'Queer?' interrupted Dr Fell, so sharply that Mangan turned round. 'How do you mean, queer?'
Ernestine Dumont came forward from beside the radio, her flat - heeled shoes creaking a little. She looked more withered this morning; the high cheek - bones more accentuated, the nose more flat, the eyes so puffed round the lids that they gave her a hooded, furtive appearance. Yet, despite the gritty look, her black eyes still had their glitter.
'Ah, bah!' she said, and made a sharp, somehow wooden gesture. 'What is the reason to go on with all this foolishness? Why do you not ask me? I would know more about such things than he. Would I not?' She looked at Mangan and her forehead wrinkled. 'No, no, I think you are trying to tell the truth, you understand. But I think you have mixed it up a little. That is easy, as Dr Fell says ... The yellow coat was there last night, yes. Early in the evening, before dinner. It was hanging on the hook where he says he saw the black one. I saw it myself.'
'But - ' cried Mangan.
'Now, now,' boomed Dr Fell, soothingly. 'Let's see if we can't straighten this out. If you saw the coat there, ma'am, didn't it strike you as unusual? A little queer, hey, if you knew it didn't belong to anybody here?'
'No, not at all.' She nodded towards Mangan. 'I did not see him arrive. I supposed it was his.'
'Who did let you in, by the way?' Dr Fell asked Mangan, sleepily.
'Annie. But I hung up my things myself. I'll swear -'
'Better ring the bell and have Annie up, if she's here, Hadley,' said Dr Fell. 'This problem of the chameleon overcoat intrigues me. Oh, Bacchus, it intrigues me! Now, ma'am, I'm not saying you're not telling the truth, any more than you say it of our friend Mangan. I was telling Ted Rampole a while ago how unfortunately truthful a certain person has been. Hah! Incidentally, have you spoken to Annie?'
'Oh, yes,' Hadley answered, as Rosette Grimaud strode past him and rang a bell. 'She tells a straight story. She was out last night, and didn't get back until past twelve. But I haven't asked her about this.'
'I don't see what all the fuss is about!' cried Rosette. 'What difference does it make! Haven't you better things to do than go fooling about trying to decide whether an overcoat was yellow or black?'
Mangan turned on her. 'It makes a lot of difference, and you know it. I wasn't seeing things. No, and I don't think she was, either! But somebody's got to be right. Though I admit Annie probably won't know. God! I don't know anything!'
'Quite right,' said Burnaby.
'Go to hell,' said Mangan. 'Do you mind?'
Hadley strode over between them and spoke quietly but to the point. Burnaby, who looked rather white, sat down on the couch again. The fray and strain of nerves showed raw in that room; everybody seemed eager to be quiet when Annie answered the bell. Annie was a quiet, long - nosed, serious - minded girl who showed none of that quality which is called nonsense. She looked capable; she also looked hard - worked. Standing rather bent at the doorway, her cap so precise on her head that it seemed to have been stamped there, she regarded Hadley with level brown eyes. She was a little upset, but not in the least nervous.
'One thing I neglected to ask you about last night - er,' said the superintendent, not too easy himself. 'Hum! You let Mr Mangan in, did you?'
'Yes, sir.'
'About what time was that?'
'Couldn't say, sir.' She seemed puzzled. 'Might have been half an hour before dinner. Couldn't say exactly.'
'Did you see him hang up his hat and coat?'
'Yes, sir! He never gives them to me, or of course I'd have - '
'But did you look into the clothes - closet?'
'Oh, I see ... Yes, sir, I did! You see, when I'd let him in, I went straight back to the dining - room, but then I discovered I had to go downstairs to the kitchen. So I went back through the front hall. And I noticed he'd gone away and left the light on in the clothes - closet, so I went down and turned it out...'
Hadley leaned forward. 'Now be careful! You know the light tweed overcoat that was found in that closet this morning? You knew about that, did you? Good! Do you remember the hook it was hanging from?'
'Yes, sir, I do.' Her lips closed tightly. 'I was in the front hall this morning when Mr Burnaby found it, and the rest came round. Mr Mills said we must leave it where it was, with that blood on it and all, because the police - '
'Exactly. The question, Annie, is about the colour of that coat. When you looked into that closet last night, was the coat a light brown or a black? Can you remember?'
She stared at him. 'Yes, sir, I can re - light brown or black, sir? Do you mean it? Well, sir, strictly speaking, it wasn't either. Because there was no coat hanging from that hook atoll.'
A babble of voices crossed and clashed: Mangan furious, Rosette almost hysterically mocking, Burnaby amused. Only Ernestine Dumont remained wearily and contemptuously silent. For a full minute Hadley studied the set, now fighting - earnest face of the witness: Annie had her hands clenched and her neck thrust out. Hadley moved over towards the window, saying nothing in a markedly violent fashion.
Then Dr Fell chuckled.
'Well, cheer up,' he urged. 'At least it hasn't turned another colour on us. And I must insist it's a very revealing fact, although I shall be in some danger of having that chair chucked at my head. H'mf. Hah! Yes. Come along, Hadley. Lunch is what we want. Lunch!'
CHAPTER 17
THE LOCKED - ROOM LECTURE
THE coffee was on the table, the wine - bottles were empty, cigars lighted. Hadley, Pettis, Rampole, and Dr Fell sat round the glow of a red - shaded table lamp, in the vast, dusky dining - room at Pettis's hotel. They had stayed on beyond most, and only a few people remained at other tables in that lazy, replete hour of a winter afternoon when the fire is most comfortable and snowflakes begin to sift past the windows. Under the dark gleam of armour and armorial bearings, Dr Fell looked more than ever like a feudal baron. He glanced with contempt at the demi - tasse, which he seemed in danger of swallowing cup and all. He made an expansive, settling gesture with his cigar. He cleared his throat.
'I will now lecture,' announced the doctor, with amiable firmness, 'on the general mechanics and development of that situation which is known in detective fiction as the "hermetically sealed chamber".'
Hadley groaned. 'Some other time,' he suggested. 'We don't want to hear any lecture after this excellent lunch, and especially when there's work to be done. Now, as I was saying a moment ago -'
'I will now lecture,' said Dr Fell, inexorably, 'on the general mechanics and development of the situation which is known in detective fiction as the "hermetically sealed chamber". Harrumph. All those opposing can skip this chapter. Harrumph. To begin with, gentlemen! Having been improving my mind with sensational fiction for the last forty years, I can say -'
'But, if you're going to analyse impossible situations,' interrupted Pettis, 'why discuss detective fiction?'
'Because,' said the doctor, frankly, 'we're in a detective story, and we don't fool the reader by pretending we're not. Let's not invent elaborate excuses to drag in a discussion of detective stories. Let's candidly glory in the noblest pursuits possible to characters in a book.
'But to continue: In discussing 'em, gentlemen, I am not going to start an argument by attempting to lay down rules. I mean to speak solely of personal tastes and preferences. We can tamper with Kipling thus: "There are nine and sixty ways to construct a murder maze and every single one of them is right." Now, if I said that to me every single one of them was equally interesting, then I should be - to put the matter as civilly as possible - a cock - eyed liar. But that is not the point. When I say that a story about a hermetically scaled chamber is more interesting than anything else in detective fiction, that's merely a prejudice. I like my murders to be frequent, gory, and grotesque. I like some vividness of colour and imagination flashing out of my plot, since I cannot find a story enthralling solely on the grounds that it sounds as though it might really have happened. I do not care to hear the hum of everyday
life; I much prefer to listen to the chuckle of the great Hanaud or the deadly bells of Fenchurch St Paul. All these things, I admit, are happy, cheerful, rational prejudices, and entail no criticism of more tepid (or more able) work.
'But this point must be made, because a few people who do not like the slightly lurid insist on treating their preferences as rules. They use, as a stamp of condemnation, the word "improbable". And thereby they gull the unwary into their own belief that "improbable" simply means "bad".
'Now it seems reasonable to point out that the word improbable is the very last which should ever be used to curse detective fiction in any case. A great part of our liking for detective fiction is based on a liking for improbability. When A is murdered, and B and C are under strong suspicion, it is improbable that the innocent - looking D can be guilty. But he is. If G has a perfect alibi, sworn to at every point by every other letter in the alphabet, it is improbable that G can have committed the crime. But he has. When the detective picks up a fleck of coal - dust at the seashore, it is improbable that such an insignificant thing can have any importance. But it will. In short, you come to a point where the word improbable grows meaningless as a jeer. There can be no such thing as any probability until the end of the Story. And then, if you wish the murder to be fastened on an unlikely person (as some of us old fogies do), you can hardly complain because he acted from motives less likely or necessarily less apparent than those of the person first suspected.
'When the cry of "This - sort - of - thing - wouldn't - happen!" goes up, when you complain about homicidal maniacs and killers who leave cards, you are merely saying, "I don't like this sort of story." That's fair enough. If you do not like it, you are howlingly right to say so. But when you twist this matter of taste into a rule for judging the merit or even the probability of the story, you are merely saying, "This series of events couldn't happen, because I shouldn't enjoy it if it did."
'What would seem to be the truth of the matter? We might test it out by taking the hermetically sealed chamber as an example, because this situation has been under a hotter fire than any other on the grounds of being unconvincing.
'Most people, I am delighted to say, are fond of the locked room. But - here's the damned rub - even its friends are often dubious. I cheerfully admit that I frequently am. So, for the moment, we'll all side together on this score and see what we can discover. Why are we dubious when we hear the explanation of the locked room? Not in the least because we are incredulous, but simply because in some vague way we are disappointed. And, from that feeling it is only natural to take an unfair step farther, and call the whole business incredible or impossible or flatly ridiculous.
'Precisely, in short,' boomed Dr Fell, pointing his cigar, 'what O'Rourke was telling us to - day about illusions that are performed in real life. Lord! gents, what chance has a story got when we even jeer at real occurrences? The very fact that they do happen, and that the illusionist gets away with it, seems to make the deception worse. When it occurs in a detective story, we call it incredible. When it happens in real life, and we are forced to credit it, we merely call the explanation disappointing. And the secret of both disappointments is the same - we expect too much.
'You see, the effect is so magical that we somehow expect the cause to be magical also. When we see that it isn't wizardry, we call it tomfoolery. Which is hardly fair play. The last thing we should complain about with regard to the murderer is his erratic conduct. The whole test is, can the thing be done? If so, the question of whether it would be done does not enter into it. A man escapes from a locked room - well? Since apparently he has violated the laws of nature for our entertainment, then heaven knows he is entitled to violate the laws of Probable Behaviour! If a man offers to stand on his head, we can hardly make the stipulation that he must keep his feet on the ground while he docs it. Bear that in mind, gents, when you judge. Call the result uninteresting, if you like, or anything else that is a matter of personal taste. But be very careful about making the nonsensical statement that it is improbable or far fetched.'
'All right, all right,' said Hadley, shifting in his chair. 'I don't feel very strongly on the matter myself. But if you insist on lecturing - apparently with some application to this case -?'
'Yes.'
'Then why take the hermetically sealed room? You yourself said that Grimaud's murder wasn't our biggest problem. The main puzzle is the business of a man shot in the middle of an empty street...'
'Oh, that?' said Dr Fell, with such a contemptuous wave of his hand that Hadley stared at him. 'That part of it? I knew the explanation of that as soon as I heard the church bells. Tut, tut, such language! I'm quite serious. It's the escape from the room that bothers me. And, to see if we can't get a lead, I am going to outline roughly some of the various means of committing murders in locked rooms, under separate classifications. This crime belongs under one of them. It's got to! No matter how wide the variation may be, it's only a variation of a few central methods.
'H'mf! Ha! Now, here is your box with one door, one window, and solid walls. In discussing ways of escaping when both door and window are sealed, I shall not mention the low (and nowadays very rare) trick of having a secret passage to a locked room. This so puts a story beyond the pale that a self - respecting author scarcely needs even to mention that there is no such thing. We don't need to discuss minor variations of this outrage: the panel which is only large enough to admit a hand; or the plugged hole in the ceiling through which a knife is dropped, the plug replaced undetectably, and the floor of the attic above sprayed with dust so that no one seems to have walked there. This is only the same foul in miniature. The principle remains the same whether the secret opening is as small as a thimble or as big as a barn door ... As to legitimate classification, you might jot some of these down, Mr Pettis ...'
'Right,' said Pettis, who was grinning.' Go on.'
'First! There is the crime committed in a hermetically sealed room which really is hermetically sealed, and from which no murderer has escaped because no murderer was actually in the room. Explanations:
'1. It is not murder, but a series of coincidences ending in an accident which looks like murder. At an earlier time, before the room was locked, there has been a robbery, an attack, a wound, or a breaking of furniture which suggests a murder struggle. Later the victim is either accidentally killed or stunned in a locked room, and all these incidents are assumed to have taken place at the same time. In this case the means of death is usually a crack on the head - presumably by a bludgeon, but really from some piece of furniture. It may be from the corner of a table or the sharp edge of a chair, but the most popular object is an iron fender. The murderous fender, by the way, has been killing people in a way that looks like murder ever since Sherlock Holmes's adventure with the Crooked Man. The most thoroughly satisfying solution of this type of plot, which includes a murderer, is in Gaston Leroux's The Mystery of the Yellow Room - the best detective tale ever written.
'2. It is murder, but the victim is impelled to kill himself or crash into an accidental death. This may be by the effect of a haunted room, by suggestion, or more usually by a gas introduced from outside the room. This gas or poison makes the victim go berserk, smash up the room as though there had been a struggle, and die of a knife - slash inflicted on himself. In other variations he drives the spike of the chandelier through his head, is hanged on a loop of wire, or even strangles himself with his own hands.'
'3. It is murder, by a mechanical device already planted in the room, and hidden undetectably in some innocent - looking piece of furniture. It may be a trap set by somebody long dead, and work either automatically or be set anew by the modern killer. It may be some fresh quirk of devilry from present - day science. We have, for instance, the gun - mechanism concealed in the telephone receiver, which fires a bullet into the victim's head as he lifts the receiver. We have the pistol with a string to the trigger, which is pulled by the expansion of water as it freezes. We have the clock that fir
es a bullet when you wind it; and (clocks being popular) we have the ingenious grandfather clock which sets ringing a hideously clanging bell on its top, so that when you reach up to shut off the din your own touch releases a blade that slashes open your stomach. We have the weight that swings down from the ceiling, and the weight that crashes out on your skull from the high back of a chair. There is I he bed that exhales a deadly gas when your body warms it, the poisoned needle that leaves no trace, the -
"You see,' said Dr Fell, stabbing out with his cigar at each point, ' when we become involved with these mechanical devices we are rather in the sphere of the general "impossible situation" than the narrower one of the locked room. It would be possible to go on for ever, even on mechanical devices for electrocuting people. A cord in front of a row of pictures is electrified. A chess - board is electrified. Even a glove is electrified. There is death in every article of furniture, including a tea - urn. But these things seem to have no present application, so we go on to:
'4. It is suicide, which is intended to look like murder. A man kills himself with an icicle; the icicle melts; and, no weapon being found in the locked room murder is presumed. A man shoots himself with a gun fastened on the end of an elastic - the gun, as he releases it, being carried up out of sight, into the chimney. Variations of this trick (not locked - room affairs) have been the pistol with a string attached to a weight, which is whisked over the parapet of a bridge into the water after the shot; and, in the same style, the pistol jerked out of a window into a snow - drift.
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