“It’s almost perfect,” Sir Paul said, lighting a fresh cigarette. “So far as one can see, there isn’t a flaw. It’s the almost perfect crime—and it takes a madman to do it. There’s a nice comment on the professional criminal.”
“‘Almost perfect?” Roger echoed. “Why not quite perfect?”
“Surely the quite perfect crime,” Sir Paul smiled, “is the one that never gets suspected of being a crime at all.”
“The point is yours, yes. By the way, you’ve noticed, of course, how few of these lust-murderers ever do get found out.”
“Well, naturally; unless they deliberately give themselves away, like Neill Cream did, there’s simply nothing to go on. No starting-point for inquiry at all. In other words, no motive that’s going to lead anywhere. After all, it’s motive that really puts a man in the dock in nine cases out of ten. Motive and opportunity together make a professional detective carol with joy; he knows he’s got his man all right then.”
“I suppose it’s because I’m an amateur,” Roger sighed, “but I must say I do like quick results. It frets me to have to sit quiet while this brute murders half a dozen more unfortunate girls before we can get our hands on him, as no doubt he will.”
“But you must realise the immense amount of patient research work that a case of this sort requires, Sheringham, before an arrest can be made. Stupendous! Why, do you realise that it took Superintendent Neil nearly a whole year’s hard work to establish his case against Smith,‘the brides-in-the-bath man,’ as the newspapers christened him?”
Roger nodded. “Yes, I know. But for all that, delay irks me horribly. I’m afraid I shouldn’t have made a good professional detective at all. Look here, are you going back to Gray’s Inn Road?”
“Meaning you’re itching to get back there yourself?”
“Frankly, I am. They ought to be through with the examination of the other girl, and I’m very anxious to hear whether they’ve found out anything from her. And then there are all the other inquiries, whether anybody saw him come in or leave, and all that sort of thing. I suppose they’ve got all that in hand?”
“Oh, yes; Tucker will have seen to that. That’s just routine-work of course. Well, you get along if you want to, Sheringham. I can’t come with you, I’m afraid; I must be getting back to the Yard myself.”
“And I say, Sir Paul,” Roger added very earnestly, “I don’t want to butt in or make a nuisance of myself, but if you could arrange for any information about these crimes that happens to come in, to be telephoned on to me at my flat, I should be most awfully grateful. Do you think it could be done?”
Sir Paul smiled. “I think it might,” he said.
Roger’s voluble thanks were cut short by a club attendant, who interposed to tell Sir Paul that he was wanted on the telephone. He excused himself, and Roger accompanied him as far as the hall, where they parted company, Roger to retrieve his hat and coat. He had conceived a shrewd suspicion that his removal from the flat was not accident but design, to leave the official portion of the investigation to perform its routine-work unoverlooked by its unofficial colleague. If that were so, he considered that the others had had quite enough time to themselves by now, and his return could not be resented. And even if it were, Roger would not be so overcome with grief as to hurry away at once.
He was just going down the steps outside the club when he heard his name called. Sir Paul was standing in the doorway, beckoning. Roger turned and ran back to join him.
“You’ve had some news!” he declared.
Sir Paul nodded. “The first bit of luck yet,” he said, in a voice that could not be overheard by the porter. “I thought you might like to know. Moresby’s just telephoned through that he’s been able to get hold of a really good description of the man we want.”
“Joy on earth and mercy mild!” exclaimed Roger in high delight, and fled off to catch a passing taxi.
CHAPTER XIV
DETECTIVE SHERINGHAM SHINES
MORESBY welcomed Roger kindly enough (if the Superintendent did look a little bleak) and told him what had happened.
From the other girl, Zelma Deeping, they had been able to learn nothing. So far as she knew Dorothy Fielder had been expecting no visitor, nor could she even suggest who the visitor might have been; so many dozens of men, mostly connected with their profession, dropped in from time to time if they happened to be in the neighbourhood, that it was impossible to say who this one might have been.
Briefly, her information was merely negative. Dorothy had been expecting nobody, Dorothy was not engaged to anybody, Dorothy had no particularly favoured men-friends. Nor (and here Moresby looked significantly at Roger) had Zelma Deeping ever heard the names George Dunning or Gerald Newsome. She had, she thought, heard of Arnold Beverley, but in what connection she could not recall; at any rate, she was sure of never having met him. She had been cautioned to say nothing whatever of the afternoon’s events, and been allowed to go, under police supervision, to the house of a married friend in Hampstead, where she would stay till the police had finished with her flat.
From the porter of the block of mansions, however, valuable information had been obtained. The porter lived in a small basement flat on the left of the entrance, his windows being half-above and half-below the level of the pavement, behind a narrow area. The approach to the entrance of the Mansions was by means of a flight of eight stone steps, which led into the hall and towards the staircase. This was the only possible way in to any flat in the block, except by climbing over the roofs.
It was the porter’s fortunate habit to sit, when not actively portering, in the front room of his little flat in such a position that he could see anyone going up or coming down the flight of steps outside; and there he would read his newspaper, especially in the latter part of the mornings when his first duties were over, glancing up from time to time when anyone passed up or down the steps. He had got into the habit of doing this, because he could often tell, from the manner in which a stranger entered, whether his own services would be required; and from his position, he was enabled to get a good view of all entrants, but could see only the backs of those departing unless they turned in the direction of his flat, when he was able to see their profiles as they passed. The porter was an old sergeant in the regular army and a member of the Veterans’ Corps, and Moresby had considered him to be not only reliable, but unexpectedly intelligent.
The porter had given a list of the strangers whom he had seen enter the Mansions between shortly before twelve, when he ensconced himself in his chair, and one o’clock, when he was called away to his dinner. He would not guarantee its accuracy, but affirmed that his memory was not a bad one on the whole. Moresby, at any rate, seemed quite satisfied with it.
Just before twelve a girl had come in whom the porter had no difficulty in setting down as an actress; she had only been inside a few minutes. At about five minutes past twelve a youngish man, with the appearance of a good-class artisan, had gone in, and the porter had not seen him leave. Just after him an elderly woman had entered and after her, at about a quarter past twelve, an elderly man, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a short beard and a top-hat and looking like a family solicitor; he had been inside about twenty minutes and had then picked up a taxi outside and driven off in it. During his stay another man had arrived, at about half-past twelve, and had come out ten minutes later with one of the girls who had a flat there. There were one or two other women visitors between twelve-thirty and one and then, just before one o’clock, a gentleman had arrived who seemed in rather a hurry. He got out of a taxi outside, paid off the driver, and ran quickly up the steps; but not so quickly that the porter had been unable to get a good look at him.
He seemed to be between thirty and forty years old, was well-built and well-dressed, good-looking, with a small dark moustache, wearing a blue overcoat and a bowler hat and carrying a pair of wash-leather gloves, not particularly tall, but certainly not short, good average height in fact, and the porter had no doub
t that he could recognise him if he saw him again. He had not seen him come out, for he had been called to his dinner a few minutes later.
“And that, Mr. Sheringham,” said Moresby impressively, “is our man.”
“Good egg!” quoth Roger.
They were in the little sitting-room of the flat. The girl’s body had now been removed, and the injunction against disturbing the furniture lifted. No one was left on the premises but Moresby and the Superintendent; even Inspector Tucker had gone, to make out his report. Evidently it was expected that nothing further was to be learnt from the flat itself. A constable, however, still remained on guard at the front door.
Superintendent Green, who had been looking at Roger with a long, unwinking stare, took up the conversation. “Yes, and now all that remains is for us to identify him, Mr. Sheringham. Perhaps you’ll tell us how we’re going to do that?”
“Oh, that’s routine-work, surely,” Roger smiled. “I leave all that sort of thing to you.”
“Umph!” observed Superintendent Green, and turned away. He did not return Roger’s smile. Not a very companionable man, Superintendent Green. But, as Roger perfectly well knew, a very clever detective; little though he looked like the popular idea of one.
Roger turned back to Moresby. “What about the taxi he came in? You’ll be able to trace it, of course?”
“Oh, yes, we should be able to get hold of the driver all right. He may help, us, or he may not. He’s our chief hope, though. But Mr. Sheringham!”
“Hullo?”
To Roger’s surprise Chief Inspector Moresby looked decidedly ill at ease. His manner was almost diffident. A diffident Chief Inspector is nearly a contradiction in terms, and Roger’s surprise was not small. “Yes?” he repeated, as Moresby seemed to have some difficulty in continuing.
“Well, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea who our man is, said the Chief Inspector, almost with the effect of a small child blurting out a confession.
Roger took it that Moresby was apologising for having forestalled him with the solution—though certainly Moresby had not on former occasions shown any such nicety of feeling. “What, already?” he replied genially, with the effect of saying: “That’s all right, my child; but don’t do it again.” Perhaps he felt something of the sort, for he added quickly: “That’s uncommonly smart of you.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Chief Inspector Moresby, with the greatest unhappiness.
Roger stared at him in astonishment. “Well, who is the fellow, then?”
Roger’s surprises were not yet over. With as guilty an air as if he had committed the murders himself, Moresby replied: “Well, Mr. Sheringham, do you mind if I don’t tell you that just yet? Not till I’ve checked up on it, I mean. I will if you press me, of course, considering our agreement, and everything; but I’d rather not at the moment, sir, honestly. You’ll see why later, I’m afraid.”
“All right,” Roger said, mystified. “I don’t know what you’re driving at, but don’t tell me if you make such a point of it.” It had occurred to him that Sir Paul at any rate would not have these curious qualms about divulging such important news. “But look here,” he added suddenly, “if it’s anything about publication, I should have thought you would have known me better by now than to——”
“No, Mr. Sheringham,” the Chief Inspector interrupted hastily. “No, it’s nothing to do with publication. Nothing of that sort at all. Well, that’s very good of you. We’ll put it off till I’ve checked my results, then. That’ll be much better.”
“And talking of checking,” Roger remarked, thinking it better to change the subject, “I suppose you will make inquiries about the other men who came in during that hour? Just to be on the safe side, I mean.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Moresby, wearing an air of almost comic relief. “Yes, of course we do that. We don’t leave any loopholes, you know.”
“Loopholes,” grunted the Superintendent, from the other side of the room. “Seems to me the whole case is nothing but loopholes, hung together with a couple of bits of string for evidence. How are we going to establish that he did the thing when we do catch him, eh? That’s what I want to know.”
There was a little pause, during which all three evidently wondered the same thing.
“But with the porter’s evidence,” hesitated Roger.
“What’s to prevent him saying that he just ran up to take the girl out to lunch, couldn’t get an answer, and ran down again?” demanded Superintendent Green. “That’ll be his story, of course; and we can’t disprove it. Where’s the porter’s evidence then, Mr. Sheringham, eh?”
“I see,” murmured Roger, abashed.
“What’s even to prove that he had anything to do with this flat at all?” demanded the Superintendent, following up his advantage. “There’s not a blessed thing to connect him with it. Not a finger-print in the whole place. All the porter’s evidence does is to prove that he had the opportunity, after the other girl had gone out; and what’s the good of that?”
“Quite so,” agreed the humbled Mr. Sheringham.
“Supposing he says he tried some other door and couldn’t get an answer,” the Superintendent clinched the matter. “The door of that girl the porter saw come out at about twelve-thirty. We can’t say he didn’t. All we can say is:‘Yes, sir, perhaps. But, you see, we don’t think you did, so there!’” The tone in which the Superintendent saw fit to present this piece of repartee on the part of Scotland Yard was ironical in the extreme. “And that’s a lot of use to us, Mr. Sheringham, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Roger hastily. “I mean, no.—Er—what time did the other girl come out, Moresby—Zelma Deeping? You didn’t mention that.”
“Oh, quite early,” replied the Chief Inspector, who, his recent diffidence apparently forgotten, had been watching the discomfiture of his colleague with an abashed grin. “Not long after eleven, leaving this one in the flat alone. Said she had some shopping to do before keeping a lunch appointment at one.”
“I see. And we’ve only got the porter’s observation from twelve o’clock. That leaves a margin of about an hour, doesn’t it?”
“You mean, if anybody came between eleven and twelve, but didn’t kill the girl till a couple of hours later?” Moresby said tolerantly. “Well, it’s possible, of course; but I don’t think we need worry about that.”
“I was just thinking that the defending counsel would worry about it,” Roger pointed out mildly.
“Oh, it does leave the loophole; there’s no doubt about that. But then, as the Superintendent says, the whole case is full of loopholes.”
The Superintendent, still prowling about, with an enormous magnifying-glass, grunted in the distance, as if to emphasise the multiplicity of loopholes.
A thought occurred to Roger. “What about the family solicitor, with the beard and the gold-rimmed spectacles?”
“Well, what about him, Mr. Sheringham?”
“I mean, he sounds much more like the type we’re after than the athletic-looking, handsome man you’ve, picked out. Have you checked up on him yet? Does anybody in the Mansions own to a bearded solicitor in a top-hat?”
“No, we haven’t started that end yet. Tucker will get on to that as soon as he’s free. But anyhow, Mr. Sheringham,” Moresby pointed out patiently, “it’s no good you saying that the other one doesn’t sound like the type we’re after. We’ve got to go on facts, not types. The old gentleman couldn’t have done it, because he was out of the place just after half-past twelve and the murder wasn’t committed-till one o’clock at the very earliest, probably half-past. No, it lies between the artisan-chap and the other, with the odds heavily on the other, because I’ve no doubt Tucker will be able to find out all about the artisan to-morrow.”
“I suppose it does,” Roger agreed, with a reluctance which rather surprised himself. “But it doesn’t seem right, somehow.”
“It’ll be right enough when we catch him,” said Moresby with happy optimism.
&nb
sp; “Well.” came a grumbling voice from the other side of the room, “if you two ’ve done arguing, I’m going to get back to the Yard. And you’d better come with me, Moresby. I want to see how those photos ‘ve come out.”
“There doesn’t seem much more we can do here,” said Moresby. “You’ll keep the man on at the door, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes. We won’t let anyone in yet awhile. You never know. Well, this has been a waste of my time, I’m afraid. Are you coming, Mr. Sheringham?” Roger was evidently not to be allowed to investigate without supervision.
Roger jerked his mind off finger-prints, their prevalence in fiction, and their irritating absence in real life. “Yes,” he said. “I may as well go to—— Wait a minute! I believe I’ve got an idea!”
The two detectives looked at him without enthusiasm. Roger’s ideas, it would appear, left them cold.
“You have, Mr. Sheringham?” said Moresby, but more by way of making conversation than anything else.
“Yes. You were saying there were no finger-prints to connect this man with the flat. Superintendent. I take your word for it that there aren’t any inside, but have you thought of looking outside?”
“And where,” queried the Superintendent heavily, “might a man be expected to make any finger-prints that are going to be any use to us outside the flat, Mr. Sheringham?”
“On the bell-push, Superintendent,” said Roger sweetly. He thought the Superintendent deserved that much.
“Well, that’s a good idea, now,” said Moresby handsomely.
The Superintendent bestowed a sour look on him. It was the Superintendent’s rule, one rather gathered, never to praise the ideas of amateurs to their faces. Praise is not good for amateurs, clearly considered the Superintendent.
Nevertheless, he consented to look at the bell-push.
“He ought to have been the last person to push it,” Roger explained happily, as they trooped out into the hall. “Miss Deeping wouldn’t; she’d use her key, of course. And the door’s been open ever since then, more or less. Besides, you remember the porter said that our man was carrying a pair of wash-leather gloves, not wearing them. There is a chance that he didn’t put them on till he got inside.”
The Silk Stocking Murders Page 12
