The Heel of Achilles: A Golden Age Mystery

by E.

  “In what way?” The A.C. showed livening interest.

  “Now, she has been Canley’s mistress for some time. She had been going round with him to race meetings, and other functions. And she had been spending nights in the cottage. That means, of course, that he was providing her with money. Suddenly he sends her out of the house on the grounds that he has some business to attend to which will keep him occupied the greater part of the night. She goes off with someone else, and he suddenly turns up and surprises them together, pushes her out of the hotel and has a row with her as they go out. I am quite sure that a woman of Mrs. Andover’s mentality would at once see in this a plot not merely to catch her out with Appleton, but as an excuse to rid himself of her for keeps. So—”

  “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, eh?” suggested the Assistant Commissioner.

  “Exactly,” agreed Doctor Manson. “She was missing from her rooms, and hid the fact by saying that she was in them all night; she is a big hefty woman who could carry Canley; she is a local woman who knows the lane very well indeed, and all about the short cut; and she could have thought of the polishing idea. She was an ideal suspect, but she doesn’t smoke cigars!”

  “What’s that?” asked the startled Assistant Commissioner. “Doesn’t smoke cigars? What the devil has that to do with it?” Doctor Manson smiled slightly. “We’ll come back to that point later,” he promised. “Let’s take the next on the list.”

  “Appleton,” said Kenway.

  The Doctor nodded acceptance. “The case against Appleton is that being made to look a fool in front of his friends, and being robbed of Mrs. Andover by an obvious trick, he went round to Canley afterwards, asked him what the hell he thought he was playing at, and, a row following, Canley was knocked out and went west. Whereupon, Appleton for his own safety staged the accident. He knew, of course, of the short cut, and the lonely lane, and so on. Apart from the fact that there is no sign of a row or rough and tumble—”

  “I was counting on all that being removed by the clean-up afterwards,” protested Kenway. “He obviously would not leave signs of a row in the place.”

  “Quite so, Kenway. He would try not to leave any obvious marks of a row. But it would be a clever man who could remove everything of that nature. But we need not quibble over that. Apart from that improbability, I must say that if you had come to me a few hours ago with that theory, I should have been inclined to consider it very carefully. In fact—” he grinned broadly—“I had studied the position of Mr. Appleton.”

  “But not now, Doctor?” queried Kenway. “Why?”

  “Because of the cigar that Mrs. Andover did not smoke.”

  Sir Edward blew his nose so violently as to suggest that he was attempting to emulate the effect of Roland’s horn at Roncevaux. “Damn it all, Harry,” he blasted, “what’s all this about cigars?”

  “Canley had been smoking a cigar which was found on the line,” explained Kenway.

  “What’s that to do with the woman and the fact that she didn’t smoke it?” roared the Assistant Commissioner.

  “Will you let me continue?” Doctor Manson became plaintive. He waited for silence, and then addressed himself to the Assistant Commissioner. “If you were going hot-foot to demand an explanation from a man who had served you a dirty trick, would you begin by offering him a cigar?” he asked.

  “Not likely,” said the A.C.

  “Hardly,” agreed Kenway.

  “Quite so.” Doctor Manson nodded. “Well, you see, that is precisely what the visitor to Canley did. So I say that the person in the cottage who carried out the funeral arrangements of the late Mr. Canley was neither the hot-headed Mr. Appleton, nor Mrs. Andover, who does not smoke cigars and would hardly carry any about with her.”

  “Where is the evidence of that, Doctor?”

  “In the ash left in the ashtray and on the floor of the room, Kenway.” The doctor proceeded to explain. “There is not only too much ash for the one cigar that Canley is supposed to have smoked, but the ash is of two different kinds of cigars. It is practically certain I think, that the visitor was the one to hand out the cigars. There were no other cigars in the place, although there were cigarettes. There wasn’t a cigar box in the place, nor had Canley a cigar-case. If Canley smoked cigars as a habit, or even occasionally, he would buy not one but several. It is feasible, of course, that Canley did have two cigars left and gave one to his visitor; but I should be inclined to doubt that he would have two cigars of different tobacco. So that disposes of Appleton—”

  “And leaves only Harker,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “Now we’re arriving somewhere.”

  “Kenway,” said Doctor Manson, “made out a good case against Harker. His life’s work is indeed in ruins, for the chapel folk are not likely to follow a preacher whose daughter has committed adultery. Illogical, if you like, but quite understandable. It is no fault of Harker that his girl has gone wrong. It is merely a case, as I think somebody remarked, of the sins of the children being visited upon the parents. But such an argument would not be tolerated by the chapel folk. And, I suppose, quite rightly. Not only Caesar’s wife, but his children must be above suspicion.

  “But, A.C., and you, Kenway, overlook one point; while Mr. Harker liked his pint as well as anyone except on Sunday, he did not smoke—”

  “Conblast it, Harry, the cigars again!” burst out the Assistant Commissioner. “The one person I know who does smoke cigars is yourself. I suppose—”

  “I can account for all my movements last night, Edward,” the doctor said.

  “Which is in itself a very suspicious thing. I’ve heard you say yourself that a chap with a ready-made alibi is suspect, because the innocent man rarely has an alibi.”

  “Touché, Edward.” The doctor guffawed. “But in this case the alibi is quite accidental. However, even in the case of Harker the cigar is not alone in proving innocence. I can quite believe that in his state of mind the man would wander about the quiet roads in distress and might well not remember where he had been.”

  “After the murder, do you mean, Doctor?” Kenway looked hopeful.

  “No, Kenway. He did no murder. A man of his religious fervour would only kill if in the heat of the moment the overwhelming and sudden impulse came to him. Then, he would pick up the nearest weapon and use it blindly. There was no weapon in that room; and there was no evidence of any sudden impulse; and Harker had only heard of Canley and his girl an hour or two before, you know. He couldn’t have planned a cover-up in the time—”

  “But, Doctor—” Kenway was checked by a roar from the Assistant Commissioner. “Damn and blast it, Harry, you’ve eliminated all the suspects!” he said. He thought the matter over for a second or two. Then: “Every time we seem to be on a good line you go and cut it from underneath our feet,” he moaned, pathetically.

  “He’d be no good as Blondin,” said Merry. “Not unless he had a strong net underneath him.”

  “No. But damn it, Merry, he makes a good contortionist act.” The A.C. giggled at his ripostes.

  “Suppose you stop your jesting and let us get down to serious business.” The reproof came from the doctor, but was accompanied by a twinkle in his eyes at the by-play. “I may have dropped the line from beneath your feet, Edward,” he continued. “But had I not done so I should have found when I crossed the tightrope that there was no landing rope on the other side, and I’d have had to come back over the rope again. Now, you see, I have been able to return when only half-way over. The facts are simple. Let’s look at them.

  “You said, Edward, that I have eliminated all the suspects. I have eliminated them all but one.”

  “That one being?” inquired the A.C.

  “The actual murderer.”

  “Who is he?”

  “At the moment I have not the faintest idea.” Doctor Manson chuckled anew at the expression that came on the face of the Yard’s crime chief. He held up the blistering remark that was about to come, by a wave of his hand.
“The best I can tell you is that he was a man who not only offered Canley a cigar and smoked one with him, but also partook of whisky with him.”

  “What evidence?” demanded the Assistant Commissioner, who sought to recall it from the previous night’s conference.

  Doctor Manson pointed to the glass tumbler standing on his bench. “The other tumbler which we took from the sideboard, Edward. Polished up and no sign of a fingerprint—not even Mrs. Skelton’s fingers. There can only be one reason why it is so stainless—it had been used by the visitor, who had cleaned his prints from it. That means that he was drinking whisky with Canley.”

  “Of course!”

  Sir Edward digested this new mental menu, and a thought occurred to him. “If I remember correctly, Harry, you discounted any suggestion of sudden violence. You said that it was inconceivable that such violence would have been used without leaving some trace for us to find.”

  “I did.”

  “Now, you have arrived at the conclusion that the visitor turned up with cigars, sat down amicably and was entertained by Canley with whisky. Does that not assume that it was a friendly chat, or a business visit. And then, suddenly, there came a violent row and a desire by the visitor—a sudden desire—to kill Canley, which would, of course, lead to a struggle for life on the part of Canley?”

  Doctor Manson sat back in his chair and stretched his legs under the table. His eyes, deep set in the aesthetic face, eyed the Assistant Commissioner moodily, and with troubled vein.

  “It would, indeed, seem to be so, Edward,” he agreed. “But—”

  There was a questing tone in his voice, and his right hand began a drumming on the arm of his chair. The A.C. waited. Manson was still gazing into his face, but apparently unseeing.

  “But what, Harry?” The A.C. reminded his investigator of his presence.

  “But it doesn’t add up, Edward. It counts two and two as either three or five. And we know, don’t we, that the answer should be four. No—” he dismissed the idea finally and completely—“this killing was no sudden impulse. Rows do spring up and people are bumped off in unpremeditated murder. But not Canley.”

  “Why exactly not Canley?” the A.C. asked. “I’m only trying to argue it out, Harry,” he apologized. “I am not doubting the conclusions at which you have arrived.”

  “Because, Edward, had such a thing happened, the state of mind in which a person would be prisoned after so unpremeditated a murder would leave him mentally incapable of covering his tracks with the thoroughness shown in this case, in the way the cottage was left. The person would be panic-stricken. Here he is with a body on his hands, a body he never expected to have if your theory is to hold, and so crystal clear is his thinking and his construction that we don’t know a single thing about him. Why even the last train ran conveniently for him as a cover for his crime. No, it won’t hold water.”

  “Yet, he went there as an apparently welcome guest,” hazarded the A.C.

  “And he was expected,” put in Merry.

  “How come?” The A.C. looked his interest.

  “Because Canley had turned his light o’ love out of the cottage, and had made sure by his subsequent actions that she wouldn’t be likely to come back that night,” retorted Merry.

  “Accepted!” announced Sir Edward.

  The drumming of the scientist’s fingers suddenly ceased on the chair arm. He came out of his reverie. “There is one circumstance, Edward,” he said, “which could account for all the facts, and still allow for the apparent friendly nature of the conference in the cottage.”

  “What’s that?” The Assistant Commissioner sat up suddenly, revived interest in his attitude, which had up to now been desultory from lack of incentive or hope of a solution.

  “What circumstance?” he demanded.

  “Suppose that the visitor was indeed a friend, or friendly disposed to Canley, so far as Canley knew. Suppose he then went to the cottage at the invitation of Canley for some kind of business discussion, which, seemingly was to benefit Canley. That would explain the whisky and the cigars. But suppose that this person had gone to the meeting with the intention of getting rid of Canley, and with the plot already completely worked out, including the course of action he was to take to disguise the murder as an accident?

  “In other words, presume the amicable drinking confabulation was a blind. That would cover all the loose ends, and would account for the convenient time of the last train. In fact, in such circumstances the fatal blow could have been struck almost to a timetable because, you remember, death had to be at such a time that the blood would still rim on the railway line after Canley had been conveyed there.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” jubilated the Assistant Commissioner. “But it’s all theory, you know Harry.”

  “I would rather call it logical deduction,” retorted Manson. “To me it seems the only logical explanation of all the circumstances—including,” he added slyly, “the actual friendly visit carrying some sort of lethal weapon.”

  Sir Edward cheered up a little under this new tonic. But not sufficiently to deter him from a final hangover. “And we haven’t a ghost of an idea who he is, Harry? And you’ve wiped out Appleton.”

  “Only so far as a visit by him and the woman and a disturbance afterwards is concerned, Edward. I made that perfectly clear. There is nothing against the supposition that Appleton went to Canley with murderous intent. That remains to be tested.”

  “Or the new nigger in the woodpile, the hypothetical Mr. Betterton,” put in Merry.

  “You can count Betterton out,” came a voice from behind the group. Inspector Kenway advanced to the front. “Betterton is nearly seventy-five,” he said. “He can’t carry himself, let alone Canley.”

  “Well, that’s one eliminated,” chirruped the Assistant Commissioner.

  The doctor brought the debate back to those still in the running. “Was Mrs. Andover with Betterton?” he asked.

  “I haven’t inquired, Doctor, up to now. I thought that I would scout round and see what I could learn about Betterton himself. Mackenzie has little doubt that he is the man referred to. She has been known to visit him in the past. He is, by the way, housebound. He has not walked outside except in the garden for months.”

  The doctor nodded. “It would appear from what you say that Betterton is definitely out,” he agreed.

  “Then we are back with Appleton,” said the Assistant Commissioner. He improvised a nursery rhyme:

  “Two little Indians give the police a bone

  One couldn’t toddle up, and then there was one.”

  “And if you waste any more of my time we never shall. Go away, both of you and leave Merry and I to sort out a few more of these riddles.” He pointed to the remaining exhibits from the cottage.

  They settled down to the task. The doctor cast a comprehensive look at the collection. “Cum multis aliis,” he grieved.

  “A regular Tom Tiddler’s ground. Which shall we take first?” asked Merry. “Shall we pick one with a pin?”

  The doctor decided on the particles of fluff taken from Canley’s overcoat, and Merry extracted them from the security of the seed envelopes.

  The objects had now dried out from the wet of the November night mist. They presented the appearance of springy spirals of tough thread instead of the soft and sodden tufts of material which they had appeared when removed from the overcoat.

  “I should think they had better be washed first,” suggested Merry, and produced a bottle of ether and a saucer. He took the first of the exhibits and cleaned it, afterwards mounting it on a glass slide, fixing it with a dab of glycerine.

  In the magnified view given by the microscope the particle revealed itself as a coarse twisted strand, of some fibre, and dyed red in colour. Similar examination of the other particles displayed the same characteristics, except that there was an occasional variation of colour, one or two of them being blue and another yellow.

  Merry pointed to another of the
envelopes, and shot an inquiring glance at his chief.

  “I should think it most likely, Jim; in fact that is the reason I collected them,” Manson answered the unspoken question. The envelope opened, two strands of its contents which had been taken from the rug in front of the cottage fire, were placed side by side on a slide and inspected. Two of the overcoat exhibits were then mounted beside them, and again a comparison made.

  “There is no doubt that the two sets of fibres are the same in origin,” said Manson.

  “The importance of the comparison is, of course, the position which the particles occupied on the coat of Canley,” said the doctor. “It is, to me, a confirmation of my reading of the cottage.”

  “I don’t quite get that, Harry.” Merry looked a trifle distraught. “I realize what is in your mind, but—why on the overcoat?”

  “For the life of me I cannot see why myself,” Manson confessed. “But on the other hand I cannot see why not.”

  “But I can.” Merry became flamboyantly assertive. “He would not be wearing the overcoat during the talk—remember there was a fire in the room, and a good one judging by the amount of ash there was left. If he fell down while wearing the overcoat, it would presumably be when he was struck the fatal blow.”

  “Well?” asked the doctor.

  “The blow would not have killed him had he been wearing the overcoat. You can’t tell me, that any weapon wielded by the unassisted hand of man could have hit Canley on the top of the spine through that thick overcoat, through his jacket, his collar and shirt and killed him in one blow.”

  “Checkmate, Jim,” the scientist said, a little piqued. He sat back in his chair and called the furrows to his brow and the wrinkles to the corners of his eyes. A period of brooding meditation did nothing to elucidate the riddle, a fact which exasperated the scientist, who was convinced that the answer lay in the cottage and in the very room in which the murder had taken place. There had been, he recalled, no similar extraneous matter on the jacket of Canley. Why on the overcoat, not on the jacket. Why?