Murder Could Not Kill

By Gregory Baxter

Murder Could Not Kill, first published in 1934, is a classic British ‘golden age’ murder mystery. From the dustjacket: “Reuben Foster, a young artist, while taking a walk, witnesses a murder committed in an automobile. He is too late to reach the murderer. In the car he finds a terrified girl bent over the dead body of her father. He drives the girl to her fiancé, and though he wishes to get clear of the case, his strong attraction to the girl involves him in it. What follows is a thrilling succession of climaxes that will leave the reader breathless. An enthralling romance adds the piquancy of passion to the thrills of murder.” Gregory Baxter was a pen-name of John Ressich (1877-1937), author of several detective mysteries.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phocion Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789129052

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

MURDER COULD NOT KILL

By

GREGORY BAXTER

Murder Could Not Kill was originally published in 1934 by The Macaulay Company, New York.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

CHAPTER I 5

CHAPTER II 13

CHAPTER III 21

CHAPTER IV 28

CHAPTER V 34

CHAPTER VI 42

CHAPTER VII 48

CHAPTER VIII 54

CHAPTER IX 58

CHAPTER X 65

CHAPTER XI 72

CHAPTER XII 78

CHAPTER XIII 88

CHAPTER XIV 95

CHAPTER XV 102

CHAPTER XVI 109

CHAPTER XVII 115

CHAPTER XVIII 125

CHAPTER XIX 135

CHAPTER XX 144

CHAPTER XXI 150

CHAPTER XXII 156

CHAPTER XXIII 162

CHAPTER XXIV 168

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 174

CHAPTER I

No one could have mistaken the frightening sound that disturbed the still night; it was a woman’s cry of horror—not of pain.

After midnight in the district round the Bayswater stretch of Hyde Park little traffic is to be expected. The sole pedestrian in sight was a young man walking sharply west from Marble Arch. He heard the cry.

He started—looked round—saw nothing—ran forward and stared in the direction from which he thought the cry had come. Barely fifty yards away two cars were drawn up in the middle of the quiet side street just off Bayswater Road, a limousine and a saloon, the limousine almost directly in the other car’s path, its tail practically touching the saloon’s bumpers. He recalled he had noticed them pass him a few seconds before.

A man was stepping stealthily from the off-side running board of the saloon. He darted forward and swiftly entered the limousine. The whole incident was over in a flash.

There was something so furtive and even sinister in the movement, as it was glimpsed by the young man, that he was instinctively urged to precipitate action.

Sprinting towards the limousine, as it moved away, he caught up with it before it had gathered speed. Jumping nimbly on to the running board he was just able to grab the door handle. Stop! he shouted impulsively to the driver. Stop! The man paid no attention to him, but continued to accelerate.

In the semi-darkness he could see nothing clearly. He peered into the interior. He heard a guttural exclamation, then an arm shot out and the hand, reaching for a hold, snatched violently at him. He swerved away, and resisted, as best he could in his precarious position, this attempt to dislodge him, but was suddenly struck full on the face. The unexpectedness of the blow, more than its actual force, caused him to relax his grip of the door handle. He fell headlong on to the road.

As he fell what seemed almost ludicrously to impress itself on his mind was the sight of the clawing hand with its length of white arm up which the loose shirt cuff and jacket sleeve had slipped. He saw no face; the occupant of the limousine must have had his wits about him to the extent of ducking as he thrust and struck so awkwardly.

But the mental vision vanished as his head hit the street. Fortunately he had pitched first on his shoulder in a rolling fall, and the impact of his head on the roadway was not sufficiently severe to make him entirely lose consciousness. It was, however, sufficiently severe to daze him. Picking himself up, mechanically knocking the dust from his clothes, he gazed after the rapidly retreating car. The night was too dark and the light too uncertain for him to distinguish its make or to read its number plate.

Robin Foster was a fairly level-headed young man, not disconcerted, and with more of the quality of action than is generally accredited to an artist, which calling he followed. But he realized he had stumbled upon some crime of unusual character, and at once hastened at a run to the saloon car, still drawn up in the middle of the road. The inside of it was in darkness and there was no movement as he approached. He opened the door, felt for and found the light switch, and flicked on the current.

Under the soft interior glow he saw the sagging figure of an elderly man in evening clothes; saw, with a shudder, the blood that from a wound in his temple trickled down his cheek and on to his coat. Beside him, on her knees, was a girl. Her head had fallen forward on to the seat—apparently she had fainted.

Good God! Robin exclaimed in astonishment and horror.

Crime of some sort he had been prepared for—indeed, if the truth be told, his somewhat madcap temperament had almost welcomed what looked like a sporting diversion. But not this—not the crime of murder. To find himself confronted with a situation such as this in the residential heart of London undoubtedly did stagger him. Sensations, he would have told you, were more to him than food, and he was ever eager for new experiences. But this was an experience he would gladly have avoided. At that moment, under the reaction, he really felt almost frightened. His life had not been without its excitements, but none of these had been of a nature to equip him to deal adequately with the present emergency. Had only he been a fiction writer, he reflected, instead of an artist! It was one of his characteristics, however, to accept risks carelessly—his choice of a career had shown that. For he had migrated from the Midlands before he was twenty on the strength of the acceptance of a single drawing by a London periodical, and surprisingly, almost immediately, upon his arrival had achieved considerable success in the sphere of black-and-white art. Recently he had directed his activities to scenic art, and in that sphere, too, was winning general recognition.

He bent forward and shook the girl gently. She made no response. He repeated his effort to rouse her. She stirred and raised her head slightly, but almost at once it drooped wearily forward on to the seat again. Although he loathed the necessity and shuddered in doing it, he opened the man’s clothes and placed his hand over the heart—could feel nothing. The man was dead. He jumped back out of the car and looked round. There was no one in sight. A belated homing car flashed across the end of the road, but before he could raise a shout it had gone. As he again turned his attention to the car he suddenly stopped at the sight of a small automatic pistol lying on the floor. He stooped down and gingerly picked it up, holding it by the silencer with which it was fitted.

Finger-prints, came his unspoken thought, followed by the whimsical reflection, "I have learned something from the fillums. He whipped from his pocket a handkerchief and wound it cautiously round the pistol. Production No. i," he murmured and stowed it away carefully.

Bending inside the car again he saw the girl had returned to consciousness. He touched her shoulders and heard her faintly moan. He leaned over her, and raised her. Her eyelids flickered; opened wide. Uncomprehendingly for a moment or two she met his solicitous gaze, then an expression of terror crossed her face.

Father! she cried, and with an effort rose, sinking back on to the seat. She glanced briefly at the motionless figure beside her and, sobbing, hurriedly turned her head away.

Your father, said Robin. I’m sorry. I’m afraid——

He left his fear unexpressed. Even in face of this tragedy he could not withhold from his feelings admiration of her unusual beauty. His artist’s eye was fascinated by her strong but exquisitely proportioned features. Her eyes were large and lustrous, set under slightly heavy but perfectly formed eyebrows. Her hair was a rich deep auburn, and she was blessed with the exquisite creamy complexion which is so often the glowing complement of hair of that alluring color. Although they had blanched her cheeks, the shock she had sustained and the grief she was suffering were unable to mar her charm.

As she gazed at Robin in puzzled wonderment the shadow of a new fear entered her eyes. She definitely shrank from him, and he thought he understood the significance of the gesture. Hastily he proceeded to reassure her as to his identity. He stepped back into the road and remained at the door.

My name’s Foster—Robin Foster. I was passing along and I heard you scream, he explained. I saw the other car move away. I chased after the hounds and tried to get them to stop, but—well, as a matter of fact I only got a clip on the chin-strap and was spun into the road for my pains.

Who was it? Why, why——? she cried in semi-hysteria, beating a clenched fist on the seat beside her.

Look here, interrupted Robert brusquely. What’s best to be done? Get a doctor? Perhaps your father isn’t—— He stopped, annoyed that he could have thought to give her hope when he knew there was none.

I can drive a car, he continued, speaking quickly. The best thing is the nearest hospital or until we come to the first policeman. Or to your home? Do you live far from here? Or I can get help from one of the houses round here and we’ll carry your father there.

No, no. There’s no one at home. I am quite alone—now. The girl shook her head. I want to be with friends—with some one we know. Go back—to 82 Charles Street, the Berkeley Square one. Mr. Peter Lessing’s house. We have just left there. He is a friend. He will help. It’s no distance away. Please, please hustle.

Yes; yes; I’ll hurry all right. I know the place.

Robin jumped to action. He slammed the door; slipped into the driver’s seat, started and turned the car. Not merely from curiosity, but also to help the girl to keep from completely breaking down, he questioned her sympathetically over his shoulder as they rolled along.

It all happened so suddenly. I was given no time to think, she answered in lifeless tones. I was taking father home from Peter Lessing’s house. I wasn’t pushing fast when that other car suddenly dropped from nowhere and seemed to keep running alongside us quite deliberately. Father was in the corner seat here with the window open to get the air. He called out to me—just as we took the corner—he seemed angry and almost frightened.

What did he call out? Robin asked gently as she paused and he heard her sob. He was afraid she was going to be unable to continue. But she rallied and answered:

"‘Laurie, what on earth is that car doing? Get right ahead of it or drop behind.’ I fancy he leaned forward just then and as he spoke there was a funny dull sort of smack. Before I could turn around to see what it was, that other car shot past and cut in in front of me. That took all my attention for the moment. I had to jam on the brakes to prevent crashing into them. I stopped dead. So did the other car.

I saw a man tumble out almost before it had stopped. I think he was in evening clothes. He had a sort of scarf wound round the lower part of his face and a soft hat drawn right down over his eyes. I guess that was so he couldn’t be recognized. He was at our car in a jump and I heard him pull open the door. I was badly scared by this time, though I really didn’t know why, and I swung completely round in my seat. I saw him with his hand in the inside pocket of father’s coat. At that I reached for him—then I saw the blood...Oh, God! There was a break in her voice when she resumed. I tried to get to father. I fancy I must have screamed just then. I remember nothing more until I saw you bending over me. For a moment I thought that you——

Naturally. I understand, Robin said soothingly. He did not care to trouble her with questions at such a time, but he could not restrain himself from asking tentatively:

London is not your home?

No, we are Americans. We have been over on a visit to London for some little time. Dexter is my name—Laurette Dexter. Our home is in New York.

They had now reached their destination and there was no occasion for further speech. Characteristically Robin leaped out of the car and dashed up the short flight of steps leading to the heavy outside door of 82 Charles Street, Mayfair. The girl more slowly followed him.

The street was empty, the house in darkness. He pressed the bell-push peremptorily and continuously.

Full two harrowing minutes, during which neither spoke, passed for them before he heard the welcome sound of hasty, shuffling feet approaching along the hall, then a chain rattled; the key turned and the door was cautiously set ajar by an elderly manservant in a dressing-gown, who stood blinking in the light he had switched on, his eyes still heavy with sleep or the lack of it.

Miss Dexter! the man ejaculated in astonishment as he caught sight of her standing at Robin’s side, and threw the door wide open. Why, whatever——

Something dreadful has happened, Simmons, Laurette interrupted him. Fetch Mr. Lessing, please.

Urgently, commanded Robin. Mr. Dexter has—been seriously hurt. Then come back and help me to carry him in.

God bless my soul! Just one second, sir, while I tell the master. He turned and waddled hastily upstairs, leaving Robin and Laurette Dexter standing impatiently and anxiously at the door.

Simmons—Mr. Lessing’s butler, Laurette explained—did not waste any time, however. He made wonderful speed, and was back almost immediately. He and Robin lifted the body of Sherwood Lee Dexter carefully from the car and carried it into the house.

This is dreadful, sir, dreadful, Simmons declared fearfully, eyeing askance the blood on the head and face of their burden. However did all this come to happen?

Don’t worry about that now, replied Robin. Is Mr. Lessing coming down?

At once, sir. Better take poor Mr. Dexter in here. Amazing how heavy a body turns when life’s gone, wouldn’t you say, sir?

Robin Foster did not answer.

Backing to a door off the hall the butler pushed it open with his shoulder and continued into the door, a large apartment, half library, half study.

Will you please switch on the light, please, Miss Dexter? he asked.

Laurette did so.

They laid the body down on a large couch at the distant end, and Simmons, lifting the cover from a small table, placed it reverently over the dead man’s face. They had hardly straightened themselves when Mr. Lessing walked in.

He had dressed quickly. His feet were in bedroom slippers and a dressing-gown had been thrown hurriedly over such clothes as he had put on. He stared at Robin, looked with solicitous inquiry at Laurette, then caught sight of the body on the couch. He started—walked swiftly forward, and, raising the covering from the face, peered down at it in horrified amazement.

Merciful heavens, he exclaimed slowly as he replaced the cloth and turned round to face the others, what is this! How could this dreadful thing have happened?

Murder, said Robin thoughtlessly, and could have bitten off his tongue when he had said it. He glanced at Laurette, but the expression on her face showed that she had realized by now that her father was dead. She had gallantly accepted the inevitable and had completely regained her self-control, and he could not restrain his admiration of her spirit.

Don’t you think we’d better telephone for a doctor, Robin continued, addressing Lessing, and the police? I happened to be on the scene. It was Miss Dexter who suggested we should come straight to you.

My poor friend, murmured Lessing sadly. My poor Laurette. To think it is only a matter of minutes since we bade each other good night here. And now... He took her hand in his, placed an arm caressingly around her shoulders, and she clung to him for a moment, deriving comfort from his sympathy. Simmons, a little brandy for Miss Dexter. My dear, you must, he added persuasively as she shook her head. You look really ill—my God! no wonder.

The butler went to carry out the instruction, and Mr. Lessing at once put a telephone call through to Scotland Yard.

Briefly he explained the circumstances, stressing the urgency of the case. While he was at the instrument, which stood on a small desk in a corner of the room they occupied, he studied Robin carefully.

He saw a tall, fair-haired, pleasant-looking young man, well-groomed but not too fashionably dressed, with a cheerful, rather nonchalant air. His humorous blue eyes, set in irregular but attractive features, conveyed the impression that they habitually looked on the bright side of things, although now the light in them was somber enough. The mouth and chin gave a hint that this easy-going young man might on occasion discard his nonchalance—could meet an unusual situation with resolution and courage.

Robin was conscious of the other’s scrutiny, and realizing that in the circumstances it was not unreasonable—indeed, very natural—submitted to it without resentment. For his part, he was interested in Mr. Lessing. He had vaguely heard about him. He assumed his social position was unquestioned from the newspaper references to him and the group photographs he saw from time to time in various periodicals. He knew by repute that he was a man of great wealth and some prominence who appeared to entertain lavishly.

Lessing was a man of very striking appearance, between thirty-five and forty years of age, tall, erect and broadly built. His dark hair was flecked with gray at the temples and his strong, deeply lined, clean-shaved face and dark, brooding eyes were those of a man who seemed to have suffered much. His cultivated charm of manner when he spoke completely effaced his normal, almost austere expression. His first action, after he replaced the telephone receiver, was to pour out a glass of brandy from the decanter his butler had brought, and take it to Laurette, now seated with clasped hands and rigid but calm countenance.

Drink this, my dear, he said as he presented the glass. It will brace you up.

As she obeyed he walked over to the window and with astonishing strength ripped a heavy velvet curtain from its fastenings, and as unobtrusively as he could laid it over the motionless figure on the couch. Then, almost with a challenge in his stare, as though he had been meditating the action, he suddenly confronted Robin Foster, who through all this had remained motionless, standing at the side of the fireplace, his hands behind him and his lively eyes fixed frankly on Laurette Dexter.

Now, Mr.——?

Foster is my name—Robin Foster.

The other inclined his head courteously in acknowledgment of the self-introduction, at the same time slightly raising his eyebrows.

The name is somehow familiar. I have heard of you, I think, or seen your name somewhere. Please tell me what happened.

If I may suggest—you’d perhaps get the hang of it better if Miss Dexter told her story first.

Lessing made no vocal reply to this, but turned to Laurette Dexter, who had seated herself with her back to the couch. She had returned the empty glass to the discreetly watchful Simmons and was staring at the floor with her hands again clasped on her lap.

My dear, do you feel——are you able——?

She nodded and smiled wanly.

Oh, quite. I feel much stronger, thanks. I realize what we must face. She told him quickly what had happened. Then Robin took up the story and gave his account of events.

Lessing’s brows were furrowed in solemn wonderment.

You say you did not see the face of either of the men? he asked Robin, from whom his intent gaze had seldom shifted.

No. Impossible. I wasn’t given time for that.

The car—you say you saw nothing of its number, make, or anything special about it that you would recognize again? Nothing whatever?

No, nothing of significance. I have an idea it had no number plate. If it had, it had been obscured. It was, I think, black—an ordinary type of medium-sized limousine like hundreds of others in London today. I didn’t see the bonnet.

What about you, Laurette? Lessing proceeded. Did you see anything at all that might in any way enable you to identify the car or the man again?

She shook her head.

I got a glimpse of him only for a moment as he came into the car. His scarf and hat kept me from seeing anything of his face.

As he came into the car, repeated Lessing musingly. That’s a strange thing. I don’t quite understand that.

The others looked at him in astonishment.

Why strange? Robin asked after a brief silence. He had to clamber wholly or partially into the car to get into Mr. Dexter’s pocket, hadn’t he?

Quite. Nevertheless, I don’t quite understand why he should want to get into Mr. Dexter’s pocket. I hardly think my poor friend was in the habit of carrying such a great sum of money about with him that a stranger would be ready to commit murder for it.

What other idea could any one have had for murdering him? Robin countered.

Exactly.

From the dryness of Lessing’s tone, however, it was clear that he, at any rate, did not consider that the robbery theory carried an adequate explanation of the reason for the crime. As the other made no further comment, I collared one valuable clue, Robin observed, taking from his pocket the handkerchief enclosing the pistol he had picked up. He laid it gently down on the table beside which Lessing stood and disclosed the handkerchiefs content. Better leave it so till the police come along. Likely to be finger-prints on it, you know. Lessing looked at him reflectively out of the corner of his eye.

Yes, exactly. It should be very useful. Where did you find it?

On the floor inside Mr. Dexter’s car. Obviously it was dropped by the man who shot him.

Before Lessing could reply the front door bell shrilled loudly. Scotland Yard, he observed quickly, and stood quietly waiting.

CHAPTER II

A few moments later four men were ushered into the room—a detective-inspector, a detective-sergeant, a casualty