Free Death of a Beauty Queen by E.R. Punshon

London, I should say,’ Penfold commented, in parentheses, and continued: ‘At least, most of ’em are cracked on the pictures, want to be film stars, and like as many boys in tow as they can get. Miss Mears never brought her boys to the flat, and Miss Perry only knows the names of one or two – the photographer, Beattie, and Leslie Irwin. Miss Perry let me lock the door of Miss Mears’s room so it can be examined later. She took it fairly calmly when I told her what had happened. I think she regards it as a natural judgment on a flighty girl, but is quite anxious to see judgment done on the murderer, too. She seems one of those people whose religion chiefly consists in expecting a judgment on others.’
    â€˜Does she know this Leslie Irwin?’ Mitchell asked.
    â€˜No. She approves of his father though. Mr Irwin led the local opposition to the Sunday opening of cinemas, and Miss Perry always approves of people who disapprove of what other people want – if you see what I mean,’ he added doubtfully.
    â€˜Do you know anything yourself about Mr Irwin – the father, I mean, of course.’
    â€˜He is a lawyer, but he doesn’t practise privately. He is secretary and solicitor to the Brush Hill Building Society. It’s a big concern – very flourishing now. There were rumours about it at one time, but it’s made big progress ever since the war, thanks to Mr. Irwin. He’s made it. Mr Irwin’s father was one of the founders back in the last century and the general idea is that Leslie Irwin is to follow his father and grandfather. He’s an articled clerk to a City firm at present, but acts as his father’s secretary, too – in training for the old man’s job.’
    â€˜Know anything about him?’ Mitchell asked.
    â€˜No, except that he’s honorary secretary to the Brush Hill Amateur Dramatic Society, and they say had a big row with his father over taking it on. But he managed it rather well. He joined the Brush Hill Literary Institute to study German – which his father did approve of. Then he joined one or two more classes, added the Literary Institute dramatic class, and worked on to the A.D.S. before the old man quite knew what was happening. In the blood apparently – the grandfather was a friend of Irving’s and Toole’s, and used sometimes to take a share in dramatic productions.’
    â€˜Interesting family,’ observed Mitchell thoughtfully. ‘There was a hat in the room where the girl was murdered,’ he went on. ‘It seems it may belong to Mr Paul Irwin.’ Penfold looked very surprised and bewildered.
    â€˜That’s very funny,’ he said. He got up and went across to look at the hat towards which Mitchell had pointed. ‘Mr Irwin usually wears a hat like that,’ he admitted cautiously.
    â€˜I suppose he will be on the phone–’ Mitchell began, and then paused. ‘No, I think you had better go yourself. Take my car, it’ll be waiting. Ask Mr Irwin and the boy to come round here – oh, and, Penfold, the murderer can hardly have avoided getting covered with blood. But the funny thing is there’s no sign or trace of any bloodstains outside the room itself, and no one, apparently, has been noticed with anything of the sort on his person or clothing – except the photographer who discovered the poor girl. There’s the chance that the murderer covered himself up with a raincoat, or something like that – it’s drizzling a little, so a raincoat would seem natural. But just keep your eyes open for anything to suggest that either of the Irwins – father or son – has changed his clothing or washed his face or hands recently.’
    â€˜Very good, sir,’ Penfold answered. ‘Ferris asked me to tell you he can’t get track of Miss Mears’s handbag. They are quite positive at the hospital it was never there. No one here seems