The Man Who Was Not. John Russell Fearn

Dawson family was definitely shaken, though not greatly grieved, by the death of Gerald. He had always been a problem, anyhow. Quietly, each one told everything they knew, and there certainly was not a shred of evidence to suggest foul play.

      The only one who slipped up, though not intentionally, was the maid—in that she never mentioned the phone call Gerald had received. In that she was not to blame, particularly as she did not know what the phone message had comprised.

      So the business ended—for the time being, with the body buried and the Coroner giving a verdict of “Death from Mis­adventure.” So perhaps the matter might nave faded out completely had not November, a month later, seen a recurrence of the events which had led up to Gerald’s death. And this time it was Trudy, the younger sister, who found herself involved—so much so she turned to Scotland Yard for help.

      Her insistent pleas, and the fact that she was the daughter of the very eminent Sir Robert Dawson, finally gained her an audience with somebody who mattered—Chief-Inspector Hargraves, normally attached to the Homicide Division, but also an expert in various other branches of crime as well, particularly those of a baffling nature.

      A tall, lean-faced, immobile man with thinning ginger hair, he sat looking at the dumpling of a girl across the desk as she agitatedly poured forth her story.

      “It happened this afternoon at about half past three, inspector! A telephone call telling me that I’m going to die tonight at nine o’clock!”

      Hargraves made a note and passed an unnoticed glance towards his right hand man, Sergeant Brice, who was unobtrusively short-handing the interview from his own desk.

      “Half past three,” Hargraves repeated, following some line of thought. “And how was the call received, Miss Dawson?”

      “How?” Her gray eyes looked indignant. “I’ve just told you, inspector! By telephone!”

      “Quite so, but was it on the direct line telephone, through an extension, or what?”

      “Oh—er—the extension. There’s one to every room in the house—every bedroom that is. There was a long pause when I said hello, and I began to think there wasn’t anybody on the line—then just as I was about to put the phone down, a voice spoke. It didn’t ask me if I was Trudy Dawson—it said I was, and then went on to say that I would die at nine tonight.”

      “Can you give the exact words?” Hargraves asked.

      “As near as I remember them he said, ‘I have a message for you, Miss Trudy Dawson. I will make it as brief as possible. You will die at precisely nine o’clock tonight. Good bye.’ That was all. Didn’t give me a chance to speak, or anything. I was so stunned I’d nothing to say, anyway.”

      “I suppose,” Hargraves mused, “the idea of a particularly cruel practical joker had occurred to you?”

      “Yes, but....” Trudy’s plump face clouded. “I can’t quite credit that for two reasons. One is that I don’t think anybody of my acquaintance would be so utterly beastly; and on the other hand my brother died in a road smash not quite a month ago—at nine o’clock at night. A coincidence, of course, but the time being the same I—I feel desperately uncomfortable.”

      “That is understandable, Miss Dawson, but rather foolish. A connection between the two incidents is most unlikely. Come to think of it I remember reading about your brother’s accident. Crashed in his sports car, I believe?”

      “Yes—and on a perfectly empty road. That was the queer thing.”

      Hargraves shrugged. “That—without wishing to sound callous—is beside the point, Miss Dawson. You have received this warning and in case it should be true you want police protection. You’re quite entitled to ask for it, and we’ll see that you have it. But first I’d like a few details.”

      “Haven’t I given them already?”

      “I’d like to go further. A warning such as you have received, genuine or otherwise, is an indictable offence, and of course we want to trace the individual concerned. I gather it was a man. What kind of voice?”

      “Very pleasant and deep. He sounded almost apologetic for warning me.”

      “Thank you. Now, can you think of anybody who could really wish to have you out of the way? Don’t pull your punches, Miss Dawson. Think hard, and be ruthless.”

      There was a silence whilst Trudy went through all the mani­festations of a mental struggle. Then at last she shook her head.

      “Most people like me,” she said, rather naively. “I’m quite certain there’s nobody would wish to kill me—or play such a horrible joke upon me.”

      “Which would seem to imply there is little need for alarm,” Hargraves smiled; and at that the girl’s expression changed.

      “Even so, I want protection!”

      “You have my word. I’ll contact the Divisional-Inspector for Kensington and have him arrange a detail of men.”

      “But—why him? Aren’t you going to do it personally?”

      “It is not within my jurisdiction for me to do so. Your home is in Kensington, and it is the job of the Divisional-Inspector for Kensington to look after your interests. Everything will be attended to, and an effort will be made to trace the mystery caller. In that respect, unfortunately, we’re handicapped.”

      “How so?”

      “Well, your phone is on the automatic dialing system, and most certainly the caller would also be on it. To trace a call on the dial system is impossible. There are ways, if desperate reason demands it, but so far that urgency has not arisen.”

      Hargraves rose politely to signify the end of the interview, and Trudy too got to her feet. At the door, as Hargraves grasped her extended hand, she looked at him seriously.

      “Don’t fail, inspector. I’ve got a sort of presentiment.”

      “The guard will arrive about six o’clock,” Hargraves promised. “The grounds of your home will also be under surveillance. You have nothing to fear. I would suggest you do not go far from home for the rest of the day.”

      “I won’t. I’ve only come out now in order to see you. As a matter of fact I was at a pretty hectic party last night and I’ve felt woozy ever since. Didn’t wake up until noon. Anyway, inspector, thanks for all you’re doing.”

      “A pleasure, Miss Dawson.”

      Hargraves closed the door upon her and then slowly returned into his office. Sergeant Brice glanced across at him.

      “What do you make of her, sir? A spoiled miss with severe wind up?”

      “Perhaps.” Hargraves looked at the notes he had made. “Just perhaps, sergeant. I hope to heaven there’s nothing in the girl’s presentiment. Women are funny that way sometimes; they know a thing’s going to happen before it does.”

      There was a temporary silence as Hargraves’ thoughts trailed off for a moment; then with sudden decision he picked up the telephone and started contacting the Divisional-Inspector for Kensington.

      * * * * * * *

      Because the arrival of the men of the law would undoubtedly raise questions, Trudy lost no time when she returned home in telling her mother and sister the facts—and though they were mystified they agreed that the safest course was to call in the law. As it happened, Sir Robert Dawson came home from the hospital—where he was resident surgeon and consulting specialist—at the same time as the plainclothes men arrived. At six o’clock he alighted from his car to discover a squad car and four powerful men just behind him.

      Sir Robert was nothing if not to the point. In the hall he cross-examined Trudy as relentlessly as a prosecuting counsel—so much so he nearly had the girl in tears by the time he finished.

      “All right, it’s done