David joined the old man. For a moment they stared out into the darkness flecked with whirling white. Mr. Maltby raised his hand to close the window.
“Good riddance!” muttered David.
“It’s a pity he’s got that knife,” answered Mr. Maltby.
“The knife won’t do him much good out there,” replied David. “I wonder how long he’ll last!”
He also wondered why Mr. Maltby did not close the window.
“No. For a moment I thought ... well, this open-air treatment won’t help our health.”
He began to pull the window down. Then he paused again. A terrified shriek pierced the darkness, lending it a new horror.
“My God, what was that!” gasped David.
He strained forward, but Mr. Maltby shoved him away and closed the window resolutely.
“We’ll get back to the dining-room,” he said. “We’ve things to talk about.”
CHAPTER XIII
EXHIBIT B
THEY found Mr. Hopkins sitting on the dining-room floor looking very sorry for himself. He was no longer purple; he was white; and his eyes were watering. He also seemed to be experiencing some difficulty in swallowing.
“That fellow nearly choked me,” he spluttered.
“You were fortunate that he did not quite choke you,” replied Mr. Maltby, without sympathy.
“I see, I’m in the wrong again!”
“Very much in the wrong again. I have never seen a more pitiable example of lack of control and lack of intelligence. We all knew that Smith had murdered a man—probably by the same method by which he nearly murdered you—but Smith did not know we knew until you told him——”
“He knew I knew,” mumbled Mr. Hopkins.
“I doubt, from his attitude, whether he knew himself,” retorted Mr. Maltby.
While Mr. Hopkins looked incredulous, David looked almost equally astonished.
“Surely, sir!” he exclaimed. “If he didn’t know, why did he leave the train in such a hurry?”
“Yes, and lie about it,” added Mr. Hopkins, gulping. “Tell me that!”
“One reason you do not know yet,” answered Mr. Maltby, “but the other should be obvious. He knew he had hurt his man. He did not know, I am reasonably convinced, the full extent of the damage. Even assault, however, is a criminal offence, so naturally he left the train in a hurry, and naturally he denied ever having been on the train. Do you conceive that if he had had a definite murder on his conscience, and had assumed our own equal knowledge of it, he would have acted as he did? He was anxious and worried. You, Mr. Hopkins, gave him particular cause for anxiety. But he thought that, for the time being, he was better off with us than—where he now is, out in the snow.”
“I dare say you’re right,” said David, after a pause. “But I still can’t quite follow his attitude. I mean, of course, until this final flare up. I think, in his position, I would have risked the snow.”
“But you do not know his position,” smiled Mr. Maltby.
“You mean—that other reason you mentioned for his leaving the train?”
Mr. Maltby nodded.
“That has played a very important part in Mr. Smith’s movements here. Yes, in the end he would probably have risked the snow in any case, and I dare say he had already decided on his method of escape—through the window. Only, you see, I had not intended to give him the chance. But for you, Mr. Hopkins, we should have had our murderer locked up to-night, instead of wandering around outside loose with a knife.”
“What was the other reason?” asked David.
“I will come to that in a minute. Where is your sister?”
“Upstairs, I think.”
“You had better go and see. No, wait. She was going to take some pineapple up to Miss Noyes. Take it up yourself now, Mr. Carrington, and suggest that your sister stays with Miss Noyes and keeps her company for a little while. But I want you down again as soon as you can come, please.”
“Right,” said David. “That’s a good idea.”
“Your sister has plenty of pluck—I admire her,” said Mr. Maltby, while David took the long delayed plate of pineapple, “but perhaps there is no need to increase the strain she already has on her mind. I wonder, by the way, whether she heard—what we heard? If you can find out tactfully, will you do so?”
“That’s a good idea, too,” answered David as he left the room.
Mr. Hopkins, who had now risen from the carpet and was in the act of taking a sip of water, showed signs of returning agitation.
“Heard—what you heard?” he queried. “What was that?”
“You heard nothing yourself, then?”
“When?”
“While we were out of the room? Half a minute before we returned.”
“I don’t know. My head was buzzing. It still is. I—I did think——”
“Yes?”
“The wind’s rising, isn’t it?”
“It wasn’t the wind.”
“Then what was it? I’m asking you! Why do you keep on going round and round the bush with me?”
“Because, Mr. Hopkins, whenever anything has to be faced, you always go round and round the bush yourself, and so I have to go round and round the bush to catch you up. You did hear something?”
“Yes, yes. Well, that is, I thought I did. But I put it down to the wind, or my head, or both. Does that satisfy you?”
“What did it sound like, apart from the wind or your head?”
“A—a shriek.”
“It was a shriek.”
“Eh?”
“A very unearthly shriek.”
“Unearthly? You don’t mean——?”
“I thought you did not believe in ghosts and spooks and suchlike bosh? I thought you had exploded them? In Rangoon, if I remember rightly?”
“Who said anything about ghosts?” retorted Mr. Hopkins, trying to fight back.
“Listen,” said Mr. Maltby. “You have been through an unpleasant experience, and for that I make allowances. But do you recall that, while in the train, you told at least half a dozen stories in which you figured as something of a hero? You endured worse snow than this without a murmur in Dawson City. You shot a tiger while it was springing at you in your pet corner of the world, India. You told a bandit in China where to get off. I quote your own expression—it is not one of mine. You taught a Zulu warrior chess. Cannot you recapture a little of that spirit here and now? I assure you, Mr. Hopkins, you will need it during the next few minutes while I am telling you certain things—including, I may mention, my interpretation of that shriek.... Ah, Mr. Carrington. You have been quick. How is your sister? All right?”
David nodded as he entered the room.
“Everything O.K.,” he answered. “She’s staying with Miss Noyes. She heard what we heard, and agreed it was best.”
“That was sensible of her.”
“She did make one provision, though.”
“What was it?”
“That she wasn’t to be kept perpetually in the dark.”
“We are all somewhat in the dark,” replied Mr. Maltby. “I propose now, however, to try and find a little light. Wait a moment.”
He left the room, and for a minute David and Mr. Hopkins had to endure each other alone.
“Coming round?” asked David.
“I am obliged for the kind inquiry,” responded Mr. Hopkins. “I am coming round.”
“That fellow was pretty dangerous.”
“Again, I am obliged for the information.”
“Sorry I spoke!”
They fell into a profitless silence till Mr. Maltby came back. He was carrying three objects which he placed carefully on the table, clearing a small space for their reception. One was a hammer. The second was a black leather letter-case. The third was a torn envelope from which protruded a torn sheet of paper. His companions regarded them with interest.
“Exhibit A,” began the old man, touching the hammer. “I found it on my way here, near this hou
se. It was partially, but not completely, covered by the snow. Does that suggest anything to either of you?”
“It suggests something to me,” answered David.
“What?”
“That it must have been left there or dropped quite recently, otherwise it would have been completely covered by the snow.”
“A good mark for that, Mr. Carrington. Your conclusion is the same as mine. I picked it up and I put it in my pocket. We will return to it when I describe a little incident. Exhibit B.” He pointed to the black letter-case. “I found that in the attic. We will return to the letter-case, also, when I describe another little incident. Exhibit C.” He touched the torn envelope and paper. “I found that in the waste-paper basket in the room occupied by Mr. Thomson. The same comment applies.
“I have mentioned these three articles in the order in which I found them, but we will deal first with the second exhibit—B—because that applies to the subject of our first inquiry. Namely, Smith. I think I can reconstruct his complete story—that is, from just before he left the train to just after he left here finally. At least, we hope finally, but there may be more of his story to come. The other two exhibits, A and C, belong to a second story, a good deal of which I think we can also reconstruct. There will be blanks in the second story, however, which we will try to fill in later. It is the story of this house, and of how it came to be left in the condition in which we found it.”
“You think you’ve discovered that?” exclaimed David.
“I think I have partially discovered it. And, curiously, it is the conclusion of Smith’s story that has supplied, or confirmed, a vital detail in the second. Yes, unless I am very much mistaken, at that conclusion the two stories touched. Our own personal stories, of course, are so far merely incidental.”
“One moment, sir,” interposed David.
“Well?”
“The conclusion of Smith’s story. Do you mean—that scream?”
“If I am right, that is the point where the stories met. Now then. The first story. It began when a fellow called Smith, but who has probably been known to the police by many other names, killed W. T. Barling.”
“Barling?” cried Mr. Hopkins. “How the devil do you know the name?”
“The name, but not any address, is on a card in the letter-case. No, don’t touch it!” he added sharply, as Mr. Hopkins’s hand stretched forward. “Don’t touch anything! You can be sure that, ever since I have realised their significance, I have handled these exhibits most carefully. As I handled the bread-knife when I put it away. There may be useful fingerprints on some of these articles.”
David noticed that the old man’s eyes travelled for an instant to the hammer.
“The case also contains forty-four one-pound treasury notes,” continued Mr. Maltby. “Worth a risk to a man of Smith’s mentality. Still, we may be reasonably sure Smith did not realise the risk he was taking when he stole the case. Let me reconstruct Smith’s actions, and you can tell me where my logic is faulty.
“Barling, in the compartment next to us, dozes in his corner. Smith is the only other person in the compartment, and realises his opportunity. Barling may have displayed his case before he slept, or Smith may merely have made a good guess. These crooks are clever at guessing, and quickly classify us from their particular angle. How was Barling dressed, Mr. Hopkins? Do you remember?”
“Eh? No! Yes, I do,” jerked Mr. Hopkins. “Tweeds. Rather loud. That’s right.”
“Did he look like a sporting man?”
“Well, now you come to mention it—of course, I couldn’t be sure——”
“I am not asking you to be sure. Just your impression.”
“Well, that was my impression. That is to say, not at the time, but—well, now you come to mention it.”
“Then it would fit our facts if Barling, a sporting man, had made a packet and had unwisely boasted about it. Anyway, Smith stole the case, but wasn’t quite clever enough, and woke Barling up. There was a tussle——”
“We didn’t hear anything,” interrupted David.
“Did you hear anything while Smith’s fingers were pressing Mr. Hopkins’s throat?”
Mr. Hopkins looked startled, then gulped at the memory.
“It was a swift, quiet struggle. Probably the whole thing flared up in an instant, and before the two men realised it they were at each other’s throats. Once Smith smells definite danger, he doesn’t wait. He acts.”
“My God, yes!” muttered Mr. Hopkins.
“Mr. Hopkins will corroborate me when I suggest that Smith’s hands are strong enough to choke a man——”
“Yes, but if you don’t mind——”
“I noticed his strong hands at once, just as I noticed his low forehead and the bluntness of the back of his head and neck. So, I repeat, it was a swift, quiet tussle. These two did not slam at each other and tumble about. Smith showed no visible bruises. There was no blood on his clothes. Also, as Mr. Carrington has just reminded us, we did not hear anything—no angry shout or cry of agony. Barling died through strangulation, and when Smith’s hands had done their work and Barling had slid to the floor of the compartment—where you and the guard found him, Mr. Hopkins—Smith went through a moment of stupefaction. He did not know whether he had killed Barling. Perhaps he thought that unlikely. But he had done enough damage, and he did not wait to find out the full extent. He developed panic and fled from the train. And I followed him.”
“I still don’t know why you followed him,” said David, as his mind went back to the moment.
“I am not sure that I could explain in a way you could understand,” replied the old man. “We judge life by our own reactions and sensations, and the reactions and sensations of others are often mere incomprehensible theories.” He paused, and again eyed the hammer. “Would you think, for instance, that there are certain people—one, I believe, actually in this house—who could get a violent sensation merely by receiving on their forehead the touch of an implement that had been used violently on somebody else?”
“Why, yes, I remember a case something like that!” exclaimed Mr. Hopkins unexpectedly. “It was in South America. An old woman was touched with a piece of broken wood and yelled out that she was falling. It was a bit of an aeroplane that had crashed.”
For once Mr. Hopkins had related a story that was both appropriate and interesting.
“The same idea,” nodded Mr. Maltby.
“But who’s the person in this house who—you don’t mean me?”
“No, not you. Or myself. I merely gave that psychic faculty as one example of the seemingly impossible. My own experience was not due to actual contact with any article. I left the train through a sequence of three connected sensations, one occurring so rapidly after the other that they created in me an ungovernable impulse. Naturally I had no idea at the time that a murder had been committed, otherwise I would have acted differently—but you will recall, Mr. Hopkins, that when you brought your news of the tragedy, I guessed the compartment it had occurred in, and was also able to indicate—then—its nature.
“The first sensation was an uneasiness I sometimes, but not always, receive when anything violent had just happened. I receive it sometimes when it is going to happen.”
“Have you got it now?” inquired Mr. Hopkins.
“I am convinced that something is going to happen,” replied Mr. Maltby, “but whether violent or not I cannot say. The second sensation was due, I now think, to a sound. So, after all, Barling may have made some sound caught faintly, but not decipherably, by my ear. The third was of a more obvious nature. It was due to my sudden sight of Smith himself. I knew without any evidence that here was a man running away, and that he needed catching. My mistake,” he added whimsically, “was to imagine that I could catch him. As you know, I lost Smith. He melted away in the snow. And while I floundered after him, getting lost myself—and, as you will learn in due course, gaining my first glimpse of the second story—this is what Smith did.
“We didn’t find it open,” interrupted David. “It was closed, but not locked.”
“Smith closed it.”
“But how do you know it was open when Smith got here?” demanded Mr. Hopkins.
He was recovering a little of his self-assurance. His story of South America had been a mental tonic. Also, the tubes of his throat were nearly normal again.
Mr. Maltby smiled. “You are right. I do not know. I deduce it from my belief that Smith would not have entered the house otherwise. On the other hand, he might risk poking his head in through the open doorway. But I deduce it as well from another fact that comes in the second story. He got in. He found the place empty. He bolted up to the attic. He was in the attic when you arrived, Mr. Carrington. He was the person you heard inside the room, and who obviously would not reply to you when you called through the door.”
“You mean he’d bunked up and locked himself in?”
“Probably he locked the door as he heard you coming. Then, finding that you were not leaving the house, and that he was trapped——”
“He had nothing to fear from me.”
“Did he know that?”
“Of course not. That’s a bad mark.”
“He did not need a knowledge of his murder to fear every unknown person just then, particularly as he was trespassing in somebody else’s house. He knew he had committed assault and theft. So when he found you were not leaving, he tried to escape. First he unlocked the attic door. No good. Voices below. Then, omitting to lock the attic door again—you remember you were able to enter the second time—he ran to the window and tried that. He got out somehow. I found the window open, just a crack. He had not closed it completely. There is a low roof on which he could have jumped, and the softness of the snow doubtless helped him. But I noticed, if you did not, that Smith was trying to conceal a slight limp.”
Mystery in White (British Library Crime Classics) Page 10
