by Zenith Brown
“The mistress will be down in five minutes,” she reported. “Poor lamb, it’s the first night’s sleep she’s got in a long time. Sleeping like a baby she was. I had to fair shake her to wake her up. Miss Agatha’s coming too. Both of ’em, fast sound asleep.
“The mistress says to go to the library,”
she added. She ushered Bull through the pantry, dining room and hall and threw open the library doors.
“Thank you, Mrs. Coggins.”
Bull glanced around the room, taking in its details as a matter of habit while he was thinking intently of other things. In a surprisingly short time Mrs. Colton appeared. She was surprising also, Bull thought, in looking much better than when he had seen her last. Her hazel eyes were brighter, her cheeks fuller. And as always, Bull was a little surprised that she wore no jewels of any sort. That she naturally would not be wearing jewels in the morning did not occur to Bull.
She came forward quickly.
“Mrs. Coggins says that Peskett has been shot,” she said almost in a whisper. “Is it true?”
“Yes,” Bull said.
She closed her eyes. The corners of her mouth trembled. Bull thought she was going to cry.
“It’s terrible,” she said.
There was a sound in the hall. Bull glanced from the bent, ashen-gold head of Mrs. Colton to her step-daughter. Agatha Colton ignored her stepmother entirely.
“What’s this about Peskett?” she said quickly. “Mrs. Coggins says he’s dead.”
“He was shot this morning, Miss Colton.”
Her lithe figure stiffened.
“You don’t mean here? Not in our garage?”
“Yes. In the room above the garage. He was shot with a revolver, at close range.”
Bull looked from one to the other.
“He was going to sail for America next week,” Agatha said after a silence. “Poor fellow.”
“Did either of you hear a shot?” Bull asked.
They glanced at each other. Each shook her head.
“Agatha’s room is on the other side of the house, Inspector Bull. She couldn’t possibly.”
“And you?”
“No. I heard nothing. I went to bed early, about half past ten. I was very tired. I’ve not slept much the last two weeks, until last night.”
“I slept like a rock,” Agatha said abruptly. “I always wake up at six. This morning I slept until I was called. My mouth feels like the bottom of a bird cage.”
Bull looked at her in surprise.
“Can’t we have a cup of tea here, Louise? I’m most frightfully loggy.”
“Surely. Ring, will you please?”
Bull kept to the subject in hand.
“Mrs. Colton,” he said clumsily, “do you mind if I search your house?”
She looked at him in amazement.
“What for?” she said blankly.
Bull hesitated. He decided it was better to have it out at once.
“I’ve no warrant, Mrs. Colton,” he said gravely. “But this morning sometime before five o’clock one of my men (how Pinkerton would be pleased, Bull thought) saw a light in your kitchen—a flash from a hand torch. The kitchen door was unlocked when Coggins let me in. If there was someone in your house he might be concealed here now. Because, Mrs. Colton, no one has left—as far as we know. Now as I haven’t a search warrant, it’s up to you.”
Miss Colton intervened sharply.
“I’d get in touch with Field, Louise. You don’t know where this may lead.”
Mrs. Colton smiled wearily.
“Let’s get on with it,” she said. “You may search the house, Inspector. Shall I go with you?”
“I’d like both of you to go with me.”
Miss Colton laughed.
“There’s nobody in my room and here’s my tea. I’ll drink it first, if you don’t mind. Do you mind, furthermore, if I pick up a few of my things before you go in my room?”
“I’d rather not,” Bull said placidly. “I shan’t disturb anything.”
She shrugged her slim shoulders as she poured the tea.
“Louise?”
“Not now. I’ll go with Inspector Bull.”
In Mrs. Colton’s sitting room Inspector Bull glanced out of the open window. He saw his men around the garage, and turned to Mrs. Colton.
“Were your windows open last night?”
“Yes. All of them.”
“You didn’t hear a shot?”
“Nothing. I slept very soundly.”
Bull glanced about the room. He wished he had asked Mrs. Colton to stay downstairs. He was about to ask her to go back to her step-daughter, when, glancing into the mirror of her dressing-table, he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Colton’s face. There was an expression of fear in it; and her eyes were riveted on something. She was looking towards the fireplace. Bull looked casually towards it He could see nothing. The fireplace was perfectly normal. There was a low table by it. On the table was a vase with flowers, and a book.
He glanced away. When he looked at Mrs. Colton she was calmly waiting, her long white hands folded patiently in front of her. Bull had seen something he wanted here; but for appearances he stepped to the wardrobe and opened it He closed it again.
“That’s all here, Mrs. Colton. Miss Colton’s room, please.”
She led him down the hall to the other side of the house. Agatha Colton’s room was a picture of disorder. Filmy garments were flung hastily over chairs; shoes and a hat had been deposited helter-skelter on the chaise longue.
Bull glanced tentatively at Mrs. Colton. She smiled.
“Quite all right,” she said. “Agatha never hangs things up. Yesterday was Amy’s afternoon off.—I wonder if you’d excuse me a moment?”
“Surely. Why don’t you go down and have a cup of tea? I’ll only be here a minute—then I’d like to see the other upstairs rooms.”
“Thank you!” Mrs. Colton said. “I do need it.”
She smiled gratefully at him and went quickly out of the room.
Bull thought a moment, then went quickly to work. He did not have to be very careful. Disorder reigned; he could add nothing to it. He went quickly through the drawers of the dressing table, through the painted boxes of stockings, gloves, lace collars, and cuffs. He looked in her jewel case, which was unlocked and which contained several pieces of jewelry of good quality. He looked in the drawers of the wardrobe, filled with shoes. At last he came to the little make-up table between the windows looking over the garden next door. He opened the lid. In plain sight, dusted with powder, lay the bolt from Oliver Peskett’s door; beside it was a small screw-driver, of the kind supplied at Woolworth’s. Bull looked at them a minute, then wrapped them together in his handkerchief and put them in his pocket. He closed the top of the poudriére.
He turned just in time to see Miss Colton come in the room.
“Powdering your nose, Inspector?” she asked, smiling with charming impudence.
Bull looked at her gravely.
“Where did you get this, Miss Colton?” he asked. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and unwrapped the bolt and screw-driver.
The smile on her face faded. She looked steadily at them.
“I’ve never seen them, Inspector Bull,” she said quietly.
“They were in your powder table, Miss Colton.” He looked at her with mild interest.
“Then you must have put them there,” she said. Her black eyes snapped. “What else have you found in my room?”
“Nothing yet. Will you think it over and tell me how this came here?”
The black eyes flashed.
“I can tell you now, Inspector Bull, that I don’t know. I’ve never seen either of them before. I’m not a carpenter.”
“How did they get here, Miss Colton?”
“I said you probably put them there,” she said quickly.
“I assure you I didn’t. This bolt, by the way, was taken from Peskett’s door last night. It’s part of a lock he’d put on it. The
person who took it off is probably the person who murdered him.”
She looked steadily at him.
“Do you think I did it, Inspector Bull?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know who did it, Miss Colton. May I ask you not to say anything about it—not to anybody?”
“Of course. Oh, it’s too terrible. . . .”
“Thank you. Not anybody—do you understand? Not even to Michael Royce.”
She smiled suddenly.
“Now one thing more please. Will you see if Mrs. Colton is in her room?”
Agatha Colton looked at him. Then she went quickly down the corridor, tapped gently at Mrs. Colton’s door, waited a moment, then opened the door gently. She waved to Bull.
“She must be downstairs.”
Bull nodded and went into the room.
He went directly over to the fireplace. The fireplace seemed the same. On the table was the vase filled with flowers, and a book. Inspector Bull grunted happily. The book was red, with a stamped gold title on the spine; but the book that had been there before was red with a printed black title. Bull looked hastily up and down the book shelf at the other side of the fireplace. On a low shelf, half concealed by a chintz-covered chair arm, he spotted the book. He took it out. Inside was a cheque, from Martha Royce to Louise Colton, for £ 500.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Bull put the cheque back in the book, put the book back on its shelf, and went out. The door to Agatha’s room was closed, and no one was in sight. He went downstairs; Mrs. Colton was not in the library. Bull was glad. He didn’t know exactly what he could say to her. He had other things to do first. He slipped out of the side door and joined Pinkerton and a constable in the garage.
“There’s nothing to do here,” he said. “You stand by. Better stay inside—and don’t let anybody in. After I go you can tell Mrs. Colton that I was called away and I’ll see her later. Come along, Pinkerton.”
They pulled up outside Victoria Station and went in for a bite of breakfast.
“You’d better get along home now, Pinkerton, and get some sleep,” Bull said. The little Welshman was blinking over his porridge like a weary child. “Take the Underground. I’ll be out later.”
“Can’t I go with you?”
“You’ll be more help in bed,” Bull said with great mildness. Just then he caught sight of himself in the nickel surface of the tea urn. He paid the bill hurriedly.
“See you later,” he said. “I’m going to have a wash and get on.
In New Scotland Yard twenty minutes later Bull looked over the reports that had come in.
At 10.43 o’clock on the night of the Colnbrook Outrage a trunk call had been put through from London to the Doaks household in Slough for Field’s valet. Doaks had already left for town. The source of the call was impossible to trace; it had been made from a public telephone.
That night also, Doaks had stopped in at the Jolly Farmers at nine o’clock and had stayed ten minutes. He had taken the 10.04 from Slough to London, arriving, as he said, in Mr. Field’s chambers in Gray’s Inn at half past eleven.
Bull thought about it. It was conceivable that Doaks could have made the distance from Slough to Colnbrook between 9.10, when he left the Jolly Farmers, and 9.25, when Colton was robbed and murdered. Assuming particularly that the clock in the Jolly Farmers was set ahead a minute or so to facilitate ten o’clock closing. Mrs. Colton and the chauffeur had been fairly certain of 9.25 as the time of the murder. Bull chewed the right end of his fine tawny moustache. He then went through the papers in front of him to see what Doaks had been doing the night before.
His shadower had followed him to the market in Lamb’s Conduit-street and had observed him doing Mr. Field’s marketing for the day. He seemed uneasy, and kept looking behind him furtively. Once he started very definitely, and dropped his greens when he happened to glance at a man standing beside him at the green grocer’s. The man was of medium height and build, clean shaven, dressed in a grey lounge suit. Doaks had evidently been mistaken. The man moved away without speaking to him; Doaks showed signs of great embarrassment and tried to explain his actions to the green grocer. The green grocer clapped him on the shoulder, laughed, and gave him some other greens.
Doaks had then returned to the Gray’s Inn rooms and gone inside. He came out about nine o’clock and went to a public house—the Clarendon Arms—in Theobald’s-road. He sat alone in a corner until closing time. He kept looking up when anyone came in the door, but no one spoke to him, nor did he make or receive any signs. The watcher volunteered the impression that Doaks did not expect anyone but seemed afraid that someone might come.
He had then gone back to Gray’s Inn, walking around Red Lion-square to Holborn. At half past ten the lights in the house were turned out. The shadower had waited for two hours. At half past twelve he went to the coffee stall at the foot of Gray’s Inn-road and had a snack. He returned ten minutes later and saw a light on the first floor. He watched it until 4.15. He then went back to the coffee stall and had a cup of tea. He was back within ten minutes again. He had just taken his post when the light went out. He then waited until Doaks came down to get the morning papers and milk at 7.30.
Bull allowed himself a sardonic smile and an impatient gesture. Either the fates were against the C.I.D. or, as he was inclined to believe, Doaks was cleverer than Bull had thought.
He reached for the telephone and told the desk man to call off Doaks’s shadower. It seemed fairly obvious that Doaks had known he was being watched and had waited until the shadower had gone for a moment. He then slipped out leaving the light burning, and had slipped back during the shad-ower’s second absence.
As for the man in grey at the green grocer’s, it was either Peskett, and Doaks gave him a warning that they were observed, or it was not Peskett but Doaks had thought for an instant that it was. If Peskett, it probably explained the evening in the Clarendon Arms—Doaks could have figured that Peskett would look him up. And that brought up again the matter of the connection of the two. Was Doaks afraid of him? His action at the green grocer’s seemed to indicate it. Had he got to the end of the rope, gone out to the garage that night and shot Peskett?
Bull shook his head.
That left unexplained the bolt and screw-driver in Agatha Colton’s powder table; the flash of light in the kitchen that Mr. Pinkerton had seen; the £500 cheque that Mrs. Colton had tried to hide from him.
Did it explain Gates, who was killed between twelve and half-past three? Bull turned his mind with an effort to the business of Gates; and suddenly remembered that he had said he would be at Albert Steiner’s place in Queen’s-gate at eight o’clock. Doaks, however, was more important. Bull got his hat. The telephone rang. Bull took off his hat and sat down.
It was Detective-Sergeant Miller, who had been detailed to watch Michael Royce at Windsor.
“What time did he leave? What?”
Bull listened intently. Michael Royce had come out of the Windsor High-street house suddenly, in agitation, had got out the racing Hispano and had come into London, or in the direction of London, at top speed. He had got up to eighty-three miles an hour. Miller, following on a motorcycle, was arrested for speeding at the outskirts of Hounslow. Royce had got away while he was explaining to an angry constable.
Bull sighed and put his hat back on his red-brown head. The telephone rang.
“All right. Tell him I’ll be right along.”
He took his hat off and hung it up, and went down to see Commissioner Debenham.
“What luck, Bull? Here. You need a peg of this.”
The Commissioner got a bottle of Scotch out of his closet and poured Inspector Bull a large glass.
“It’s before hours, but we’ll take a chance. Now let’s have it. What’s happened to your four theories, or was it five?”
“They’re pretty rocky,” Bull admitted ruefully. “I’d better tell you about last night first.”
When he had heard Bull’s short and matter-of-f
act story the Commissioner shook his head.
“Bad, Bull. You’ll have to put a stop to this. If we have to have every man in the Yard out. What have you done?”
“Nothing, sir. I’ve just got to wait.”
He told Debenham about the latest development, Michael Royce’s wild dash into town.
“This morning Miller went around to Jermyn-street, and there was the Hispano standing in front of Royce’s flat. The door man said it was there when he came at seven. The constable on the corner said it had been there since midnight. He knew it was Royce’s car.”
“So he probably came in from Windsor and went straight there, to Jermyn-street.”
“I’ll go see, sir,” said Bull wearily. “I’ve also got to see what’s happened to Steiner.”
Debenham looked up sharply.
“Yes, he’s gone too. Then there’s the bolt.”
The Commissioner smiled a little.
“Bull, you’re getting incoherent. What bolt?”
Bull explained.
“When I went out there to find out about the bank deposits, I saw that he had just put a heavy bolt on his door. He didn’t care, you see, who came in when he was away. He’d left the door open even. But he didn’t want anybody to come in while he was there.”
“It seems he had the right idea, Bull.” There was a sardonic light in the Commissioner’s lean bronzed face.
“Yes.”
Bull hesitated. “Well?”
“Well, sir, he knew somebody had taken the bolt off, I sup pose. And he was dressed—mostly, anyway—and he had his gun out. He was ready for somebody. And that’s what’s queer about it, sir.”
The Commissioner nodded his comprehension.
“The person that came wasn’t the one he expected.”
Bull looked at the Commissioner, who nodded again.
“I see. That brings up something else, doesn’t it?”
“And one thing more, sir. It was the first time Mrs. Colton had slept for two weeks; I mean slept well. And Miss Agatha Colton slept very soundly, and complained that her mouth felt like a bird’s cage, I think she said.”
Debenham frowned. His own daughter used uncouth expressions too. He deplored the modern young woman.
