to my little lady, though. She ain’t used to rough stuff or gunplay, and I reckon she’s mighty disturbed by all this happening right in front of her eyes.”

  “I don’t know about that—” began the policeman, but he was interrupted.

  “Yes, by all means let the poor fellow speak to his wife,” said Sir Denis, putting a hand on the policeman’s arm. “The rest of us are clearly suspects, but Mr. McPhee could hardly have known what was happening in here, what with being in the other room. And he’s not spoken to his wife since the—er, unfortunate incident. It would be unnecessarily cruel not to allow him a word or two to comfort her.”

  “I suppose there’s no ’arm in it, then,” said the policeman, nodding. “But I’ll ask you not to discuss what ’appened ’ere until the inspector’s come. Is that understood?”

  “Sure, sure,” said McPhee, waving his hand dismissively. “Like I said, I didn’t see none of what went on anyways, so you can stop worrying. I just want to make sure Miss Martha’s all right.”

  Sir Denis went and tapped gently on the door to the room where the ladies had retreated, and after a moment his wife, Lady Alice, peered out. “Mr. McPhee wishes to speak to his wife,” said Sir Denis. “Would she rather see him inside, or come out to meet him?”

  “Best she come out, I think,” said Lady Alice. “Mrs. Parkhurst is still quite distressed. Wisest not to disturb her further. Just wait a moment and I’ll call Mrs. McPhee out.”

  The door closed; we waited perhaps a minute, then it opened and Martha McPhee emerged. She seemed to have regained most of her aplomb since the violent termination of the séance, although I detected a touch of dismay as she glanced at the doctor’s body. “Edward,” she said. “I’m glad to see you. Are the police here yet?”

  “I reckon so—that big lug over there ain’t a steamboat captain,” said McPhee, indicating the constable with a nod. “We’re just waiting for his boss to get here. Let’s go set down someplace a bit more comfortable.”

  McPhee took her by the arm and led her into the little outer room, where they sat down next to each other. The rest of us followed, not so much to eavesdrop on their conversation as to get out of the room with the dead body. When they were seated, McPhee said, “How are you holding up, Martha? Are you all right?” That surprised me; it seemed out of character for McPhee to show concern for another person.

  “I’m a bit shaken, I’m afraid,” she said quietly. “I wish I knew what happened—everything is a blur.”

  “Well, I know even less than you, for once,” said McPhee. “Ain’t much a man can see through solid walls, you know. I guess the cops will sort it all out, and then we can go about our business.”

  “Not if the cops figure out what your business really is,” growled Mr. Clemens. “More likely, they’ll put you on the first steamer headed west, and none too soon.”

  “Sam, this ain’t hardly a time for jokes,” said McPhee, puffing up his chest. “I’ll ask you to respect this here young lady’s tender feelings, if nothing else.” Whatever he was going to say next, a firm knock on the outer door interrupted, and the policeman went to answer it.

  A thin-faced young man entered, dressed in civilian clothes—a heavy topcoat over a brown tweed suit, with a bowler hat. His fair skin and light brown hair made him look very young, but I thought he might be a year or so older than I. Even so, it was evident from the constable’s deferential posture that this young man was of superior rank. “Hello, Wilkins,” he said to the constable. “What’s the matter here?”

  “We’ve got a dead body in the next room, Sergeant,” said the constable. “Bullet wound in the ’ead, but these gentlemen say they never ’eard a shot.”

  “Well, we’ll have to see about that,” said the detecti
ve, stepping through the door into the séance room. The rest of us began trooping after him, but he stopped abruptly a couple of paces into the room and turned around to face us—as it happened, Mr. Clemens was directly in front of him. “The body’s been moved,” said the young detective, waving an admonitory finger. From his expression, it might have been a crime equal to the actual shooting.

  “Of course we moved him,” said Sir Denis, who had just cleared the doorway. “There was a chance he might live, and we wanted to get him into a more comfortable position. I fail to see the harm in that.”

  The detective looked Sir Denis up and down, then wrinkled his nose fastidiously. “Don’t see any harm, do you? For your information, you’ve just addled any clues about how he fell, or which way he was facing when he was hit. And the lot of you have been smoking those stinking pipes in here, as well.”

  “You’re damn right,” said Mr. Clemens, bristling. “Didn’t know there was a law against an American smoking his pipe anywhere he damn well pleased. And who the hell are you?”

  “Detective Sergeant Peter Coleman of the Criminal Investigation Division, New Scotland Yard,” said the man, glowering at my employer. “There may be no law against smoking your pipe, but I wish there were. Now we’ve no way to tell which room the gun was fired from. Half the evidence is already gone, no thanks to you. The chief inspector won’t like this one bit when he arrives—which should be any moment, now. Can anyone tell me how long it has been since the shooting?”

  “Not quite an hour,” said Sir Denis, stepping forward. “See here, Mr. Coleman, I know the smell of gunpowder as well as any man in England, and I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that there was no odor—and no report, and no flash, either.”

  “So you say,” said Coleman, looking down his nose at Sir Denis. “You may even be right, but I’d rather trust the scientific evidence—which you lot have gone and obliterated without a thought. Or, just possibly, you might have done it on purpose.”

  “Young man, I resent your implication,” said Sir Denis. “Do you know to whom you are speaking?”