by Bruce, Leo
“Now I come to think of it, yes.”
“Good. Let’s go upstairs.”
We walked towards the front door, and Lord Simon paused to speak to his man. “Butterfield,” he said, with apologetic hesitation.
“Yes, my Jord,” said Butterfield, suavely of course.
“Take some photographs. And telephone to the dowager Duchess and the Ex-Queen that I shall not be lunching with either of them.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Oh, and—Butterfield?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Have you got the Napoleon brandy in the car?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Excellent.”
We re-entered the house, and started to go upstairs. I was determined to remain with Lord Simon while he was investigating. His care-free manner, which evidently concealed great astuteness, interested me enormously. I was wondering what discoveries he would make in the fatal bedroom, what he would find that we had missed. But when I reached the door of it, he stopped.
“This is the room,” I said.
“What room?”
“The room where it happened.”
“Indeed? Let’s go a little higher up, shall we?”
I reflected that criminologists are nothing if not unexpected, and led the way to the floor above. The boxroom, which we entered first, filled Lord Simon with enthusiasm.
“I love old box-rooms,” he said. “Don’t you? Never know what you may come across when you start pokin’ about in them.”
His eye travelled round the room. There was little enough to see—a number of old trunks, a pair of rusty skates, an array of slightly mildewed boots, and a moth-eaten leopard-skin rug.
“Fascinatin’,” he said, and crossed to the window. This, with its stone mullions, seemed to occupy his attention for longer than I could understand, and he glanced languidly from it to the beams above.
“And now we’re going to do something very Scotland Yard,” he drawled. “Yes. Definitely Scotland Yard. But necessary. We’re going to examine the contents of these boxes.”
“Really,” I began. “I don’t know whether Dr. Thurston …”
But Lord Simon smiled disarmingly, and I remembered that criminologists are exempt from such trifling considerations. “Come along,” he said. “There’s a good chap,”
I helped him to turn out the boxes. One contained only odd bits of material, stray scraps of lace, pieces from ancient dresses which poor Mary Thurston had probably stored “in case they might come in useful.” I did not care for this, as it brought the dead woman vividly back to me with all her stupidity and good-nature.
“Like bein’ a beastly Customs officer, isn’t it?” said Lord Simon, disdainfully plucking out a disused petticoat.
I nodded. We had soon finished that box, and after replacing its contents, turned to the next. This smelt more strongly of camphor, and proved to be an undisturbed mausoleum of Dr. Thurston’s cast-off suits—old morning coats, and a dinner-jacket of antique cut. We went through the remaining boxes with the same thoroughness, but came on nothing which appeared to interest Lord Simon.
“Disappointin’,” he said. “We must try the apple-room.”
When we entered it the apple-room appeared to me even more barren of possibilities than the box-room, but Lord Simon seemed to like the place.
“Rippin’ smell, stored apples,” he remarked, drawing it in through his chiselled nostrils.
The fruit had been laid out on the floor, each apple separated from its fellow to prevent the spread of any infection. But a clear passage, about a yard wide, had been left from door to window. Lord Simon stood looking down at the crimson and yellow rows, then stooped to pick up a Cox’s Orange Pippin.
“Recently crushed,” he said, and took a bite from the undamaged side of it.
Then his eyes were alight again, and he became unaffectedly active. He took off his pale grey overcoat, and hung it carefully behind the door. His handsomely tailored jacket followed it, and he stood in his shirt sleeves fumbling with a pair of Asprey cuff-links.
An unpleasant thought occurred to me. “You’re not going to move all these apples, are you?” I asked.
“Rather not,” he returned. “Just a lucky dip, that’s all.” And he picked his way among the fruit to the water-tank which wheezed stertorously in the corner.
Breathlessly I watched Lord Simon. Would he discover another corpse? I knew he had a penchant for that sort of thing. But surely he would not blindly plunge his arm into the water if that was what he sought. No, I could see by his face that he had found whatever he had anticipated. And presently he began to draw it out—a length of very thick rope.
He laid it on the floor between the apples, as tenderly as if it had been a child. There was a great knot at one end of it and an iron ring at the other. It must have been about fifteen feet long.
“Exhibit A,” he said. “Undoubtedly Exhibit A. Ever seen it before?”
“It looks as though it came from the gymnasium.”
“Gymnasium? You never told me that there was a gymnasium.”
“I did not see that it could have any bearing.”
“No, no. Of course not. Yes, certainly this rope comes from the gymnasium. At any rate, it has been used for climbin’.”
“But …”
“I never could climb a rope at Eton. Could you at wherever you were?”
“Yes,” I said rather shortly.
“Well, let’s go down. I think it’s time I…”
“Viewed the body?” I suggested.
“Exactly,” said Lord Simon. But before he left the room he examined the stone frame of the window very carefully, as he had done that of the box-room.
We came down the narrow staircase, and I tapped at the door of the room in which the tragedy had happened. It was Sergeant Beef’s voice which bade us come in. My knowledge of these situations was sufficient to tell me just what sort of greetings to expect between these two, and I was not disappointed.
“Mornin’, Beef,” said Lord Simon gaily.
The Sergeant seemed to be suffering from the effects of his visit to the Red Lion last night.
“I shouldn’t ‘ardly ‘ave thought you’d of bothered with a little case like this,” he said slowly. “It’s all plain sailing.”
“You find it so?” asked Lord Simon.
“Yes. Of course I do. Why it’s …”
“What are you doin’ there, Sergeant?”
“Just ‘aving another look at these bloodstains,” said Beef sulkily.
Lord Simon turned to me. “The police love blood,” he said. “Surprisin’, isn’t it?”
The Sergeant did not appreciate the joke. Very soon there was silence in the room, as Beef and I watched Lord Simon at work. He went with sure-fingered efficiency over every object in the room, tapped the walls once or twice, and examined the fireplace.
“No means of escape,” he observed.
Sergeant Beef guffawed. “Surely you wasn’t expecting to find one, was you?” he asked.
“No, Sergeant,” said Lord Simon quietly. “Oddly enough, I wasn’t.”
Next he went to the wardrobe, and after poking about, rather rudely I thought, among a number of Mary Thurston’s coats, he pulled out two old parasols.
“Going out in the sun, and afraid of your complexion?” asked Sergeant Beef, with heavy satire.
“No. Just interested,” said Lord Simon, scrutinizing them carefully.
At last he put them down, and started a stupid game with the long curtains. He pulled one over a little way, then pulled it back carelessly, two or three times.
“Nice curtains,” he said, releasing them.
Finally he returned to the dressing-table, and to my surprise stooped over it, and applied his nose to a point near the mirror. In a moment he was sneezing violently.
“Disgustin’,” he said. “I’m glad you hadn’t noticed it, Sergeant. It’s most unpleasant. By the way, who in this household takes
snuff?”
“I know that Stall does,” I told him. “I saw him once on the landing when he thought no one noticed him.”
“Oh,” said Lord Simon dimly. “Well, I’m going to get some lunch.”
It was barely twelve o’clock, so I guessed he had some other purpose in leaving us just then. But I accompanied him downstairs and towards the hall door.
Just before. I opened this for him he stopped and glanced at a little window beside it, which looked out from the front of the house. “Do you happen to know whether these curtains are drawn at night?” he asked me.
I was unable to tell him, but Stall, who was passing at that moment, said, “I am afraid they are usually forgotten, my lord. It is the parlourmaid’s place to draw them, but they seem to get missed.”
“Drawn last night?”
“I believe not, my lord.”
“Thanks,” said Lord Simon to Stall, and thereupon ambled off.
CHAPTER 6
AS the three Rolls-Royces were disappearing down the drive, I became aware of a very curious little man, who was on all fours beside the flower-bed in which I had discovered the knife during the previous evening. His physique was frail, and topped by a large egg-shaped head, a head so much and so often egg-shaped that I was surprised to find a nose and mouth in it at all, but half expected its white surface to break and release a chick. I recognized him at once and approached.
“M. Amer Picon, I think?”
“Yes, mon ami. The great Amer Picon,” he amplified, glancing up for a moment from his operations.
“My name is Townsend,” I told him. “Can I help you at all?”
I had had an opportunity of watching one great criminologist at work, and was pleased by the prospect of seeing another.
“But certainly you can help me,” he exclaimed. “I shall be enchante. I have just this minute arrived.”
“Then you don’t know …” I began, eager to tell him what we had already learned.
But he interrupted me. “I know all that you know, mon vieux, and per’aps a leetle more. Oho, tiens, voilà” he ended not very relevantly.
“But pardon me, m’sieur, that is impossible if you have just arrived. I have been with Lord Simon Plimsoll this morning, and he has made some important discoveries.”
“Plimsoll? That amateur des livres?” he scoffed, with more command of French than I had previously credited him with. “And what has he found? The rope, I suppose?”
“How did you know that?”
“How did I know? But am I not Picon? Amer Picon? Tiens! These are not problems. There are problems enough. But such as you mention are not problems. And where was the rope? In the water-tank, I presume?”
“Well, yes it was. Did someone tell you?”
He stood up indignantly. “Tell me?” he said. “Do I need to be told? Where else could the rope be, I should like to know?”
I was unable to answer that, so I remained silent. Apparently M. Picon was sorry for his brusqueness.
“M’sieur, you must excuse Papa Picon. He is troubled. Yes, even he. Allons. Let us go to the garage.”
“To the garage?” I repeated.
“But naturally. Where else should we go?”
And he set off on his short legs at a great pace. The garage was at the end of the house opposite to that of Mary Thurston’s room, and on the farther side of a yard. Across this the little man stepped resolutely, and did not hesitate till he came to the space in front of the garage door. Here we found Fellowes, his legs in rubber boots, applying a powerful hose to the Thurstons’ Austin car. He turned to say good morning to us, but did not cease his work.
M. Picon watched him for some moments, then said, ‘Mon ami, why do you clean again and yet again what is already spotless?”
Fellowes seemed somewhat confused. I had never known him to show any surliness before, and was surprised to notice his attitude to my eccentric companion.
“Is it that you wish to appear busy, eh? You do not like the—what you call?—the cross-examination? Have no fear. The time for questions has not come yet. Now, I look a little, no more.”
Rather unwillingly the chauffeur smiled at that. “Well, it’s quite right I don’t like being questioned,” he said.
Who does?”
But Picon took little notice of his reply. The chauffeur’s sleeves were rolled almost to the shoulder, revealing a pair of very muscular arms. And on one fore-arm were tattooed several devices. These had attracted Picon’s bird-like attention. Presently he walked up to Fellowes and seized his wrist with both his little hands.
“Forgive,” he said, and began to examine the tattoo-marks.
Personally I could see nothing unusual in these, in fact they seemed to be the conventional markings. There were two hearts entwined and pierced by an arrow. There was a Union Jack. And there was an irregular pattern of stars.
“Anything wrong?” asked Fellowes, quite good-humouredly, as he waited patiently for Picon to finish.
“Voyons. Voyons,” said the little man, and we left Fellowes to continue his work.
As we were walking back to the house, a detail reoccurred to me which had hitherto escaped my memory.
“Monsieur Picon,” I said, “you say that you already know everything that I could tell you. You are mistaken. I have just remembered a detail which I have mentioned to nobody.”
“Indeed, mon ami? And what is that so important detail?”
“Well, of course it may have nothing to do with the crime. But I think it ought to be known, now. Yesterday evening, when I had dressed before dinner, someone came out of Mrs. Thurston’s room. A man.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think it may be important? Because unless it helps your investigation, I do not wish to mention his name.”
“Anything may help.”
“Very well. I’ll tell you. It was David Strickland. When he saw me he tried to get back into the room, but it was too late.”
“Indeed? Voila! Strickland, the young man in the room next to Madame Thurston? The young man of the gambling, no?”
I nodded.
“Then we go and make a little visit to the room of Mr. Strickland. Allons.”
“You can, m’sieur. You are an investigator. But I shan’t go and poke about in someone else’s room.”
“As you will,” said M. Picon.
So I found myself once again standing where I had been in those ugly moments on the previous night, while the small detective went into Strickland’s room. I wondered where the occupant was. As we had passed the lounge I had heard voices, and guessed that Williams, Norris and Strickland had gathered there. Dr. Thurston had not appeared to-day, and we understood from Stall that he intended to stay in his room unless he was urgently wanted. I was glad of that. It seemed to me that the bizarre form of treasure-hunt which was going on in the house would bring little enough comfort to a bereaved man.
Stall told us that his master had thought of everyone, and sent down instructions that we were to ask for everything we wanted, and apologies that we should be kept here against our wishes. It was typical of him that he did not forget his manners as host even in the stress of those days.
I soon grew impatient. I did not like standing where the broken panels of that door faced me. I wanted to get downstairs to the others. But it seemed a long time before the diminutive detective reappeared, and when he did so, he did not emerge wholly from the door, but holding it ajar with his foot, called me over to him.
I was startled to see that in his hand was a diamond pendant.
“Vite!” he whispered inevitably. “Look! You know this, is it not?”
“Yes,” I said. “It was Mrs. Thurston’s.”
“Bien. Wait.” he whispered, and again disappeared into the room.
When he came out he was calmer.
“What does this mean?” I asked.
“It means that a diamond pendant which belonged to the dead lady is in the suitcase of Mr. David Strickland.”
>
“That proves he is the murderer, then?” I asked quickly.
“Not such hurry, mon ami,” he returned, brushing a speck of dust from the lapel of my jacket. “It may prove just the contrary. I say it may. And now for the chauffeur’s bedroom.”
The places chosen for visits by these remarkable investigators had ceased to produce in me any emotion of surprise. So that once again—though I was tired and hungry—I climbed the upper staircase, and indicated to Picon the door of Fellowes’s room.
I had always admired this little man, and it was exciting to watch his jumpy enthusiasm. But I was astonished at the interest he had already shown in Fellowes. I could not believe that the frank-looking chauffeur had anything to conceal beyond a local love-affair or two. But I respected Picon and his genius too much to put in any remarks to this effect.
He had left the door of the room open, and I could see him hopping from place to place among the simple and well-ordered furniture. Everything in the room was scrupulously tidy, and the man’s clothes had been folded and put away. Picon seemed to find nothing to hold his attention for some time, until, on a small table by the bedside, he saw a copy of the Daily Telegraph. At first he glanced casually at this, but then something on the front page seemed to catch his eye, and he began to look through the paper very carefully.
At last, when he had reached the back pages, he began to cry “Tiens!” and “Voilà!” and make other un-English sounds.
“What is it?” I asked.
He came across to me. “You see?” he said excitedly, and indicated some pencil markings in one of the advertisement columns.
I bent down to examine these, and found that they came under the heading of ‘Licensed Premises, Hotels and Restaurants for Sale.’ I knew better than to express any surprise, but I could gather nothing from this.
“There!” cried Picon, “the little link. En avant! Piece by piece. Oh, it is not an ordinary matter, this.”
“I’m glad you think that,” I said, for I had been disappointed at Lord Simon’s bored description of it as ‘another of these locked-room cases.’
“No, no. By no means. What is your so English expression? The plot thickens, eh? This paper is three weeks old!”
