Edgar Wallace

The Stretelli Case and Other Mystery Stories

Warsaw 2018

Contents

1. The Stretelli Case

2. The Looker And The Leaper

3. The Man Who Never Lost

4. The Clue Of Monday’s Settling

5. Code No. 2

6. The Mediaeval Mind

7. The Know-How

8. Christmas Eve At The China Dog

9. The Undisclosed Client

10. Red Beard

11. The Man Who Killed Himself

1. THE STRETELLI CASE

Detective-Inspector John MacKenzie has retired–the newspapers are filled with stories of his exploits. His immediate chiefs are equally filled with wonder, suspecting many reasons for his premature withdrawal from the services of his country, but never by any chance hitting upon the real cause, which was the unquenchable antagonism between his sense of duty, his sense of justice, and his grim sense of humor.

And this conflict of emotions arose over the Stretelli case, which most crime experts and the majority of people consider as having been rounded off on a certain cold December morning in Nottingham Prison.

In a sense this was true; yet, with the compliments of his Chief in his ears and with the knowledge that there was a vacant post for a new superintendent to be filled, duty, justice, and humor battled it out so briskly in his mind that he sat down in his office and wrote his resignation.

In one sense Mackenzie was old-fashioned, and when a card was brought into his office inscribed “Dr. Mona Stretelli, Madrid,” he sniffed. He was prejudiced against women doctors, though this was the first lady who had ever called upon him professionally.

“Show her in,” he said, and wondered exactly what had brought a Spanish lady doctor to Scotland Yard.

She was in the room before his speculations were carried far–a girl of middle height, dark, capable, and even pretty.

“I am very honored to meet you, doctor,” he said conventionally, speaking in French. “What can I do for you?”

She smiled faintly at the brusque greeting.

“You can give me ten minutes of your valuable time, Mr. Mackenzie,” she said in perfect English. “I have rather an important statement to make.”

She handed him a letter bearing the Home Office stamp. It was an introduction from a high official, and Inspector Mackenzie ceased to wonder.

“Do you know Mr. Peter Morstels?” she asked, and he shook his head.

She hesitated.

“In London you must hear… rumors about people–in the West End, I mean. Have you ever heard of Margaret Stretelli?”

Mackenzie frowned. “Of course! I thought the name was familiar. Stretelli! You are related?”

She nodded. “She was my sister,” she said quietly.

“Was–she’s not dead?”

The girl nodded again, and he saw that her eyes were wet.

When Margaret Stretelli disappeared from London, nobody at police headquarters was either relieved or sorry, but the event did not pass unnoticed. Margaret belonged to the bobbed-hair set that had its meeting- place in a Soho restaurant. She was known to be an associate of questionable people; there was talk of cocaine traffic in which she played an exciting but unprofitable part; there was one wild party into which the police had intruded, and a minor court case where she had figured, a little vulgarly, as the driver of a car which had charged a lamp-post. Police headquarters was mildly interested in her vagaries, knew her to be well off in the matter of money, and when she was no longer seen at her haunts they made discreet inquiries, to discover that she had married a gentleman farmer in the Midlands, and had run away from him a very few weeks after the marriage, and had gone to New York.

A very uninteresting and commonplace story, hardly worthy the attention of Scotland Yard’s recording angel, yet, since all crime has its basis in the commonplace, the circumstances were duly noted and filed.

“Perhaps I had better tell you our story,” she began. “My father was a doctor of Madrid, and on his death he left five million pesetas between his two daughters, myself and Margaret. I had taken up my father’s profession, the profession of medicine, and was in my third year when he died.

“Poor Margaret loved life–as she understood it. Three months after father’s death, she left Madrid for Paris, ostensibly to study music. From Paris she went to London, and, so far as I can learn, she got into a very undesirable set. How she came to meet Mr. Morstels, I have never been able to discover. It is certain that she had wasted a great deal of money when she came under his influence. He proposed to her and they were married at Marylebone Registry Office, and she left with him for his home at Little Saffron.

“She was seen there by some of the villagers, and, so far as can be ascertained, lived with him for three weeks. How much longer she was a resident is not known. It may have been three months, it may have been no longer than a month. But, when she disappeared, the story that she had run away from her husband was accepted as true by the villagers of Avignon, who had got quite used to the unfortunate character of Mr. Morstels’ marriages.”

“He had been married before?” asked Mackenzie.

“Twice,” said the girl; “and each time his wife ran away and was divorced by him. Mr. Mackenzie, I am satisfied that my sister has been murdered!”

Mackenzie sat up in his chair.

“Murdered? My dear young lady, that sort of thing does not happen–”

He stopped suddenly, realizing that this was the type of crime that did happen.

“Possibly his story is true, and your sister ran away,” he suggested.

She shook her head.

“That is impossible. Had she run away she would have come to me. We were always the best of friends, and though she was wilful and headstrong, she never got into a strait when she did not ask me to get her out of it.”

“Have you seen Mr. Morstels?” asked Mackenzie. “I have seen him: I saw him yesterday for the first time,” she said, “and the sight of him convinces me that my sister has been murdered.”

“That’s rather a serious statement to make, but I realize that you would not advance such a theory unless you had good grounds,” said Mackenzie, with a smile. “After all, doctors as a profession are not easily influenced or given to making rash statements, are you?”

She shook her head. “I am not, certainly,” she said, rising and walking up and down the room, her voice rising agitatedly. “Forgive me, Mr. Mackenzie, but I am so convinced that poor Margaret is dead that, if she walked into the room at this moment, 1 know that I should be suffering from an illusion.”

“But why do you feel this?” Mackenzie persisted. “Beyond the fact that Mr. Morstels seems to be, by your account, a much,married man, nothing is known against him.”

“I have been making inquiries,” she said.

“The local police speak well of him, but I think that I can furnish you with some details which may be of interest. Before Margaret left London, she drew from the bank the sum of six thousand five hundred pounds. Where is that money?”

“Did you ask him?”

“I asked him, and he said that one of his greatest misfortunes was that the lady, when she left him, had taken with her not only her own money but some of his. He had the audacity to ask me if I was prepared to refund it.”

Mackenzie sat hunched up at his desk, his chin in his hand, a heavy frown on his face.

“It grows more and more like a conventional murder story,” he said. “I hope for your sake, Miss Stretelli, that you are mistaken. I will see Mr. Morstels.”

On a wintry morning, when the frost showed whitely on the bare branches in Mr. Peter Morstels’ orchard, Detective-Inspector Mackenzie made his leisurely way from the little railway station, a pipe between the teeth, the furled umbrella, without which he never moved, under his arm. In sight of Hill Cottage he stopped and carefully inspected the rambling house with the ugly concrete extension that had recently been completed. It stood on the slope of a hill, a picturesque dwelling, owing something of its charm to distance. Five minutes later he was inspecting the building nearer at hand, and he was not impressed.

The man who answered his knock was unusually tall and broad, a veritable giant of a man. His thin hair was flaxen, his big face ruddy with the glow of health. Standing square in the doorway, he looked down upon the detective with a scowl of suspicion.

“Good morning, Mr. Morstels. I am Inspector Mackenzie from Scotland Yard.”

Not a muscle of the big man’s face moved. No flicker of lid hid for a second the pale blue of the saucer eyes.

“Glad to see you, officer. Come in.”

He led the way to a stone-floored kitchen, low-ceilinged and clean.

“I’m wondering if Miss Stretelli sent you? She did, eh? I thought it was likely. If I haven’t had enough trouble with her sister without her coming to me with fantastic stories about my wife!”

“Where is your wife?” asked Mackenzie bluntly.

“In America somewhere–she never told me the town she was going to, naturally. I’ve got her letter upstairs.”

He was gone a few minutes, returning with a sheet of gray paper. It bore no address.

I am leaving you because I cannot endure the quietness of the country. I am writing this on board the “Teutonic.” Please divorce me. I am not traveling in my own name.

Mackenzie turned the letter over in his hand.

“Why didn’t she use ship’s stationery?” he asked pleasantly. “A women in a hurry to get away does not usually unpack her trunks in order to get stationery that is available in the saloon. I suppose you traced her through the passenger list–oh, of course, you couldn’t. She was traveling in another name. I wonder how she got over the passport difficulty?”

He said all this musingly, watching the man before him, but if he expected to irritate Peter Morstels into an indiscreet statement, he was to be disappointed.

“That was her business,” said the other calmly. “She did not take me into her confidence. Her sister thinks I have killed her!”

He laughed quietly. “Fortunately, I was alone when she called the other day. A nice story would have gone through the village if my servant had heard her!”

His eyes never left the detective’s face as he spoke.

“I suppose she told you something of the sort?” he queried. “If she did, you’re at liberty to search the house, dig up the ground, and pull the place to pieces. I can say no fairer than that. The only things I have of hers are some clothing she did not take away. Would you care to see it?”

Mackenzie followed him up the stairs to the big bedroom at the front of the house. In a wardrobe closet he found a fur coat, two or three dresses, and half a dozen pairs of shoes. These latter he examined carefully, one by one, and found a pair that had not been worn.

Mackenzie, who knew something of women, drew his own conclusions. An examination of the garden and the grounds brought him no nearer to a solution of the girl’s disappearance.

“What are you building there?” he asked, pointing to the half- finished concrete annex. The man smiled slowly.

“That was to have been a new bathroom for my lady! Hill Cottage wasn’t good enough for her. I wasbuilding this place as a sittingroom for myself, but she made me remodel it for her use. I’m a poor man, Mr. Mackenzie, but I would have spent my last sou for that woman! She had plenty of money–thousands–but not a penny did she give me. Not that I wanted it.”

Mackenize drew a long breath.

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