Chapter One

The case of Crippen has been retold so often and in so many languages that the facts are known even to those students of criminal psychology who were not born in 1910, when it all happened. That he was the first murderer to be caught by wireless telegraphy, as it was then called, is to-day of less interest than the fact that police, counsel, and finally warders of the condemned cell all agreed that he was a 'decent little man', a 'gentleman', in the moral rather than the social sense of the word. Yet he buried portions of his wife under the floor-boards of the kitchen.

Alfred Cummarten had much of the mentality of Crippen. The

Cummarten murder, in 1934, was a sort of tangent to the Crippen murder. As he had not read the case, Cummarten made most of Crippen's minor mistakes, avoiding the major mistake of flight. He was not as anxious as the decent little Crippen that no one else should suffer for his sins – a moral defect which brought its own penalty.

There was even a physical resemblance to the original, for Cummarten was a shortish man, with brown, protuberant eyes, a moustache, and a waxen complexion.

Moreover, there was, to start with, exactly the same set-up. Gertrude Cummarten, like Cora Crippen, was regarded by her husband with esteem and affection, although she was shrewish, greedy, and wholly selfish. She drilled and bullied him – for Gertrude, too, was physically larger than her husband, and would sometimes strike him in anger. That her attractions were fading at thirty-seven had, really, nothing to do with the case, because the girl, Isabel Redding, appealed primarily to Cummarten's thwarted paternal instinct.

Isabel, as is now known, was of unidentifiable origin. Someone contrived her admission to a convent school, where she acquired a certain ladylike address, if nothing else. She was twenty-two when she applied to Cummarten for employment as a stenographer. Cummarten was a shipping agent with a small but steady clientèle.

Isabel was decorative, docile, but remarkably inefficient. Cummarten saw in her an innocent child-woman who could be moulded into the kind of woman he would like his daughter to be – if he had a daughter. So he engaged another girl to be his secretary, and kept Isabel on to run the errands and stamp the envelopes.

Being a silly little man (though Scotland Yard would not agree) he asked her for the week-end to The Laurels, his modest house on the outskirts of Thadham, an old market town some twenty miles from London. He was guileless enough to suggest that his wife should elect herself an honorary aunt.

Gertrude's marked coldness did not deter Isabel from spending three more week-ends at The Laurels during 1933, the last occasion being in July, when Cummarten took her to a flower-show and introduced her to most of his acquaintances.

He was deeply shocked when Gertrude said she did not believe a word of his angel-child nonsense, and that, if he could afford a mistress, which surprised her, he might have the decency not to humiliate his wife by flaunting the girl before the neighbours. The truth was that he himself did believe the angel-child nonsense.

Gertrude's allegation that he was spending money on the girl was true. There was her salary, the bulk of which was a dead weight on the business. There were other expenses – not indeed for dress or for any kind of entertainment, but for a special diet, to build up her nervous system; for massage to cure her insomnia, and even for books to nourish her mind.

Gertrude's accusation lost its horror through repetition. By the autumn of 1933, it no longer seemed outrageous to notice the physical charms of the young woman he had hitherto thought of as his spiritual daughter. In short, under some highfalutin phrase, she became his mistress in fact. In this period she betrayed a certain sophistication which compelled him to revise the angel-child theory, and to wonder what she had been doing between leaving the convent school and applying to him for employment.

By the turn of the year, his expenditure began to alarm him. This, he believed, was largely his own fault. He would discover little needs of Isabel's, and urge her to do the buying. It was he who suggested that she needed a new bag, not expecting that she would order one in crocodile, costing nine pounds. It was he who said she must have new hairbrushes. She ordered a dressing-table set in tortoiseshell. He had admired it before she revealed that it would cost one hundred guineas.

'You've been swindled, darling!' he gasped. 'I've noticed things exactly like this at Harridges – the whole layout for about a couple of pounds.'

'But this is real tortoiseshell, darling!' she explained. 'It comes from Perriere's, and they said they would always lend us sixty pounds on it if we should ever need the money. But, of course, I'll take it back if you think

I've been extravagant.'

By ill luck he had knocked one of the scent bottles to the floor, slightly chipping the glass and slightly denting the tortoiseshell. She had been so nice about it – so anxious to cover up the damage so that the set could be returned – that he eventually sent the cheque to Perriere's, feeling that he had robbed Gertrude.

He was now leading a double life, which he hated. To rob it of some of its duplicity, the silly little man confided in his wife. She treated him with scorn and intensified bullying – which made him feel better, because he despised himself and felt that he ought to be punished.

In July, 1934, Isabel gave him the usual reason, true or false, for hurrying a divorce, to be followed by immediate marriage. He said he would put it to Gertrude, but did not, because he was afraid.

For an utterly miserable fortnight he stalled Isabel with palpable lies.

On Monday, August 7th, a Bank Holiday, Isabel took the matter out of his hands by turning up uninvited at The Laurels – at half past two in the afternoon – for a showdown with Gertrude.

Chapter Two

Gertrude had been visiting a cousin at Brighton and did not return until about nine o' clock. A light rain was falling and it was getting dark – but not too dark for the neighbours to observe her return from behind their curtains. They had been, in a sense, waiting for her. They had seen Isabel arrive: they had discussed the details of her dress: in particular, a magenta scarf which was unfashionable and strident but, in her case, effective: a crocodile bag, which they opined must have cost Mr Cummarten a matter of pounds. They knew that Gertrude had been to Brighton for the day. Whatever happened now, there was certain to be a scandal or at least a rumpus.

'As soon as I heard her footsteps I went into the hall and turned on the light,' wrote Cummarten. 'I meant to tell her about Isabel at once, but, of course, I had to lead up to it a bit. So in the hall I just said something ordinary, like I hoped she had enjoyed her day.'

'Well, I did think you'd have the light on in the hall to welcome me home, even if it'd be a false welcome,' said Gertrude. 'But I expect we have to be careful with the housekeeping bills, now that you're spending so much money on that girl. And since you ask, I didn't go to Brighton for pleasure. I went to Mabel for advice and I'm going to take her advice. Come in here and sit down, Alfred.'

She took him into the little room which they called the morning-room because they had breakfast there. He obediently sat down at the table, knowing that he could not secure her attention until she had talked herself to a standstill.

'Mabel says I'm a soft-hearted fool to put up with it and she's right. And it's got to be one of two things, Alfred. Either you sack that girl from the office and break off with her altogether or I'm going to divorce you.'

'I was so surprised when she said this after all I'd been through that I said nothing but stared at her like a ninny.'

'You needn't pretend it would break your heart, Alfred. I've no doubt that you'd be glad enough to have done with our marriage altogether, after the mockery you've made of it. But Mabel says the judge would make an order for you to pay me at least a third of your income, and perhaps a half, and so you may want to think twice. Alfred, whose bag is that over there by the coal scuttle?'

'As soon as she saw the bag I knew she would tell herself everything and

I needn't try to break it gently but just answer her questions.' 'It's Isabel's bag,' said Cummarten.

'So she has been here! I suspected it from your sly behaviour. What time did she go?'

'She didn't go. She's in the drawing-room.'

'Then she's going now. I'm going to turn her out.'

'You aren't,' said Cummarten. 'You can't get into the drawing-room. I've locked the door and I've got the key.'

The pitch of his voice made her spine tingle. She reached across the breakfast table, upsetting a vase of flowers, and grabbed him by the lapel of his coat.

'What're you trying to tell me, Alfred? Go on! Say it!'

'She's dead,' answered Cummarten. 'I killed her.'

'Oh-h!' It was a long-drawn, whispered moan. 'To think that this should happen to me! Oh, dear God, what have I done to deserve this!'

Characteristically, she was concerned solely with the impact of the murder on her own circumstances. She sprawled forward on the table, her face on her forearm, and burst into tears. So violent was her emotion that the silly little man went round to her side of the table to comfort her.

'There, there, my dear!' He patted her shoulder. 'Don't take on so, Gert! It won't bring the poor girl back to life. Something goes wrong sometimes, and this sort of thing happens. Stop, Gert – you'll make yourself ill!'

Presently she was able to speak, in a voice shaken with convulsive sobs.

'I was twenty-four when you married me and I'm thirty-seven now. You've had the best years of my life. I could put up with your wanting a younger woman, though it hurt my feelings more than you know. But I did believe you'd always look after me in my old age.'

'Thirty-seven isn't old age, dear. Now, do calm yourself, because we've got to settle practical matters before I'm arrested.' That caught her attention.

'You haven't got any money outside the business, have you?'

'No. And I'm afraid you won't get much for that. It's largely a personal connexion.'

'I can't even go back to nursing. No one would employ me after this!' Her imagination still struggled against accepting the fact of disaster to herself. 'Are you sure you've killed her, Alfred? Are you sure she isn't fooling you? How did you kill her? I don't believe you could kill anybody without a revolver, which you haven't got.'

'I killed her, all right! She made out we had to have a divorce and me marry her. Even if she was telling the truth about that, I've good reason to believe she could have picked on others besides me. There's one she called Len – I've seen him hanging about – big Spanish-looking feller. Never mind!'

'But you didn't have to kill her for that, Alfred!'

'Let me finish! She came down here on her own for a showdown with you. When she offered to say nothing to you and cut out all the divorce stuff if I'd hand over a thousand pounds, I got pretty angry. After a while, she tried to coax me into a good temper by love-making. Real love-making! I suppose I softened up a bit, and then I felt what a worm I was for letting a woman like that wheedle me. I'd got my arm round her neck in some way – can't remember quite how – and she was pretending to struggle. And I thought if I pushed her chin back it'd break her neck – sort of leverage. And I suddenly wanted to do that more than I'd ever wanted to do anything. And I did it. That's all!'

'I don't believe you killed her!' Gertrude was lashing herself into wishful disbelief. 'Give me that key!'

She went alone to the drawing-room. Her past training as a hospital nurse saved her from the normal revulsion. When she returned she was carrying the magenta scarf.

'You were right,' she said. 'I didn't think you could've done it, but you have.' She went on: 'I've brought this scarf, because it's the sort of thing you would leave lying about, same as you left that bag. You'd better put them both together. The neighbours will have noticed both. And we'll have a look round to see if there's anything else, before I go.'

'What's the use, Gert! As soon as you've gone, I'm going to ring the police.'

'I thought that was in your mind!' Her self-pity was lost in fury. 'Going to give up without lifting a finger to save yourself? And you call yourself a man!'

'I can take what's coming to me without squealing, anyhow!'

'You mean you can take what's coming to me!' she shrilled. 'You're ready to kick me into the gutter where I shall be branded for life as the wife of a murderer, and all you think about is how brave you are!'

'But what can I do? It's no good running away!'

'You can get rid of her if you keep your head. You can use a spade, can't you! And who's to know she didn't leave the house and run off with a man who's got more money than you – not that anyone will bother their heads about what happens to that sort!'

Cummarten had planned to give himself up, because he had not been able to imagine doing anything else. But already Gertrude had planted in his brain the idea of escape. For thirteen years he had lived under her domination. Always, after his domestic blunders, she had first bullied him and then cleared up the mess. The same process was now at work on a larger scale.

'Suppose something goes wrong?' he objected, in order to receive her reassurance, which promptly came.

'Nothing will go wrong if you do as you're told. I shall have to leave everything in your hands, because I know you wouldn't wish me to take any risk of being dragged into it. I shan't worry about myself. No one need know I've helped you. I wasn't seen coming home to-night. It so happened that I took the bus from the junction instead of waiting for the local train, and no one else got out at the corner and there was no one about, because it was raining. I'll get along to Ealing and spend the night with mother. You can say I went straight there from Mabel's. You can give out that mother is ill and I'm looking after her. As soon as it's all clear, I'll come back.'

'You mean we can take up our life again as if nothing had happened!' There was awe in his voice as the idea took shape.

'I'm quite ready to try all over again to make you happy, Alfred, now that you've learnt your lesson.'

But she must, of course, take care not to burn her fingers. In a few minutes she had evolved a plan by which all risk was concentrated upon Cummarten. She made him repeat his orders and then:

'I'll slip out to the garage now and get into the car. The neighbours will hear the engine. And if anyone asks you afterwards, which they won't, remember to say that you were driving the girl back to her flat in London. If anyone wants to speak to me they can ring me up at mother's.'

Chapter Three

With a course of action laid down for him, Cummarten's nerve steadied. He made good time to London. In Holborn he dropped Gertrude at the tube station, where she was to take a train to Ealing. He himself drove on to the flatlet, which was in one of the dingier blocks in Bloomsbury. The block had no resident porter – a fact which most of the residents regarded as an advantage. He chose his moment for leaving the car, his sole concern being that no one should observe that he was alone.

The flatlet consisted of a fair-sized room with two curtained recesses. It was clean but untidy. Three large fans nailed on the walls gave it a wouldbe artistic atmosphere, helped by an expensively elaborate cover on the ottoman bed. For the rest, there was the usual bed-sitting-room furniture.

Acting on Gertrude's instructions with all possible speed, Cummarten found Isabel's suitcase. Into it he crammed her nightdress and other small oddments. Next, 'any small articles you've given her that are expensive.' The tortoiseshell dressing-table set was certainly expensive though it was not small, as it consisted of eight pieces including the scent bottles. It occupied two-thirds of the suitcase and left no room for any additions.

The magenta scarf he placed 'carelessly' on the folding-table. The crocodile bag, emptied at The Laurels, he put on the floor near the stove, as if the girl had flung it down after emptying its contents into another bag.

By midnight, he was back at The Laurels.

He had brought his tools from the garage and a spade and pick from the adjoining tool shed. He moved the table and chairs from the morning-room into the hall. Then he untacked the carpet in the morning-room and removed some of the floor boards.

This gave him no serious difficulty – he had finished before one. Below the beams holding the floor-boards he had expected to find soft earth. Instead, he found rubble, evenly spread to a depth of some eighteen inches. Clearing this was extremely laborious: he had to work very slowly because the rubble made a dangerous amount of noise. His courage fluctuated: while he was wielding the spade he was steady: but when he rested, which was often, he would fancy he heard footsteps on the garden path and would climb up and listen, to reassure himself.

It was half past three before he had cleared a sufficient area. Temporarily exhausted, he went into the kitchen and revived his strength with tea. When he re-started work, with the pick, he realized that his own stamina would be a major factor. Though the house had been built before cement was commonly used for the purpose, the foundations had been well laid and the earth was dry and very hard.

In an hour his strokes with the pick became feeble. By six o'clock his physical condition resembled that of a boxer who has just managed to keep on his feet for a twenty-round contest. His wrists were numb and his knees were undependable. It was all he could do to hoist himself back onto the floor of the morning-room. As he lay panting he knew that, in his present condition, he could not possibly carry the body and complete his task before eight o' clock, when Bessie, the daily help, would arrive. If he were to make the attempt and fail he would be worse off than if he were to leave it in the drawing-room.

He was moving so slowly that when he had replaced everything in the morning-room and re-tacked the carpet with his hammer-head muffled, half past seven was striking.

Having washed, he went upstairs, got into bed for a minute in order to tumble the bedclothes, then did his best to shave as usual. When he heard Bessie arrive he came down in his dressing-gown.

The drawing-room door was locked: the blinds were down, as he had left them the previous evening: the french windows giving on to the garden were bolted on the inside. He had only to keep his head and, as Gertrude had promised, everything would be all right.

'Mrs Cummarten,' he told Bessie, 'has had to go to her mother who has been taken ill. If you'll get me some breakfast, that'll be all. You can have another day off.'

'All right, sir!' Bessie was not overjoyed. After Sunday and the holiday on Monday there would be arrears of cleaning which would have to be made up later. 'But I'd better do the drawing-room before I go.'

'You can't,' said Cummarten. 'It is locked and Mrs Cummarten has evidently taken the key with her.'

'That doesn't matter,' returned Bessie. 'The key of the morning-room fits.'

To keep his head was the first essential. But what was the use if you couldn't think of things quickly, not being that sort of man.

'I'd rather you didn't, Bessie.' With sudden misinspiration, he added: 'Before Mrs Cummarten left yesterday morning she started to clean the china. She had to break off to catch her train – and she left the pieces all over the floor. She asked me to keep the room locked.'

Bessie stumped off to the kitchen. She heard him remove the keys from the morning-room and the dining-room. Knowing that something was being kept from her, she went into the garden and tried to look through the edges of the blind, but without seeing anything except part of a cushion from the settee lying on the floor.

Instead of leaving for the office at nine-fifteen, Cummarten stayed on in the morning-room, so that she could not clean it. Bessie left at ten. But before going home, she stepped across the road to The Cedars to tell her friend, who was help to Mrs Evershed, all about the locked drawing-room and the nonsense about the china being on the floor.

Cummarten was dozing in his chair at eleven when Mrs Evershed knocked at the front door.

'I didn't mean to disturb you, Mr Cummarten – I thought you'd be at the office. Can I have a word with Gertrude if she isn't busy?'

'Sorry, but she's in Ealing looking after her mother. I don't suppose it's anything much, but the doctor says the old lady had better stay in bed for a

bit. Don't know when Gertrude will be back.'

Mrs Evershed delivered the usual polite platitudes, and then:

'Did she leave a message for me about Thursday? She said she'd know for certain by Monday night.'

'I haven't seen her since yesterday morning,' said Cummarten.

'Oh!' said Mrs Evershed, who was amongst those who had seen Gertrude return, 'I thought she was coming home last night.'

'She was, but she didn't. On her way back from Brighton she stopped off at Ealing, then phoned me that she would stay there.'

Bessie's friend had already repeated to Mrs Evershed the tale of the locked drawing-room. Mrs Evershed carried the tale to others. Before noon, there were two more callers for Gertrude, who received from Cummarten the same explanation.

During the afternoon he was left in peace and slept in his chair until nine. By midnight he was at work again on the grave. He was more careful of his strength this time and completed his task by four. The remains of Isabel and the contents of her crocodile bag and of the suitcase he had brought from the flatlet were buried four feet in the earth, with another eighteen inches of rubble on top. The floor boards and the furniture were replaced.

In the drawing-room, the dozen odd pieces of china had been moved from the cabinet and placed on the floor, to give substance to the tale told to Bessie. Cummarten bathed, went to bed and slept until Bessie called him.

At breakfast he was surprised at his own freshness. 'I must be as strong as a horse, when I'm put to it,' he reflected with pride. That he had killed Isabel Redding ranked in his mind as a tragic misfortune, over which he must not allow himself to brood. He had a moral duty to Gertrude and, so far, had made a pretty good job of it, as Gertrude herself would have to admit.

When he arrived at the office he decided to ring Gertrude and let her know that the coast was clear – was about to do so when his secretary came in.

'Good morning, Miss Kyle; has Miss Redding been in to collect her belongings?'

'I have not seen Miss Redding since Friday last,' replied Miss Kyle with some hauteur, 'and her belongings are still here.'

'She came to my house on Monday and made it clear she would not be working for us any more. I fear,' he added, 'that Miss Redding has not been a success in this office.'

Miss Kyle, who was well aware of their intimacy, said nothing.

Having dealt with his mail, he rang his mother-in-law's flat in Ealing, but could get no answer. He tried again before going out to lunch and again when he returned. Then he rang the porter of the flats – to learn that Mrs Massell, his mother-in-law, had gone away for the week-end, had not yet come back and that the flat was therefore empty.

'Has Mrs Cummarten – my wife – been to you to make enquiries?'

'No, sir, there've been no enquiries for Mrs Massell since she went away last Friday.'

Cummarten replaced the receiver and found himself badly at a loss. 'Then where on earth is Gertrude?'

Chapter Four

Others were already asking that question – including Mrs Massell herself. On her way back from a long week-end at Salisbury she had stopped off at Thadham to have a chat with her daughter. Arriving after Bessie had left, she was unable to obtain admission to the house. Mrs Evershed popped out of The Cedars. Explanations were being exchanged in the front garden of The Laurels when Cummarten himself appeared ...

'That's what Gertrude told me on the telephone,' said Cummarten doggedly.

'But she knew I had gone to Salisbury!'

'I'm not saying what she knew. I'm saying what she told me.'

His mother-in-law walked him, by the sidepath, to the garden at the back of the house.

'You said all that because that Evershed woman was listening. Where is

Gertrude?'

'I don't know! That's the maddening part of it!' cried Cummarten in genuine exasperation.

'When did you last see her?'

'Monday morning when she was going off to Mabel's.' He added a flourish: 'At least, that's where she said she was going.' Mrs Massell gave him a hostile stare.

'Look here, Alfred, it's no use your trying to hint that she has run off with a lover. She's not that kind and wouldn't need to run when she could easily divorce you, as I happen to know, though you may have thought I didn't. If she has disappeared, something has happened. She may have lost her memory, like those people you hear about on the radio every night. Or she may have met with an accident – she might even have been murdered, for all you know or seem to care.'

A long, bitter laugh broke from him, which angered her further.

'You may not care much about her, but I warn you that you will find yourself in a very awkward position if anything has happened to her and you doing nothing about it.'

'But what can I do?'

'Come straight to the police with me and start inquiries.'

'That's no good!' he said sulkily. 'The police will take no notice.' 'Then I am going myself,' said Mrs Massell and promptly went. 

Chapter Five

In the Crippen case, the very similar lies were exposed within a few days of the murder. Nevertheless, six months passed before the police were able to take even the preliminary steps. But Crippen had no mother-in-law, nor did he employ domestic help.

Mrs Evershed's maid, in whom Bessie had confided, was being courted by a young constable, to whom she passed Bessie's tale and Mrs Evershed's comments. This she did to entertain the young man, not with any idea of informing the police as such – for even at this stage there was no suspicion that a crime had been committed, in spite of the locked drawing-room.

But everyone's sense of proportion was shattered by the arrival of Mrs Massell. When she was seen to enter the local police headquarters there was hardly anyone in the neighbourhood who was not ready to believe that Cummarten had murdered his wife. In drawing-rooms, in gardens, at the local tennis club, the case of Crippen was recalled, the younger generation tactfully pretending they had not heard it all before.

If the police did not jump to that conclusion, they would seem to have toyed with it. By half past nine, when he went to The Laurels, Superintendent Hoylock had tapped all sources and primed himself with every available fact, even to the details of Isabel Redding's magenta scarf and crocodile bag. He wanted, he told Cummarten, confirmation of Mrs Massell's statement, before he could ask the BBC to broadcast an inquiry.

Cummarten took him into the dining-room, which was rarely used. He heard his mother-in-law's statement read and nodded confirmation of each item, inwardly fearing that Gertrude would be very angry at having her name called on the radio.

'When did you last see Mrs Cummarten?'

'About the middle of Monday morning – before she went to Brighton.'

Superintendent Hoylock folded the statement and returned it to his pocket.

'Mr Cummarten, your wife was seen to enter this house within a few minutes of nine o' clock on Monday night.'

It had not yet dawned on Cummarten that he was in immediate danger of anything but Gertrude's wrath. He looked positively angry.

'It's all Gertrude's fault for not telling me where she's gone!' he blurted out spontaneously. In spite of what Gertrude had said, he would now have to admit that she had returned on the Monday night. His anger stimulated him to a certain ingenuity in adapting the story which Gertrude had concocted.

'I'd better begin at the beginning, Superintendent. A young lady I employ at my office – a Miss Isabel Redding – came to see us in the afternoon. She has been here often – spent several week-ends. She looked on us almost as relations. Lately, my wife became jealous, and everything was – well, not so pleasant as it used to be. Isabel came down to talk it all over. She waited until my wife came home. Words passed, and you may say there was a bit of a row. Soon we all calmed down and I drove the girl back to her flatlet. When I got back here – must have been about midnight – my wife had gone. Next morning the neighbours asked where she was. I wasn't going to tell ' em what I've been telling you, so I told 'em the first thing that came into my head. My wife may have walked out on me for all I know.'

The story held up under Hoylock's questions, because it covered all the facts known to him – with one exception.

'With one thing and another, Mr Cummarten, you've set people talking their heads off. There's a tale about something funny in your drawing-room

–'

'That must be Bessie, our maid,' said Cummarten. 'You see, after breakfast on Monday, before my wife left for Brighton, she thought she'd clean the china –'

'So I heard,' interrupted Hoylock. 'It wouldn't do any harm to let me see that room.'

Cummarten produced a number of keys from his pocket, unlocked the drawing-room door. The Superintendent saw drawn blinds, and a litter of china on the floor – also on the floor, near the window, a cushion.

'Shows what people will say!' remarked the Superintendent. 'Now I'll tell you what we'll do. If nothing develops by tomorrow morning, we'll put it up to the BBC. People really do get lapses of memory sometimes when they're upset. Good night, Mr Cummarten. Don't you worry! We'll stop people talking!'

Talking! What were they saying?

Why, of course! Why hadn't he seen it before! They were saying that he had murdered Gertrude!

And what did they think he had done with her body? Buried it under the floor boards? 

Chapter Six

On Thursday, as Cummarten was about to leave the office for lunch, Superintendent Hoylock turned up, in plain clothes.

'Miss Redding might be able to help us find your wife,' he said. 'Can I have a word with her?'

Cummarten explained. He was pleased when Hoylock asked for her address, because he wanted the police to 'discover' the magenta scarf and the crocodile bag.

'It's a bit difficult to find. It'll save your time if I take you there.'

Outside the flatlet, Hoylock pointed to three milk bottles with the seals unbroken.

'Tuesday, Wednesday, and this morning!' he remarked and rapped on the door. 'Looks as if we shan't get an answer.'

Cummarten indicated that he was not surprised, and added: 'I have a key

– she used to like me to have one.'

Inside the flatlet, the Superintendent behaved, as Cummarten hoped he would, by immediately noticing. the magenta scarf on the folding table.

'Is that the one she was wearing on Monday afternoon?'

'Let's have a look! Yes, that's the one all right.'

Hoylock's eye travelled to the crocodile bag lying on the floor near the stove.

'Wonder why she hasn't taken her bag with her!'

'She had more than one.' Cummarten picked up the bag and displayed the empty interior. 'She evidently shifted her money and whatnots to another bag.'

'So she's disappeared too!' exclaimed Hoylock. 'That's what I call a most peculiar coincidence!'

'Not much coincidence in it, really!' said Cummarten quickly. 'When I was up here with her on Monday night she said she was going straight off to a feller.'

'There and then? Without telling the man she was coming?'

'I didn't believe it any more than you,' said Cummarten. 'She started packing things before I left, but I thought she was putting on an act.' 'What's the man's name?'

'Don't know. She used to refer to him as "Len". I saw him hanging about outside once. Tall, dark chap, thick eyebrows and sidewhiskers. Like a Spaniard. Sort o' chap who appeals to women. Probably a dancing partner by profession.'

Hoylock made a note of the description. Next, he opened the wardrobe, then the drawers of the dressing-table. Cummarten wished he would ask if there were anything missing from the dressing-table. But Hoylock said the wrong thing.

'She didn't take much with her, did she!'

'There was very little room in her one suitcase,' said Cummarten, 'because she had to take her dressing-table set- brushes, combs, scent bottles – eight pieces in all. I saw her packing them.'

'What! All that junk when she'd only got one suitcase! You'd think she'd leave that sort of thing till she came back for her clothes and furniture.'

'It was a very valuable set,' explained Cummarten. 'A present from myself – with my wife's approval, of course! It was real tortoiseshell. I paid

Perriere's a hundred guineas for it.'

'A hundred guineas!' Hoylock was impressed and elaborated his notes.

Everything, thought Cummarten, was going just right, though he wondered why Hoylock was showing such detailed interest in Isabel's movements.

'Miss Redding,' he said, 'is certain to turn up in a few days to collect her things. Is it your idea, Superintendent, that she and my wife have gone off together?'

'I don't say they have. But I do say that if Mrs Cummarten doesn't turn up after the radio appeal we shall have to find this girl.'

Superintendent Hoylock returned to Thadham to file a detailed report – Cummarten to his office to spend the afternoon wondering what had happened to Gertrude.

After the nine o'clock news that night, Gertrude's name was called amongst those missing from their home and believed to be suffering from a loss of memory.

Cummarten sat up until after midnight in the hope that she might turn up. It didn't occur to him that her absence might have a wholly selfish explanation. For his peace of mind he forced himself to accept the loss of memory theory. Someone had told him that the broadcasts always found such persons, if they were alive. He saw clearly what his fate would be if the broadcast failed to produce results in a very few days. 

Chapter Seven

When Cummarten entered his office the next morning he found a young man chatting to Miss Kyle.

'Mr Cummarten,' said Miss Kyle, 'this gentleman is from Scotland Yard.'

Cummarten managed to say 'good morning'. But it was a minute or more before he could understand what the young man was saying.

'In a boarding house in West Kensington, Mr Cummarten. We can get there in twenty minutes in a taxi. If the lady is Mrs Cummarten I can then notify the BBC.'

The lady was indeed Mrs Cummarten. She was being virtually held prisoner by the proprietress of the boarding-house, who had been suspicious from the first of this visitor who had paid a deposit in lieu of luggage.

Gertrude had the presence of mind to tell the plain-clothes youngster that her memory was a blank from the moment she left Brighton on the previous Monday. While the report for the BBC was being filled in, Cummarten telephoned a telegram to Superintendent Hoylock.

In the taxi that was taking them to the station, their first moment alone, Gertrude asked:

'Is everything all right, Alfred?'

'Absolutely! Only it would have been everything all wrong if you hadn't been found. I say – did you really have a lapse of memory?'

'Of course not! In the train I suddenly remembered mother was at Salisbury. I daren't ring you up – in case. It wouldn't have been safe to do anything but just keep out of the way. I was getting short of money. I tried yesterday to catch you on the Tube without anybody seeing me.'

He failed to perceive her callous indifference to his own fate, contented himself with a modest grumble.

'This time yesterday everybody thought I'd murdered you. In another day or two –'

'Well, then, that's the best thing that could have happened, when you come to think of it!'

In the train, in an unoccupied compartment, he gave her his account. To his surprise, she was extremely annoyed when he told her about the locked drawing-room door and the china ornaments.

'As if anybody would believe I'd be so silly! What would be the sense of putting the china on the floor?'

'I couldn't think of anything else to say on the spur of the moment.'

'The less you think about the whole thing now, the better. I shall pretend I've forgotten everything, and they can't get over that.'

The neighbours did not even try to get over it. The prestige of the BBC had the illogical effect of making everyone believe that the lapse of memory must have been genuine. Police interest vanished with the return of Mrs Cummarten. In a week or so, the neighbourhood, in effect, forgot its disappointment that a major scandal had failed to materialize.

A month later, Isabel Redding's landlord distrained on the flatlet for nonpayment of rent. A dressmaker complained that Isabel had obtained a credit of forty pounds by false pretences. The Bloomsbury police, after a perfunctory attempt to find her, reported her as missing. As missing she appeared in the official police publication. Superintendent Hoylock, remembering the name, sent a copy of his report to Scotland Yard.

'Same old story!' grunted the inspector in charge. 'You can never trace these girls. You may pick 'em up by chance some day. Or you may not!'

With which remark he dropped the report into the basket which would eventually be emptied in the Department of Dead Ends.

The Cummartens resumed the even tenor of their life together. Though neither was strong in logic nor in law, they knew, in general terms, that before the police can start digging up a man's garden or lifting his floor boards, they must establish before a magistrate a prima facie case that somewhere therein he has feloniously concealed a corpse.

They knew also that it was now impossible to establish such a case.

Chapter Eight

In May, 1935, the Cummartens went to Brighton to stay for a fortnight with Gertrude's cousin Mabel. While they were away, one Leonard Haenlin, a tall, dark, handsome scoundrel, remarkable for his sidewhiskers, was charged by a wealthy spinster with stealing her automobile and defrauding her in other ways.

The defence was that the car and the other articles and sums of money were gifts, and it looked as if the defence would succeed. The police had recognized that this man was a professional despoiler of women and were working up the case. His rooms were equipped with a number of expensive articles – including a handsome and obviously expensive dressing-table set of eight pieces, in real tortoiseshell.

When asked to account for the latter, he grinned in the face of DetectiveInspector Karslake.

'You think they are not mine. For once, you happen to be right. They belong to a girl friend, who lent them to me. Her name is Isabel Redding.' He added the address of the flatlet.

One of Karslake's men went to the flatlet to check up – to be humiliated by the information that Scotland Yard had posted the girl as missing the previous September.

A chit was duly sent to Detective-Inspector Rason asking for any available light on the ownership of the tortoiseshell set. Having found the reference in Superintendent Hoylock's report, Rason called on Haenlin, who was on bail, to see the set for himself.

'When did you borrow it, Len?'

'She lent it to me to pawn on July 20th, last year. If you look it up, you'll find that on that day I was fined forty quid for a little misunderstanding in Piccadilly. Perriere's, where it came from, said they'd always lend her sixty quid on it. But one of the bottles had a dent and a chip – the mutt who gave it her knocked it off her table – look for yourself – and they would only spring forty-five.'

'A good tale, old man – but you're switching this set with another,' chirped Rason. 'D'you know where Isabel got her set?'

'Yes, from a funny little bloke with a pasty face called Cummarten. You been a detective-inspector long, Mr Rason?'

'July 20th, you said,' returned Rason. 'Stand by for a shock! On the night of Monday, August 7th, Mr Cummarten saw Isabel packing her tortoiseshell set into her suitcase.'

'He didn't – he only thought he did,' grinned Haenlin. 'Listen! I knew I couldn't redeem the stuff for a bit, and Pasty Face might miss it from Isabel's table. So we went to Harridges and paid thirty-seven-and-six for an imitation set, like enough to that one for old Pasty Face not to know the difference. I redeemed the other set last month; you can check up if you want to.'

'That's big of you, Len. Where shall I find her to check up?'

'Wish I knew! She's a good kid, that!'

'Very good not to bother you about her tortoiseshell.'

'Can't make out why she hasn't been round!' Haenlin scowled. 'I'm not sure she isn't holding out on me. She went down to make a row between Pasty Face and his wife, saying she must have a divorce. It's not a sound line as a rule, but sometimes it works. She reckoned to touch for a thousand. Maybe she got it and is spending the dough on her own. Can't think of any other reason why she has kept out of my way.'

At Perriere's, Rason learnt that Haenlin's tale of the purchase and the subsequent pawning was true. Therefore the tale about the imitation set, which had successfully deceived Cummarten, must also be true. But it didn't make sense.

'If the girl was off in a hurry with one suitcase, she wouldn't stuff it with the whole eight pieces of doodah which she knew to be practically valueless. Even if she had pretended to Cummarten that she was taking them, she'd have unpacked 'em as soon as he left the flatlet. Hm! Probably Hoylock has muddled his facts.'

At Thadham, it soon became clear to Rason that Superintendent Hoylock had not muddled his facts. He heard Hoy lock's full story, which included the story of the locked drawing-room and the china.

'So all Tuesday that door was locked – and most of Wednesday? And the blinds were down?'

When Hoylock assented, Rason asked for Bessie's address. By indirect means he contrived that the girl should show him the china, of which he noted that there were only a dozen small pieces.

On the way back he surveyed progress, if any.

'The next check-up is whether it's true the girl was blackmailing Cummarten for a thousand. Hm! Simplest way to do that would be to ask Cummarten.' 

Chapter Nine

Two days later, when the Cummartens stepped out of the Brighton train at Victoria Station they were surprised to find that Bessie had come to meet them. And Bessie was not alone.

Rason stepped forward and announced himself, positively grovelling with apology.

'I'm very sorry indeed to pounce on you like this, Mr Cummarten, and I hope Mrs Cummarten will forgive me. It's about the Haenlin case – I daresay you read about it in the papers.'

Cummarten felt the pain in his breathing apparatus vanish.

'We have a strong suspicion that Haenlin is the man you told Superintendent Hoylock last year that you had seen outside the flatlet of Miss Redding. By the way, we haven't traced that girl yet.'

Cummarten, with something approaching graciousness, agreed to accompany Rason to the Yard to identify Haenlin. Now that the whole thing had blown over, he wished he had never mentioned 'Len' to the superintendent. Still, it had been a wise precaution at the time. He told Gertrude that he would come on by the one-fifteen to Thadham and his lunch could be kept hot.

'Haenlin,' said Rason in the taxi, 'is charged with swindling women. But we strongly suspect that he knows something about the disappearance of

Miss Redding.'

'He struck me as a pretty rough type,' put in Cummarten, 'though I suppose one shouldn't judge on appearance.'

'You don't have to,' said Rason. 'He was working with that girl to trim you, Mr Cummarten. He knew all about her coming down to try and sting you for a thousand quid – he admitted it when we started work on him. But he wouldn't say whether you had paid her the thousand. Would you have any objection to telling us?'

'I have no objection to telling you,' said Cummarten gaining time to reflect that such a payment could be traced, 'that I did not. I couldn't afford such a sum.'

So it was true that the girl had tried. That altered the perspective of all Cummarten's statements and all his actions. But perspective isn't evidence.

There was still a long way to go.

'To show you how he knew all about your affairs,' continued Rason, 'he even mentioned that you'd given her that tortoiseshell dressing-table set and that you yourself had chipped and dented a scent bottle, thereby reducing its value.'

Cummarten was shocked at this revelation of Isabel's treachery.

'I'm not the first man to make that sort of fool of himself,' he muttered. 'But I didn't know she was playing as low down as that.'

Rason's room, normally a disgrace to the orderliness of Scotland Yard, to-day looked more like a store room than an office. His desk had been pushed out of place to make room for a trestle table, the contents of which were covered with a white sheet which might almost have been a shroud.

'We shall have to keep you waiting a few minutes for the identification,

Mr Cummarten,' apologized Rason. 'Take a seat.'

Cummarten sat down, uncomfortably close to the trestle table.

'In the train coming up from Thadham, your maid Bessie made me laugh,' chattered Rason. 'Told me how she thought once you had murdered Mrs Cummarten, because the drawing-room door was kept locked. And it all turned out to be something to do with the china being on the floor.'

Cummarten, being a silly little man, took the words at their face value.

'Yes. My wife was cleaning it when she had to run for her train, and –' 'Why did Mrs Cummarten clean the china in the dark?'

Cummarten blinked as if he had not heard aright. Rason added:

'Bessie says the blinds were down.'

Cummarten opened his mouth and shut it. Rason stood up, towering over him.

'D'you know, Mr Cummarten, if a girl tried to sting me for a thousand pounds I wouldn't see her home.' He drew at his cigarette. 'I'd be more likely to murder her.

'And if I had murdered her I might sneak into her flat and plant her scarf and her bag – then carry off her expensive toilet set, to suggest that she had bolted.'

Again Cummarten had felt that pain in his breathing apparatus. It passed, as cold fear forced him to self-control.

'I don't begin to understand you, Mr Rason. You asked me here to identify that man –'

'Still trying to plant the murder on him, Cummarten? You packed that tortoiseshell stuff in the suitcase yourself and took it back to your house.

And you know where you put it.'

'I deny it!' The words came in a whispered shout.

'You're wasting your breath, Cummarten. Look at that white sheet in front of you, Cummarten. Any idea what's underneath it, Cummarten? Well, lift up the sheet and see. Go on, man! It isn't Isabel – we couldn't bring her along.'

Cummarten sat as if paralysed. Rason tweaked the sheet, slowly raising one corner. Cummarten stared, uncertain whether he were experiencing hallucination. For he saw on the trestle table a scent bottle, with a chip in the glass and a dent in the tortoiseshell cap.

He sprang up, tore the sheet from Rason's hand and flung it back. Spread out on the table was a complete tortoiseshell set of eight pieces.

'You know where you put it!' repeated Rason.

With a cough-like sound in his throat, Cummarten collapsed into his chair, covering his eyes with his hands. When he removed his hands he looked like an old man, but he was wholly calm.

'I suppose it had to come some time,' he said. 'In a way, it's a relief to get it over. I can see now what a fool I've been, from the first. That tortoiseshell brings it all back.' He smiled wanly. 'Paid a hundred guineas for that set!'

It was indeed the set for which Cummarten had paid a hundred guineas – the set which Len Haenlin had pawned and redeemed. Rason had borrowed it when he had become morally certain that Cummarten had buried Isabel – and the imitation set.

But he still had no proof – still did not know precisely where Isabel was buried – could doubtfully have obtained an order to dig at random.

'You made a good fight of it!' remarked Rason. 'Weakest spot was that yarn about cleaning the china –'

'First thing that came into my head where Bessie wanted to do the drawing-room on the Tuesday morning! You see, I couldn't finish the job in the morning-room on the Monday night – all that rubble!'

Rason dug under the morning-room. With the remains of Isabel Redding, there was found an imitation tortoiseshell toilet set costing thirty-seven and sixpence.