by E.
“What happened afterwards?”
“They seemed to drop back into the middle-class line again. That was why I was surprised at the sudden window display of the higher-class goods—and one reason why I looked anxiously at the fire and the loss.”
“They haven’t opened up business again, since the fire?”
“No. In fact the partners have left the city altogether.”
A more detailed description of the fire was given to the scientist by the fire brigade superintendent. He stated that only a little flame could be seen from the building when they arrived, and it did not appear at first to be a serious outbreak.
“A conclusion that did not last for long?” suggested Doctor Manson.
The brigade chief nodded. “As soon as the door was broken open, I was astounded at the hold which the fire had obtained,” he said. “The place was a mass of flames. There was never any chance of saving it.”
“They were, of course, hidden by the shutters?”
“That is so.”
“I think the police superintendent mentioned certain doubts he had on the outbreak. Did you do anything as regards that?”
“Yes. I examined the place carefully after the fire had been extinguished—that was on the following morning. I could see nothing untoward. You have to remember, of course, the very inflammable nature of the contents. It was all very combustible.”
The final visit of Doctor Manson was to the office of the Fire Salvage chief. That official announced that the brigade superintendent had passed on to him the remarks and suggestions of the police superintendent. But he had been unable to find any evidence of incendiarism. He could not account for the fierceness and extent of the blaze, but pointed out that the contents were highly inflammable. The fire, he said, had apparently broken out in the middle of the premises where there were the salons for trying on gowns which were usually demonstrated first on mannequins.
“Had the management any theory as to the cause of the fire?” asked Doctor Manson.
“They could only say that from the appearance it had started in the salons,” was the reply. “They suggested that it might have been caused by cigarette ends put down by customers and which had been unnoticed. In point of fact one of the girls in the salons remembered that two ladies who had spent some considerable time in the salons shortly before closing time, had been smoking cigarettes.”
“I see.” Doctor Manson paused and reflected for a few moments. “There are only two other points,” he said at last. “You mentioned just now the combustible nature of the contents. I gather that the stock was declared a total loss. Now, the firm were drapers as well as ladies’ outfitters. Would there have been any bales of cloth in the place?”
“Yes. There were a number in the shop just in front of the salons.”
“And in what state were the bales. Were they, too, destroyed?”
“Practically burnt up, yes. And what wasn’t burned was, of course, ruined by water.”
“Secondly, was any chemical analysis made of the dust or woodwork after the fire?”
“Chemical analysis?” The salvage chief looked up in astonishment. “No, sir, not that I know of. What kind of chemical analysis are you suggesting?”
The scientist dismissed the subject. “Never mind,” he said, “I gather you do not go to such extremes in the city.”
The following morning found the scientist in the city of Nottingham, where the second of the listed fires had destroyed the stock of the International Fur Warehouse, on the High Pavement, at a loss of £28,000. There again, much the same story was told of the fierceness of the outbreak, and lack of any information as to its cause. The explanation of the absent watchman was simple: the firm expected that he would have been there. He usually came on duty at dusk, after the employees had left. The man had a key, and let himself into the building. He had been taken suddenly ill on his way to the warehouse—in fact, shortly after he had his usual drink in a hostelry in the Poultry, and he had had to be taken home. Nothing suspicious in the fire had been noticed by the salvage brigade.
The scientist’s inquiry as to whether any chemical tests had been made after the fire was greeted again with surprise. “What sort of tests were you thinking of, sir?” the salvage chief inquired.
Doctor Manson made no reply. He did, however, rub his chin with a hand—and in thoughtful mien.
Birmingham and Liverpool produced much the same story. The only difference was that whereas the other fires seemed to have had their origin in the heart of the buildings, the Liverpool blaze had apparently started at the rear in a room used as a workshop for altering and finishing off gowns. The workshop looked out on to a high wall which formed the back of premises in the next, and parallel, street. The wall had no windows overlooking the workshop, and a wooden partition divided it off from the front part of the premises. The partition was a recent innovation.
In each case the scientist had visited the scenes of the fires. The visits, however, were of little value, for the debris had been cleared away weeks before. At Liverpool, however, he did cut away a portion of charred wood which was more sheltered from the elements than other of the wreckage. This he placed carefully in an envelope, and transferred to a pocket.
From the great transatlantic port Doctor Manson drove back to London. Garaging his car, he walked from the Yard to the scene of the Hanover Square fire of Silks, Ltd. After inspecting the remains of the premises, he proceeded to the Salvage headquarters, where he remained talking to the chief officer for some time. Finally, without being much the wiser for his efforts, he retraced his steps to the Yard, and walked up the stairs to his Laboratory.
The deputy scientist, Sergeant Merry, was engaged in a tête-à-tête over the centre table with Inspector Kenway. He looked up as the door opened.
“Here is the doctor, Kenway,” he announced. “Wants a bit of help, Doctor,” he intimated. “He’s got a corpse—or at least he’s got a buried one.”
“And darned well stiff and cold, Doctor, like the damned case,” the inspector announced gloomily. “Been stiff and cold a week or so.”
“And he’s like a cat on hot bricks over it,” put in the deputy scientist, with a grin.
Doctor Manson sat down. Merry produced glasses and a decanter.
“Tell me from the beginning,” said the doctor.
“Well, it seems,” began Kenway, “it seems that Dick Whittington was lying on Highgate Hill with his Cat—”
“Did you say that you had a corpse a week old, Kenway?” asked the scientist. “You don’t mean a hundred years old, do you?”
The inspector saw the joke. “No, Doctor,” he said, “this is not the original Dick Whittington, but the annual one. Now, when Dick should have turned again for London, he—or she . . .”
Lucidly and slowly the inspector told the tale of the Burlington-on-Sea pantomime . . . of the Cat who had been seen on the stage, who said he had not been there at all; of the complete alibi of the second Cat and the complete failure of the Burlington police to find out how Dick had been injected with the poison, and how the Cat had also been poisoned . . . in fact of the entire absence of any sound clue.
At the end Kenway looked hopefully at the scientist. His faith in his powers was that of a disciple looking, without question, for a miracle.
Doctor Manson sat silently until he had pigeonholed the details in his brain. Then:
“What has Jones done with the Cat—what did you say was his name?”
“Enora, Doctor.”
“Enora. Well, what has happened to him?”
“Nothing—as yet. The superintendent wanted to have him arrested, but the Burlington inspector took the view that there wasn’t even sufficient evidence on which the beak could hold and remand him.” Kenway smiled. “Jones had to agree. But something has to be done soon, for they won’t keep him in the hospital much longer.”
“Is the pantomime company still at Burlington?”
“No, Doctor. As a matter of fact the
y’re in London, down at the Old Sussex.”
“Well, Kenway, I can’t offer any suggestions until I have seen the setting. I’ve no doubt that you have given a true and accurate account of the stage setting, and of the scene at the time of the tragedy, but I must see it myself. Now, I suggest that you and I go along to the Old Sussex tonight and witness the performance. Then, if need be, I can go further into the matter with a visit to Burlington-on-Sea. As a matter of fact that will suit me perfectly, for I have in any case to visit the town on another matter, and I can in that way kill two birds with one stone. Will that satisfy you?”
“Suits me to a T,” replied Kenway, making a gallant effort to disguise his delight at the suggestion. It was in the hope of getting the scientist to make the journey to Burlington that Kenway had journeyed to Town, and waited in the Yard Laboratory.
It was a bit of luck, he said to himself, as he went to arrange for a box at the theatre, that the doctor had business at Burlington. He wondered for a moment what the business could be in the one-eyed town that needed the presence of the scientist. But he did not pursue the thought; it was sufficient for him that he had induced Doctor Manson to look into the affair of Dick Whittington. Of the fire inquiries Kenway knew nothing. The investigation was still secret except from the Assistant Commissioner and Doctor Manson.
Thus it was that at 7.30 p.m. the Doctor and Inspector Kenway sat in a box at the Old Sussex Theatre and waited for the pantomime to begin its course. Together they watched the shop scene played through to the end, and the Highgate Hill scene take its place.
By a fortunate chance the police officers had been accorded one of the lower stage boxes, and, still more fortunate, that on the Opposite Prompt side of the stage. They could thus, by craning forward, actually see into the wings of the stage, where there could be obtained a glimpse of Dick Whittington waiting to make his entrance, and walk to the mossy bank on which he was to lie and hear the bells calling him to return to London.
Kenway, bending towards the doctor, whispered that that was identical with the position which the ill-fated Dick Whittington had occupied while she waited on the night of the death to make her entrance.
The doctor nodded, and eyed intently the position and that of other artistes. He followed with equal interest the entrance of Dick, the movements to the bank, the process of her reclining, and the attitude adopted by the cat.
“Is this exactly as on the night, Kenway?” he inquired in a whisper.
“As it has been described to the superintendent and I, Doctor, yes,” was the reply. “That is, so far as the positions are concerned. I don’t know whether this Cat has any different pose to Enora, of course.”
“I should imagine not, Kenway,” was the reply. “Most of the directions are marked in the script of these pantomimes.”
The Ballet Scene followed, with the dance of the Bow Belles, twirling round and round the sleeping Dick and the Cat.
“This is a bit different from the Burlington scene, Doctor,” the inspector pointed out. “The stage at Burlington was a revolving one. It made a half-turn, throwing Dick farther back, or up-stage as the Profession term it.”
The dance ended, the Fairy Queen spoke her lines, and Dick stirred in his sleep.
“This is the moment, Doctor,” prompted Kenway.
Dick rose to his feet, and spoke his lines:
“The Bells, the bells. Is it a dream?
I thought I heard the Bow Bells say:
Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London.”
“Those are the words Miss de Grey never said,” announced Kenway. “The stage-manager rang down the curtain, and they found Miss de Grey dead.”
“Then we need not spend any more time here,” announced the scientist, and rose from his hard chair in the uncomfortable box. They left the theatre and boarded a bus in the main street.
“Well, Doctor?” asked the inspector.
“I’ll ponder it during the night, Kenway, and let you know what I think tomorrow morning. Suppose we start for Burlington at nine o’clock? That suit you?”
“Down to the ground,” the inspector agreed.
CHAPTER IX
TWO THINGS ARE MISSING
Inspector Bradley arranged four chairs round a table in his office in the Burlington police station. From a drawer he produced a considerable sheaf of papers. These he proceeded to sort out into separate heaps.
“That’s Enora,” he said to himself . . . “and that’s the other blasted Cat.”
He evolved another pile:
“Miss de Grey . . . depositions on . . . the dresser . . . stage-manager . . . Mary Lee . . . she’s important, I reckon . . . Miss Low . . . he’ll want that bit about the claws . . . Albert Black, stage hand . . . heard row between the two of them.”
The inspector ran his glance through the remaining sheets of the papers. “Reckon I can mark this miscellaneous,” he decided.
The piles anchored in position and safety, with paper weights, Inspector Bradley sat down in one of the chairs and awaited the coming of Doctor Manson. The latter had asked particularly that the local inspector should be present at the talk arranged for that morning. He had also asked to be made available all the statements taken in connection with the case.
Doctor Manson, with Superintendent Jones and Inspector Kenway, arrived at eleven o’clock. Inspector Bradley explained his array of paper. “I thought, sir, that as we talked we could refer to each of the people concerned more easily in this way.”
“An excellent arrangement, and well thought out,” was the reply. “But first, if you don’t mind I would like to glance through the statements in order to get the hang of the investigation so far.”
“Then I will make some coffee, sir,” announced Bradley—a suggestion which found general support with the company.
A quarter of an hour passed before Doctor Manson put down the last of the papers, and turned to the inspector. “There is one point,” he said. “Can you get the police surgeon here for a few moments?”
“I’ll ring him, sir,” was the reply. “He’s only across the street. He can be here in a couple of minutes.”
He was. Doctor Murdock, entering, greeted the scientist enthusiastically. “Often wanted to meet you, sir,” he announced. “Pleased to be of any help . . . very peculiar case. What do you want to know?”
“You conducted the post-mortem, of course. What dose of hydrocyanide do you think Miss de Grey had?”
“I made a comparative analysis, Doctor, and I should say that there was not less than five grains in the body.”
“So that death would undoubtedly occur within . . .”
“Within a few seconds, I should say.”
“And the man?”
“Not very much. He drank it, you know. I found alcohol in the body, probably beer. At least that is what I took it to be.”
“And you think that the hydrocyanide was in the beer?”
“It seems reasonable to assume so.”
Doctor Manson nodded. “I agree,” he said.
“There is one point which may be important, Doctor. That is, can you say how long the man would be conscious after he had drunk the amount of hydrocyanide you suggest he had taken?” Doctor Murdock hesitated. He consulted his note-book, and reflected for a considerable time before he replied. “That, Doctor Manson, is a very difficult question, as you will know better than I,” he said. “Let me put it this way: the dose would not, I think, knock him out right away. I think he would have felt very queer, and would probably have sat down to prevent himself falling down. I should say that his head would swim round, as the saying is, and that he would gradually relapse into unconsciousness. Say within a couple of minutes.”
Doctor Manson nodded. “I should have said much the same time myself. Thank you very much, Doctor.”
The door closed behind the police surgeon, and Doctor Manson settled himself in his chair. “Now,” he said, “we will look at the facts.”
“Only looks at . . .
facts . . . does Doctor,” Superintendent Jones explained to the Burlington Inspector. “Hell . . . row . . . if you . . . start tellin’ . . . what you think.”
“The facts are simple,” the scientist explained. “Kenway and I saw the performance of the company in a London theatre last night, or, at least, all of the performance that was necessary. We saw the Highgate Hill scene. We saw Dick Whittington standing in the wings waiting to walk on to the stage. We saw her walk on. From the time she entered to the time she lay down on the bank was exactly two minutes. We can, I think, assume that the same time was taken by Miss de Grey, because all these scenes have to work to a time-table, as the show also works to a time-table.
“Now, she was alive when she lay down. She had had no dose of prussic acid then. We know that . . .”
“How?” asked Superintendent Jones.
“Because collapse from the dose would have occurred practically instantaneously,” was the reply. “And additional proof is the fact that the Fairy Queen, according to Inspector Bradley’s dossier of her here”—the scientist pointed to one of the piles of paper—“heard her talking to the Cat after she had lain down and after the Cat, too, had got down beside her, and he, you remember, had done his little washing business.
“The next fact we know is that within a minute or so she was dead. You see that?” He looked round at the company.
“Can’t see it,” said Jones.
“I do not follow it, sir,” agreed Inspector Bradley.
“Well, let’s work it out, then,” retorted Doctor Manson. “I think it is possible to work out the time of death to within half a minute if we see another performance of the pantomime and time this scene with a stop watch—or rather, time each section of it.”
