Free The Silk Stocking Murders by Anthony Berkeley Page A

stooped and plucked out a feather which, was protruding from the cushion in his chair. “Here you are, sir,” he said. “Put it in your cap. Mr. Pleydell’s waiting at the Yard to see me at this, minute. Care to come round too?”
    “You bet I would,” said Roger, with fervour.

CHAPTER VIII

A VISITOR TO SCOTLAND YARD
    P LEYDELL was in a waiting-room when Roger and the Chief Inspector arrived in Scotland Yard. There had been some discussion between the two on the way, as to whether Roger should appear at this first interview or not; and it had been decided that, as Pleydell would probably be still a little torn between reticence and the reverse, the presence of a third person might tend to tip the balance in favour of the former. In order that Roger should not, however, miss any of the conversation, he was to lurk behind a screen in a corner of the room.
    Moresby had given instructions over the telephone that no hint should be given to Pleydell that the police were already taking an interest in his fiancée’s death, so that whatever he had come to say should be completely spontaneous. It was therefore with eager anticipation that Roger retired into his corner, where he was pleased to find that, by applying an eye to a carefully cut aperture in the screen, he could watch the proceedings as well as hear them. A few moments later Pleydell was shown in.
    Roger wondered at first whether their precautions had been unnecessary, for Pleydell seemed perfectly composed. “Good evening,” he said, in reply to Moresby’s greeting. “I know nothing about the procedure here, but I wish to see somebody on a highly delicate matter.”
    “That’s right, sir,” Moresby assured him. “You can say whatever you wish to me.”
    Pleydell looked a little doubtful. “I was thinking that perhaps the Assistant Commissioner…”
    “Sir Paul is out of town this evening, sir,” Moresby replied untruthfully. “At the moment I’m in charge. You can say anything you wish to me. Take a chair, won’t you?”
    Pleydell hesitated a moment, as if still not quite contented with a mere Chief Inspector, then seemed to accept the inevitable. As he turned to take the chair, Roger was not quite so sure of his composure; there were little lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes that might indicate mental strain. His self-control, however, was strong. Now that Roger could observe him more nearly than in the court, he saw that the Jewish blood in him was not just a strain, but filled his veins. Pleydell was evidently a pure Jew, tall, handsome and dignified as the Jews of unmixed race often are. Roger liked the look of him at once.
    “Now, sir,” Moresby resumed when they were both seated, “what did you want to see us about?” He spoke in easy, conversational tones, as if his visitor might have come, for all he knew to sell him a drawing-room suite on the instalment system.
    “My name is Pleydell,” said the other. “I don’t suppose that conveys anything to you, but I am—I
was
,” he corrected himself painfully, “engaged to be married to Lady Ursula Graeme.”
    The Chief Inspector’s face took on the correct look of condolence. “Oh, yes. A shocking business, that, sir. I needn’t say how I sympathise with you.”
    “Thank you.” Pleydell fidgeted for a moment in his chair. And then his composure and his self-control alike disappeared. “Look here,” he blurted out abruptly, “this is what I’ve come round for—I’m not satisfied about it!”
    “Not satisfied, sir?” The Chief Inspector’s voice was a model of polite surprise. “Why, how do you mean?”
    “I’m not satisfied about my fiancée’s death. I’m sure that Lady Ursula would have been the last person in the world to kill herself like that, without any reason. It’s—it’s grotesque! I want you to look into it.”
    The Chief Inspector drummed on the table with his knuckles. “Look into it, sir?” he repeated. In cases such as this Chief Inspector