On Gainly’s lap lay an open book—Dreiser’s The Financier—its pages defiled by stains of blood.
Standing straight in front of the chair, the detective gazed down at the dead man.
‘What do you think, Horridge?’ he said. ‘Did he move before he was hit? Did he half rise, or look round, or did he get it as he was reading?’
‘Never moved, I should say, sir. Look at that book still on his lap and open. Blow’s right on top of his head—shade to the right, as it would be if it was a right-handed man—and runs straight from back to front; if he’d turned, it would have caught him across the head.’
Poole nodded.
‘I agree. He had no warning—never heard a sound. Now, what was it done for? Money, hate, love—one of the three.’
‘Money, sir; that safe in the corner.’
‘Yes, I noticed that—and a bunch of keys in the lock. Did he keep money there?’
‘Couldn’t say, sir; I didn’t question the brother on that—thought I might put my foot in it.’
‘Right, I’ll tackle him presently. Now about who did it; any sign of an entry?’
‘Oh, yes, sir; that’s clear enough—window forced by the back door.’
‘Show me.’
Sergeant Horridge led the way out into the hall and through the swing-door into the back regions; stopping by the back door, he pointed to the window at one side of it.
‘That’s the way in, sir; you’ll see the catch has been forced—scratches on it—it’s pretty stiff. On the wall outside you see marks on the brickwork, apparently where the man kicked his way up on to the ledge.’ Poole confirmed these phenomena.
‘No finger-prints anywhere, I suppose?’
‘None that I’ve found, sir.’
‘Nor footmarks on these asphalt paths, of course. What about the back door itself—was that locked?’
‘Locked, sir, when Mrs Gubb came this morning. She takes the key with her when she goes and lets herself in in the morning.’
‘So it’s not bolted or chained inside?’
‘I suppose not, sir.’
‘The assumption, then, is that the man went out by the way he came in, raising the window behind him?’
‘That’s it, sir.’
‘If he ever went out at all—or came in,’ muttered Poole to himself. ‘Now then, the brother—in the parlour, you said?’
Reginald Gainly was sitting on a stiff, straight-backed chair in the Victorian parlour when Poole entered the room. He had apparently been sitting there, doing nothing, not even reading, but waiting—waiting for the ordeal that was before him.
As he rose to his feet on the detective’s entry, Poole saw that he was a bigger man than Horridge’s description had led him to expect. Certainly he was thin and feeble-looking, with a pronounced stoop, but he was probably little less tall than his brother. His hair was thin and grey, his face white, with a harassed, worn expression that might be caused by the anxiety of the occasion, but was quite possibly habitual. He was clean-shaven—except that he had evidently not used his razor that morning—and his mouth revealed a set of miserable teeth.
Poole could, from his short glimpses of the two brothers, even though one was dead, visualise their joint lives—the ascendancy of the younger over his feeble elder.
‘Good-morning, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective-Inspector Poole. I’ve been instructed to investigate the circumstances of your brother’s death. I’m very sorry to disturb you, but it’s my duty to ask you one or two questions. I’ll make it as little painful to you as I can.’
Gainly gave a nervous assent, and motioned Poole to a chair, resuming his own when the detective was seated.
‘When did you last see your brother alive, sir?’
‘Last night, officer, at about eleven o’clock. I usually retire about that time; my brother sits up rather later, often till twelve. Sometimes I hear him come up to bed, but not always, and I noticed nothing unusual last night—nothing at all. My room is right at the top of the house—I like to be high up—and I shouldn’t be likely to hear anything. I’m a sound sleeper—Mrs Gubb will tell you that she often has a job to wake me in the morning—so I heard nothing at all—not a sound. I—I might have saved his life, perhaps, if I’d heard anything—but I’m not very strong.’
The man spoke in a quick, nervous manner, the words and sentences tumbling over each other. Poole got the impression that he had been rehearsing this speech during the time that he had been waiting, and that now it spluttered out, almost too quickly to be intelligible. It was perhaps natural that a man of this temperament should be nervous in such an emergency, but Poole determined to discover whether there was any deeper reason for his condition.
‘Was your brother in the habit of keeping money in that safe, Mr Gainly?’ asked the detective.
‘Oh, yes; oh, yes, he was, I think.’
‘But you are not sure?’
‘Oh, yes, quite sure; certainly he did.’
‘In what form?’
‘Notes—and a certain amount of silver.’
‘Banknotes or Treasury notes?’
The question appeared to take Gainly by surprise; he hesitated before answering.
‘Both, I think,’ he said at last.
‘You have actually seen him put money in the safe?’
‘Yes; from time to time I have.’
‘Then you have seen whether he put in banknotes or Treasury notes?’
‘I—I don’t think I’ve noticed particularly. My impression is both.’
‘You couldn’t say what denomination—£5, £10, £100?’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t say that.’
‘A banknote, of course would be more difficult to dispose of than a Treasury note—for the murderer, I mean?’
‘Oh, yes, I suppose it would.’
‘Perhaps that was why he left the banknotes.’
For a second, an expression of astonishment appeared on Reginald Gainly’s face; it quickly faded, however, to one of mild surprise.
‘Did he?’ he said. ‘How very surprising.’
‘I mean that that would be an explanation if we were to find banknotes still in the safe,’ explained the detective ingenuously. ‘I haven’t looked yet.’
Gainly shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but made no comment.
‘Have you any idea of the amount of money in the safe?’
‘None at all,’ Gainly said shortly.
‘Your brother never told you?’
‘No.’
‘Do you suppose that this money that he kept in the safe was money from the business?’
‘I don’t know—at least, not directly, of course. He always banked the takings from the business.’
‘It is a flourishing business, isn’t it?’
‘Fairly; not very. But I don’t know a great deal about it; my brother attended to all that. I only acted as his assistant in the shop—he gave me a salary. I am not very strong; my health has always been poor, and I found the strain of controlling the business too great. I handed the control over to my brother; he managed everything. I really know nothing about money matters. My wants are very few and simple.’
Again the quick, tumbling sentences, as if the speaker was anxious to disengage himself from the necessity of further explanation. Poole thought that it might be good policy to relax pressure now and re-apply it later, perhaps at some less guarded moment. He gave Reginald Gainly leave to depart to his shop and called Sergeant Horridge into the living-room.
‘Experiment, Horridge,’ he said. ‘I want to find out what chance there was of Herbert Gainly hearing this chap get in; presumably it was dead of night and no other noise going on—traffic or anything. A break-in generally makes some noise, but Gainly seems to have heard nothing at all.’
‘He probably wore rubber
s, sir.’
‘He had leather soles, anyhow, if he made those marks on the wall. But it’s that window-catch I’m thinking of; it’s a stiff one. First of all we’ll try with the doors open; the swing door into the hall and the living-room door. I’ll sit by the fire next to Herbert—you force the catch.’
With the doors open, the sound was very distinct—a sharp snap that must have caught the ear of the man in the living-room, however deeply immersed in his book. Even with the swing door shut, the sound was audible, but with the living-room door shut as well there was no sound.
‘Now, Horridge,’ said Poole, ‘we’ll do a full dress rehearsal. You go outside, climb up, snap the catch, open the window, get in, creep along, through the swing door, open this door, creep up and hit me on the top of the head with the hatchet. By the way, you haven’t found the weapon, I suppose?’
‘No, sir; nothing for certain—nothing with blood on it.’
‘I didn’t think you would. Well, off you go, and be as quiet as ever you know how.’
Poole had pulled Reginald Gainly’s chair out from the wall and put it close up against his brother’s, so that he had his back as much to the door as the dead man had—he did not want to move the body yet. He now sank comfortably down into it and as far as possible immersed his attention in a copy of the Statist, which he had found on the table. He had read several paragraphs of a summary of the past year’s balance of trade, and in spite of himself was becoming interested in it, when a picture on the wall on his left suddenly lifted and flapped back against the wall with a loud clatter. Involuntarily Poole whisked round. There in the half-open doorway crouched Sergeant Horridge, a rolled-up paper in his hand and a positively murderous expression on his face.
‘By Jove, that picture made me jump!’ said Poole. ‘Why did it do that, I wonder?’
‘When I opened the door, I expect, sir. Pictures do do that sometimes if there’s a draught.’
‘Lucky for the murderer it didn’t do it last night,’ said Poole. ‘I wonder what governs it?’
‘Wind, I expect, sir.’
The detective stared at the eccentric picture.
‘Go and fetch Mrs Gubb, Horridge,’ he said.
In a minute the sergeant was back, accompanied by Mrs Gubb, the good lady thrilled at the prospect of further consultation.
‘Were the windows shut like this when you came in this morning?’
‘Oh, yes, sir; yes. I haven’t touched nothing in ’ere.’
Poole nodded.
‘Just come and stand by me a minute, Mrs Gubb; I want to see if you notice anything. Again, Horridge.’
Mrs Gubb approached the detective—and the body—with a look of awe, amounting almost to terror.
‘It ain’t goin’ to move, sir, is it—the corp. ain’t?’
Poole laughed.
‘No, no; nothing to be frightened of. Just listen.’
Her nerves tensely strung in expectation of some horror—in spite of the detective’s assurance—Mrs Gubb stood, her eyes glued upon the door. Slowly it opened, and instantly the picture flapped out upon the opposite wall. Mrs Gubb took no notice of it, but remained staring at the door with horrified fascination, which changed to mingled relief and disappointment when nothing more thrilling than the solid police-sergeant appeared. She looked questioningly at Poole.
‘Didn’t you notice it?’ asked the latter, surprised.
‘What, sir; the door?’
‘No, no, the picture.’
‘Oh, that! That ain’t nothing. That often does that.’
‘But when, Mrs Gubb, when? What makes it do it?’
‘When the wind’s in the east, sir.’
‘Always?’
‘Yes, sir, always when the wind’s there—like it ’as been these last two days. The picture’s ’ung wrong, Mr ’Erbert always used to say—rest ’is soul. The ring’s nearly ’alf-way down the back, and that makes it ’ang forward mor’n it should. When the door opens, the wind seems to get be’ind it and make it jump—when it’s in the east, that is.’
Poole looked at his subordinate.
‘This is vital, Horridge,’ he said. ‘The wind’s certainly been in the east for two days as far as I know, but we must be sure. Get on to the Meteorological Office and find out if it dropped in the night at all—if so, how much and what time. By the way, what did the doctor say about time of death?’
‘He thought some time between ten and one, sir; wouldn’t be more exact.’
‘Wise man; now then, off to the telephone, quick.’
While Sergeant Horridge was away, Poole examined the safe. It was a simple affair, with a plain lock; only the key—not a memorised arrangement of letters—was required to open it. Poole wondered that a shrewd business man should keep his money in such an unburglar-proof affair. It was not large, containing only some ledgers and two small steel drawers.
The drawers were empty, but on pulling one right out, Poole found a crumpled ten shilling note at the back of the aperture. He examined it carefully, but could gain no clue from it. He was running his eye over the ledgers when Sergeant Horridge returned.
‘Wind steady E. by N.E. all night, sir; exactly where it is now,’ he reported.
Poole nodded slowly.
‘That settles it,’ he said, ‘as far as I’m concerned. Either that door was never opened last night, or it was opened by someone whom Herbert Gainly took no notice of—and that could only be his brother. Personally, I’m inclined to think that Reginald did it as he was—apparently—going to bed. I as good as caught him out when I talked to him this morning—a point about banknotes being left in the safe—and I’d very little doubt about it after that. But that’s quite a different thing to proving it. That picture business would be no use in court. We shall have to scratch our brains, Horridge.’
‘What about motive, sir?’
‘Money; what more d’you want? As a matter of fact, there’s plenty of motive without that; psychological motive—that again is no use for a jury—inferiority complex; ‘minority lobby’ all his life to his successful younger brother, and all the rest of it.’
‘But what’s he done with the money, sir?’
‘Hidden it, no doubt. We must go over this house with a pocket-comb. But he had plenty of time last night to take it any distance away and hide it.’
‘But what’ll he do with it, sir? If it’s banknotes, they can be traced if he tries to cash them.’
‘He said there were Treasury notes as well—though, of course, his evidence is of no value. You can’t trace Treasury notes.’
‘But, sir, those two little drawers wouldn’t hold enough Treasury notes to make it worth while killing his brother.’
Poole’s jaw dropped. He looked at the safe in silence.
‘Good point, Horridge,’ he said at last. ‘Damn good point. Damn good point.’
He rose from his chair and walked about the room. After five minutes of this, he turned to the inwardly-gratified sergeant.
‘Here, we must get rid of this thing,’ he said, irritably, pointing to the body of Herbert Gainly. ‘I don’t want it any more; I know all about how it was done. Ring D.H.Q. and get an ambulance sent. I must think out this money business; I’ll be in the parlour, or whatever he calls his plush and plaster room.’
Poole did not at once set himself to the task of thinking out the ‘money business.’ Instead, he took himself upstairs to the top floor, where Reginald Gainly’s bedroom was located. It was a bare, characterless apartment; not exactly uncomfortable, but comfortless—a thin carpet, narrow brass bed, two or three dull pictures, no easy-chair, a fireplace that had obviously not had a fire in it for months. Although he knew that there was no chance of finding the money in it, Poole searched it thoroughly; he found neither money nor any sort of clue.
Descending to the next floor, he transferre
d his attention to the dead man’s room—quite another affair—as comfortable as a bachelor’s room can be.
‘More motive,’ he said to himself grimly.
One of the first things to catch his attention was an unframed photograph, perched on the mantelpiece, of the dead man himself. He was looking at it, and wondering why Herbert Gainly displayed his own photograph in a room which no one else was likely to enter, when Mrs Gubb appeared in the doorway.
‘Speakin’ likeness, ain’t it, sir?’ she said gloomily. ‘Lucky thing now that ’e ’ad it done. Mr Reginald persuaded ’im to; said that now ’e was on the Guardians ’e was a public man an’ ought to be pictured. Mr ’Erbert, ’e pretended to think it was nonsense, but ’e ’ad it done, and when it was done, ’e wasn’t ’alf proud of it. Speakin’ likeness, ain’t it, sir?’
As Poole did not feel that he was in a position to judge of this, he replaced the photograph, and, shepherding Mrs Gubb out of the room, continued his search. Nothing of significance rewarded him. Mr Herbert Gainly had a well-stocked wardrobe and evidently enjoyed life; no doubt his success in business enabled him to do so.
Poole decided that he ought to consult Superintendent Flackett before further cross-examining Reginald Gainly. Leaving Sergeant Horridge in charge, therefore, with a promise to send a search party to help him go over the house, he returned to headquarters, taking the Gainly ledgers with him. Superintendent Flackett was out, and Poole, sitting down to examine them, soon became deeply absorbed.
Capital Crimes: London Mysteries Page 28
