CHAPTER FOUR
1030 hours, Saturday June 24th, 1922
Station House No. 4
"Learn anything?" Inspector Brackenreid called from his office as Murdoch returned. His boss was reading the papers again and his hair was mussed - always a warning flag.
"There are going to be the usual delays in receiving results, sir." He sat down on the inspector's black leather settee. "Dr. Ogden's only physical findings so far are that Mr. Landswell was poisoned by an unknown substance and he was not obviously alcoholic. But none of it is definitive."
"No other speculations?"
He picked a speck of lint off his trousers. "We must remain open to the idea of accidental poisoning, Mr. Landswell choosing poison as a suicide method, and, finally murder."
"And motive," Brackenreid reminded him. "For murder or suicide, we can look into his business and personal life. What are his assets? Is there insurance? Who inherits?"
He nodded. "Perhaps he served in the war and has struggled with the aftereffects and... well, decided he could not cope anymore."
"Oh for... He wasn't one of those poor sods who lost an arm or a leg, or half their face!"
"No, sir. As for accidental poisoning…"
"If that bastard Rocco Perri's illegal alcohol killed all those people, we need to see him hanged." His boss's voice was sharp. Brackenreid leaned forward on his desk, tapping the newspapers with his glasses. "Murdoch - just in case it is not an accident - I want you to try and see if there is a link between Mr. Landswell and Perri. And I need you to be quiet about the inquiry. Don't let on to anyone you are trying to do it."
This was the real problem, and he had no idea if finding such a link was ultimately going to be better or worse regarding the politics of the day. He guessed worse. "If there is a tie-in with Rocco Perri's organization and the adulterated alcohol, perhaps Mr. Landswell and his business ran afoul of Mr. Perri."
"That would do it, poor bugger." Brackenreid sat back in his chair, appeared to reconsider his statement, then shrugged. "Get on with it then. Bring me back evidence or a suspect by the end of the day."
He rose to leave, then turned back. He'd been thinking about another, darker, avenue of investigation. "Sir, we have to consider all possible motives. Including this was a deliberate poisoning of multiple people which happened to include Mr. Landswell."
"Good God! I know there have been accidents before...but deliberate mass poisoning? That is diabolical!"
Murdoch agreed. "Just because it has not happened before doesn't mean It cannot happen."
"But, why? What possible, bloody-minded motive?"
He chose his words carefully. "Individuals with extreme sentiments who support prohibition and those who wish to repeal it, might use the specter of so many deaths as public theatre for their cause. Or it could simply be a person with a grudge against Society with homicidal impulses."
Brackenreid shook his head in disbelief. After a moment he straightened in his chair and picked up his glasses again. Murdoch knew no one who served in the war had any doubt about Man's capacity for evil, Brackenreid being no exception. "What do you lack and what is it going to cost me?"
"I am at a standstill for forensic evidence until the autopsies and lab work are finished. I will go back to the Crown Club tonight to do follow-up. In the meantime, give me as much latitude as possible, sir. And, for discretion, we'll keep the number of men on the job towards the small side. Hodge is rounding up what we can get on the other deaths. I'll send Higgins to get background information on Mr. Landswell's business and personal life, and get Crabtree to track Landswell's movements, persons he visited or who visited him. That might help sort out motive for either murder or suicide, and the possible source for the cognac which we are presuming killed him." He knew he was asking an awful lot of his men; the least he could do was try to get them compensated. "I might be requesting overtime, sir."
Brackenreid resumed his long face, then relented. "Very well, Murdoch. You go personally to Landswell's house to poke around and I'll instruct the others what needs to be done. But Murdoch, watch your mouth about your theory of a mass poisoning, or there will be mass hysteria to go along with such a notion!"
With the keys from Landswell's personal effects, Murdoch let himself into the man's home, standing in a small foyer with a dining room on the left and a salon on the right. All three spaces were expensively wallpapered in coordinated, understated arabesques. A Turkish carpet in complementary greens and golds was centered in each room. He picked up the mail which had spilled from the mail-slot onto the floor. He needed to get a sense of Conrad Landswell's personality, so he looked through the slim post - a single envelope from Landswell's bank and an Eaton's catalogue. He set them both on the hall table which held a telephone receiver. He took down the number and surveyed the space.
The first thing he noticed was the house was spotless. Landswell was either a good housekeeper or paid a maid to clean. The furnishings all had a modern feel - new pieces, not a family inheritance. In the dining room the table was walnut, with a silver-service displayed on an accompanying sideboard. Above the sideboard was a large mirror. Underneath in the cupboard, was a single small decanter, which smelled like sherry. Apparently, he did the bulk of his drinking at the Crown. The salon held a pair of olive-green sofas, a small mahogany table, and two upholstered chairs in the bay window. A coloured glass lampshade hung at the end of a graceful bronze lamp. Three landscape oil paintings and two prints graced the walls. He was no art critic, but he judged they were tasteful and well-executed. There were no books, no photographs, no clutter and no memorabilia. Nothing revealing of the owner. He proceeded down the hall, past the staircase, to the kitchen in the back of the house. A set of fine china with a simple band around the edges and crystal stemware rested in a butler's pantry. The icebox was empty. The only foodstuffs were dried goods, with a small amount of bread and butter in the larder. Under the sink, Murdoch found a plethora of products and preparations to clean a home and its contents or eliminate pests. These he copied down in his notebook, and left them in place.
Up the stairs was altogether different - no attempt at decor or embellishment. Here, the rooms were out of order. In Landswell's room at the front of the house, the bed was unmade, clothing tossed over the back of a chair. The closet contained two nearly identical dark suits and six white shirts with attached collars. He rooted around in the drawers, turned the mattress over, and pulled out all the paper in the Landswell's small desk until he found the lead he was looking for. The other two rooms and the bathroom received the same treatment. He copied down the names of any nostrums or chemicals in his notebook.
There was no sign of a second person inhabiting the home. No evidence of a woman, other than a few letters Landswell kept which appeared to be from a recent love interest, if the dates on them were any indication. No safe. No cash.
By the time he was done, Murdoch had a fully formed suspicion about Mr. Conrad Landswell, but to be sure, he checked the attic and basement. It was already hot, so he shed his jacket before heading up a set of winding stairs to the attic, where he found what he was looking for: a full set of out of fashion furniture under a few sheets to keep the dust off. There was a crate or two of gew-gaws as well. The cellar only revealed a jumble of tools and leftover electrical wires and parts, a few stoneware dishes and ordinary glassware.
Murdoch came back to the first floor for the last test of his theory, even though he was running out of time - he was due at the morgue with Crabtree by five o'clock. He started back in the dining room, pulling the sideboard out from the wall, turning over the silver pieces and each chair. He even pulled the carpet up at the edges until he found a small label.
"Gotcha!" he said to the room, unmindful of the smears on his suit and the grit which dusted his sweaty features.
He grabbed Landswell's mail on the way out, adding it to the few papers he removed from the house, closing and locking the door behind him. He used a clean handkerchief to wipe the dirt from his eyes. Letting himself out of the house he hurried to his office because he was interested in seeing what Constables Crabtree and Higgins were going to come up with, but Murdoch was already certain of one fact that might be critical to getting to the bottom of Landswell's death:
Conrad Landswell was a fraud.
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