The End of Mr. Garment

by Vincent Starrett

  “As to that, I don’t know. All I know is, I was told to keep an eye on Dromgoole, too.”

  “Anything suspicious?”

  “Nothing except his buying those messages. That’s suspicious enough, I guess.”

  “And still you think that Cicotte is right in suspecting Kimbark!”

  The Johnson reptile spread his hands. “I don’t know what Cicotte’s thinking about Dromgoole, but I’d make a little bet with anybody that his idea’s the same as mine. Dromgoole was getting those messages for Kimbark.”

  “Ah,” said Mollock.

  Well, it was a valid thought, he admitted to himself.

  “But you never saw him give one to Kimbark? Never heard them talk about the messages when they were together?”

  “Never did. And never saw one of them in Kimbark’s cabin, either. In Dromgoole’s they used to be all over the floor, in the morning.”

  “The messages?”

  “His tries at unravelling them. ‘Pop goes the wild goose’s gizzard,’ was one of them.” The Johnson reptile grinned.

  “Good Lord!” said Mollock. “Was that the correct answer?”

  “It was not.” The steward was emphatic. “He was a hundred miles away, that time.”

  So Cicotte knew of the Dromgoole incident, reflected Mollock. That meant that Ghost, too, knew about it. Nothing, however, had been said to him —Dunstan Mollock—on the subject. His mind went back to the night of the murder. Suppose the Johnson reptile to be wrong about Dromgoole’s relation to Kimbark. Suppose Dromgoole, himself, for some unimaginable reason, to have murdered Garment. Was the deed possible? he wondered. Dromgoole had been in the library, that night. He had been almost insistent that the police be apprised of Garment’s continued absence.

  Why?

  In the light of later developments, a reason was imaginable. Had it been to surround himself with an aura of a certain righteousness? To give himself the character of a man prompt in his right thinking?

  It was odd, certainly, how a man’s most innocent assertions at times took on a belated signifi cance.

  On the other hand, supposing Dromgoole—that night—to have been the potential murderer: what if Kimbark had notified the police? That would not have been so good; a circumstance which Dromgoole would have been quick to apprehend. His remarks, therefore, might not, after all, have been fraught with the sinister hypocrisy that it was now possible to read into them.

  When had Dromgoole left the library? By Jove! recalled the fictioneer, with a little thrill, he had left almost at the instant that Ronald Key had entered to tell Kimbark that Garment was coming up the drive!

  Mollock’s memory was quite clear on the point, for he remembered that he had been talking nonsense with Betty Waterloo, and that Dromgoole had taken her away. Quite so! Just as Kimbark had entered the library! Why might not Dromgoole have had knowledge of what Kimbark was about to say? An intuitive knowledge, perhaps, if nothing else. Had he paused in the corridor to listen? Had he left Betty Waterloo, between the library and the living room, to go upon another errand?

  They were all points that could be established. Betty Waterloo was in New York. She might still be upon the yacht. At any rate she and Anger were to lunch with Mr. and Mrs. Dunstan Mollock that afternoon.

  “Cheers!” murmured Dunstan Mollock thoughtfully; and suddenly he remembered that he was supposed to ask the Popes about the maids and wenches of their establishment no longer in their service.

  Annoyed, he returned to the yacht harbour to find that the party already had disbanded. The Van Peters, with Miss Maynard, were leaving for Chicago almost at once; the Kimbarks, with Anger and Miss Waterloo, were dining with the Popes that evening, and would depart the next morning. Dromgoole, who had literary connections in New York, had vanished. Mollock’s informant was Curly Pope, the only member of the group now left upon the yacht. He had remained behind to see that everything was shipshape, and shortly he was to join his wife at a hotel. The crew was still busy at its endless tasks.

  Mollock explained the reason for his return.

  “I see,” said Pope. “But Myra would know better than I. After all, we can’t have had so many maids within the last two years.” He chuckled: “Personally, I remember only the good-looking ones! There was one, a year or so ago, who was something of a prize winner. Don’t know what became of her.” For a moment he was thoughtful; then more soberly he continued: “But I’ll give you a better answer when I’ve seen the body. The police have asked me to look at it. Seems silly, since Myra has failed to identify it; but if they think there’s a chance, I’m willing to go to Amersham. Why don’t you come along?”

  His voice became serious. “In fact, I want to see it. The whole thing bothers me. I’d like to know, Mollock, what damned woman has been lying around dead, all winter, in one of Myra’s dresses!”

  Nine hundred miles away, in Chicago, there was a man who might have solved the mystery. He was at the moment lifting his arms above his head in response to Cicotte’s snarling invitation.

  Chapter Twelve

  The impostor’s jaw had fallen ludicrously.

  Without haste, but also without delay, his arms went up from his sides until they formed a U above his head. There was dismay in his glance, but no fear. Chagrin and wonderment, thought Walter Ghost, in about equal parts.

  With Cicotte’s weapon threatening his midriff, the impostor stood silent while Ghost’s hands ran swiftly over his person. There emerged from sundry pockets an automatic pistol of small calibre; a set of steel keys; a small instrument that might have been a lancet, a tack puller or a burglar’s jemmy; a flashlight of pencil length and thickness; a well-stocked billfold, and a pocket handkerchief. Ghost laid these upon a near-by desk and turned back the inner pocket of the stranger’s jacket.

  But the name tag had been removed, as had all tags elsewhere. No precaution seemed to have been overlooked in suppressing an identity.

  “Who are you?” demanded Cicotte abruptly.

  The impostor smiled. “More to the point,” he retorted, “who are you?” Then his eyes swung to those of Walter Ghost. “This man is deceiving you, Allison. He’s a fake.”

  “My name is not Allison,” said Ghost quickly. “I am not the Kimbark butler, as you suppose. If you were really Cicotte you would have known that when I opened the door.”

  The stranger’s eyes narrowed. “I can hardly be expected to remember every servant that I meet,” he replied coolly. “Whoever you are, I tell you— you are making a mistake.”

  The voice of Detective-Sergeant Cicotte was velvety and purring. “It’s a matter easily settled,” he observed; and added: “at headquarters. I am fairly well known there. You may put your arms down if they are tired.”

  He stepped suddenly to the impostor’s side and tugged at the brush-like moustache. But the moustache did not yield.

  “My own, you see,” grinned the stranger impudently. “Would you like to try my hair and eyebrows?”

  “It’s a warmish sort of day,” countered Cicotte affably, “for the time of year. Doesn’t it inconvenience you to wear so many vests?”

  He snatched the brown derby from the other’s head and noted that the brow beneath was somewhat higher than his own. The impostor’s eyes, too, were different; they were sharp and grey. His own were brown. But in all other respects— what with the padded abdomen—the impersonation was surprising. To Cicotte it was immoral.

  The detective was baffled. “You think yourself a very clever fellow, I suppose,” he sneered, his annoyance again gaining the upper hand.

  The stranger laughed and suddenly changed front. “Not clever enough, I guess. I’d have gone over fine if you hadn’t been around. I thought you were in New York,” he added frankly. “Well, gentlemen, what do you propose to do with me?”

  “Who are you?” snapped the detective again.

  “I’ll admit that I’m a damned fool, if you like. Will that do, to begin with? My name’s Holmes —believe it or not!—plain
John Holmes; but I needn’t tell you what my friends call me. The truth is, I have a fancy for detective work. Got it with the name, maybe; I don’t know. I thought it would be fun to look into this case, having some ideas of my own about it. I knew I resembled you; so I acquired the clothes to match, trimmed my moustache down a bit, and—here I am!”

  “Just an amateur, eh?” Cicotte pretended to be amused.

  “Well, just a dub, I guess!”

  “Oh, we all make mistakes!” It pleased Detective-Sergeant Cicotte to be ironic. He bent a pensive eye toward Walter Ghost. “It’s against the law, of course,” he mused, “to carry loaded pistols.”

  “And to impersonate an officer,” agreed the man who called himself Holmes. “I know! Naturally, I’m sorry—that I was caught. If you will examine the pistol you’ll discover that the clip is empty; also the barrel.”

  “What were you looking for, in this room?”

  The impostor shrugged. “What were you looking for in this house?” he retorted, without insolence. “Clues! Anything—or nothing! As I say, I had a notion or two about this case, and thought I’d like to try them out.” The sharp grey eyes became sharper. They flitted restlessly from Cicotte to Walter Ghost and back again to Cicotte. “You’ll listen to reason, I suppose? If I have information that might be of value to you—eh?”

  The official detective spoke dryly. “We don’t make bargains of that kind, I’m afraid.” But he hypocritically added: “We’ll listen, though, to anything you have to suggest.”

  “On the whole,” decided the stranger, “I guess I’d better keep my mouth shut.”

  Walter Ghost was pondering the incredible scene. Two Cicottes—and somehow he felt that, at last, the case was coming near to a solution. It was obvious, of course, that the impostor was merely making conversation. Stalling for time, perhaps? Was he planning an escape? It was two stories to the ground, with a pane of glass between him and the outer air. That the fellow’s name was actually Holmes, and that he was an amateur detective, seemed improbable, to say the least. The risks he was taking were too grave for him to be entirely innocent—unless he were a lunatic.

  The eyes of the real amateur flickered about the room in which the three men stood. It was a sort of study, apparently, and definitely masculine— therefore Kimbark’s. A pair of golden spurs added tentative support to the surmise. A triumphant “First,” no doubt, at some renowned gymkhana. On the wall—

  Well, well! Ghost’s eyes sparkled. What had happened to the wall?

  It was, of course, obvious: a picture had been removed. But quite a small picture, it would appear. A picture whose dimensions, with the frame, would be approximately seven by four. Without the frame—possibly a postal card? The spot upon the wall was quite fresh. Surely a servant, removing such a picture, would have tried to blend those telltale outlines into the surrounding shade.

  There were photographs, he reflected, the size and shape of postal cards—and frames to fit them.

  Cicotte was replying to the courteous defiance of the stranger. “As you please,” he shrugged. “We can go into that at headquarters.” He turned to Ghost: “It looks as if I’d have to leave you for a while.”

  The amateur nodded. “Sooner or later,” he agreed; “but surely there’s no hurry? This gentleman interests me—having been myself tagged with the ‘Sherlock’ epithet! It’s a difficult thing to live up to, Mr. Holmes, as I can testify.” His smile was whimsical and tolerant. “I am inclined to sympathize. Can’t we go downstairs?”

  Comfortably seated in the library, with the impostor’s eyes upon him, he continued: “About these ideas of yours, Mr. Holmes: may we have a look at them? Accepting your story, for the moment— as I do—it would interest me to hear your opinion of this curious mystery.”

  There was an easy mockery, now, in the stranger’s voice that was vastly irritating. It suggested that, although virtually a prisoner, he had the situation well in hand.

  “I can see now that you are not a butler,” he observed; and, with a glance at Cicotte: “It is always a pleasure to talk with a scholar and a gentleman. I’ll tell you what I think, Mr.—”

  “Ghost is my name,” said Walter Ghost. “Spelled in the usual or midnight way.”

  The stranger looked a trifle dubious.

  “I’ll tell you what I think, Mr. Ghost,” he repeated, after a moment of hesitation. “I think— I think this Garment person was killed by someone—” His eyes wavered about the room and passed through the windows to the lawn. Suddenly they lighted with inspiration. “By someone in a tree!”

  It was a dramatic statement, spoiled only by Detective-Sergeant Cicotte’s burst of raucous laughter.

  “So that’s what you were doing up in Kimbark’s study! Looking for a tree!”

  But Walter Ghost remained unruffled and sympathetically polite. The impromptu nature of the falsehood had been transparent, but he accepted it with composure.

  “Precisely,” he observed. “Mr. Holmes was about to tell us, I think, what he was doing in the room upstairs. He was verifying his notion that it was possible for a man, waiting in that room, to see the taxi coming up the drive, to leave the house by way of the upper window, and to reach the gravel at approximately the same instant the driver ascended the front steps. There is a tree outside that window which an active man might reach. In point of fact, it was one of my first notions as I approached the house this morning.”

  A new and ingenious twist to Mollock’s tree idea, it occurred to the amateur, with an inward smile. Odd that twice, now, an interested romancer should have visualized a murderous concealment in a tree!

  The police detective was staring at him in consternation; but the impostor was beaming.

  “That is exactly what I was going to say, Mr. Ghost,” cried the stranger joyously. “That is the way I think it happened.”

  “You said nothing to me about a tree,” asserted Cicotte angrily. He glared at Ghost with sudden, startled suspicion.

  “No,” admitted Walter Ghost, “for I don’t believe that is how it happened. Nevertheless, it could have occurred in just that way, and I am merely stating Mr. Holmes’s case. After all, we have asked him for his opinion.”

  He turned his gaze again to the man whose story he was inventing. “It’s an ingenious notion, Mr. Holmes, whether or not the murder was accomplished as you suggest. Are you prepared to name the man who might have waited in the upstairs room and then climbed down a tree to reach the lawn?”

  But the man whose friends were reported to call him Sherlock had nothing further to contribute. He was bandying no names about, nor was he making charges that he could not substantiate.

  “In fact,” he concluded, on a striking note of virtue—the idea having just occurred to him— “I’m not even insisting that he was in the room, at all.”

  Ghost hastened to his assistance. “Exactly! He may have gone up the tree some hours previously, and in the more usual fashion. Knowing that Mr. Garment was coming, sooner or later, he may have—”

  “Contrived to be growing there for years,” interrupted Cicotte, with profound irony. “You fellows give me a pain!”

  “Quite so,” laughed Ghost. “In the relative sense that there is nothing new or startling in any of our positions. A ship that sinks at sea may be said to have been going down from the day that she was launched; I borrow the idea from Stevenson. A man who climbs a tree may be said to have been, in effect, climbing since he was born. A British novelist destined to be murdered may be said to have been born with a knife or a bullet in his heart. You, at least, agree with me—do you not, Mr. Holmes?”

  Mr. Holmes, who had been listening with a sense of madness in his veins, nodded and gulped. “That’s it,” he said.

  “If you think it worth while to engage in all this nonsense,” observed Cicotte, beginning to smell a purpose under his companion’s lunacy, “I’ll string along with you. Give me three cards! But doesn’t it occur to you that, if all you say is true, there’s damn’ litt
le sense in finishing this inquiry? It’s all been settled from the beginning, and therefore nobody’s to blame. Mr. Garment’s been getting murdered since 1887 and will still be getting murdered in 1942. That’s Einstein, I suppose! It sounds to me like Katzenjammer!”

  “By parity of reasoning,” replied Ghost, “it would never be worth while to begin any inquiry of importance; and as a man of energy and curiosity that is to me unthinkable. I don’t know that I believe any of it, myself. To the philosophic mind, it is true, we have all been dying since we were brought into the world; but the fact has not prevented us from drinking whisky, and buying books, and carrying umbrellas, and otherwise conducting ourselves as if we were immortal. Like Mr. Holmes, here, I have a fancy for detective work. And I believe that investigations of this sort should go forward for several reasons, most of which are implicit in the statute books—whatever amusement they may cause upon whatever plane determines our misdeeds, Mr. Holmes, I am certain, feels as I do about it, and would be willing to lend his assistance to any plan that would help to bring about solution.”

  “That’s it,” said Mr. Holmes aggressively. “I’m with you, all along the line.”

  “Thank you,” said Walter Ghost. “Will you ask Allison to step in here for a moment, Cicotte?”

  Greatly wondering, the detective got up and left the room.

  “You have only a minute now to come clean,” observed Ghost coolly, looking at the prisoner. “Give me that photograph!”

  The impostor bounded from his chair. His eyes were bulging. His mouth opened and closed twice, but no sound came from between his lips.

  “Quickly!” snapped the amateur. “It’s your only chance; and I promise nothing. Or would you rather Cicotte had it?” He had not moved in his chair.

  The man’s glance wavered and fell. Slowly his hand went up beneath his piled vests and emerged with a small picture in a black wood frame. In sudden panic he handed it to Ghost as the footsteps of Cicotte and the butler sounded in the hall.