He frowned, glancing across at his image in the mirror of the wardrobe. “A sort of incurious Sherlock Holmes,” Fell had said. Well—he had himself to blame for that slight standoffishness, although he wasn’t standoffish at all. In his earlier days he had thought it was necessary. If you got too much of a reputation as a raconteur and good fellow, you might be popular, but the authorities were not inclined to take you seriously. This stiffness was now so established a part of his reputation that he never dared use, in his lectures, the fireworks or unconventionalities of more spectacular faculty-members. Secretly he would like to have done it. But he had only cut loose once. It was a lecture on Cromwell, and he had flayed that old villain all over the classroom with a sudden richness of oratory and drama whose reception disconcerted him. The class had taken it first in dazed silence, and then with discreet mirth. Subsequent rumours about it made him uncomfortable for the rest of the semester. His dry cough returned to him; he never tried it again.
Gideon Fell, now—that was different. To Fell this sort of thing was as frankincense and gunpowder. Melson remembered the two semesters in which Dr. Fell had been guest-lecturer from England, and the most uproariously popular figure who ever disrupted the campus. He remembered Fell’s roaring chuckle, the massive gesture with which he singled out a student to argue, his trick of hurling his notes about when excited; he remembered Fell’s famous five lectures on “The Effect of Kings’ Mistresses on Constitutional Government,” or that equally famous one in the Queen Anne series, which began abruptly and thunderously: “Flew now the eagles of bloody Churchill, black in honour and war, on to an ever-glorious damnation!”—and lifted the class straight from their seats at the end of the battle of Oudenarde.
Now he was again in a criminal case. As many years as he had known Fell, Melson had never seen him at work on any of these puzzles. One of Melson’s honour students, to whom he had introduced the doctor, had told Melson of the Chatterham Prison case1 and only a month ago the newspapers had been full of the Depping murder near Bristol. This time Melson had stumbled into it. Chief Inspector Hadley had intimated that he would not object to Melson’s presence, and, if he could pacify his own conscience about neglecting Bishop Burnet’s History, he meant to follow it up.
Damn Burnet, who was always dashing off to Scotland when you wanted him to stay in England. Melson looked over at the littered writing-table: he felt a sense of freedom in damning Burnet. It suddenly seemed to him that he might be making too much of Burnet after all. Fell had invited him round to the rooms the doctor usually rented in Great Russell Street during his fits of work at the British Museum on materials for his great work, The Drinking Customs of England from the Earliest Days. He had said to come for breakfast, if Melson could manage it, or any time that was convenient. Well, then—
Melson picked up his hat and hurried downstairs.
He glanced at No. 16 as he passed, quickly and with a sense of guilt. Its white pillars and red-brick sedateness looked different in the morning light, so remote from terrible events that he half expected to see Kitty sweeping the steps with the utmost composure. But the blinds were drawn and nothing stirred there. Refusing to put his mind to the puzzle, Melson turned off into the rattling traffic of Holborn, and ten minutes later he was ascending in the creaky lift of the Dickens Hotel nearly opposite the British Museum. From behind Dr. Fell’s door came the sounds of violent argument, so he knew Hadley was already there.
Swathed in a bathrobe of lurid colours, Dr. Fell sat placidly disposing of one of the largest breakfasts Melson had ever seen, in a room littered with books. Hadley, jingling keys in his pockets, stared moodily out of the window at the crowd of idlers already accumulating at the gates of the Museum.
“For a man who lives at Croydon,” Melson said, “you’re on the job remarkably early.”
Hadley was bitter. “What was left of the night after half-past five,” he said, “I spent at the Yard. That obese blighter you see shovelling down the bacon and eggs ran away and left me to do all the dirty work. If that’s coffee you’re pouring out for me, make it good and strong.”
“I wanted to think,” replied Dr. Fell, placidly. “If the process is unknown to you, you might at least tell me what you did. I’m like you last night: I want the facts and not grousing. What happened?”
Hadley passed a cup of coffee to Melson and took one himself. “Well, we searched the rooms of every woman in that house, for one thing. We found nothing. But neither Hamper nor myself is much of an expert at that, so it doesn’t mean much. However, I’ve a chap at the Yard who’s first rate at the business; and I’m going to rush him round there this morning. Those ladies are watching one another so closely that, if one of them has got something concealed, she won’t have a chance to get rid of it without being seen. All the same—”
“You searched Madame Steffins’ room as well?”
“Yes, finally. The others cut up such an unholy row that I think it scared her. She exploded into tears, said to go ahead, and finally asked me why I didn’t cut her throat. I have since been wondering why … And d’you know the reason for the row? She had a couple of pornographic books stuck away in the bottom of the bureau drawer. I pretended not to notice ’em and everything went more smoothly afterwards.”
“Any trouble from Mrs. Gorson and the maid?”
Hadley grunted. “Not so far as searching their stuff was concerned. The girl was rather a problem after she discovered murder had been committed, but Mrs. Gorson calmed her down. I like that woman, Fell; she’s all right … except that she kept on going in that ghost-story way of hers, with a lot of philosophical remarks about life and death. If anything, she gave me too much cooperation in the search. She dug up all her old theatrical photographs, and showed me at least a trunkful of poetry she’d written, with side remarks on the iniquity of publishers. It seems she wrote a three-volume novel and sent it to the biggest firm in London; and after rejecting it they basely pinched the plot and wrote it up themselves, which was proved because the heroine’s name was the same as in hers, and it sold a million copies … I tell you, I felt my brain giving way.”
He drew a deep breath, jingled the keys moodily, and added: “By the way, there was just one queer thing about Mrs. Steffins’ belongings that I forgot to tell you. I don’t suppose it means anything, but after all that commotion about the gilt paint—”
“Hey?” said Dr. Fell, looking at him curiously.
“I looked at the paint-tubes she’s been working with. The gilt one was squashed nearly flat on the end towards the mouth, as though she or somebody else had accidentally leaned one hand on it. You know, the way you do sometimes with a tube of toothpaste, and it spurts out? She denied having done it, and said the tube was intact when she last used it …” At this point in the recital Dr. Fell stopped with a loaded fork halfway to his mouth, and his eyes narrowed. Hadley went on:
“Anyway, it makes no difference. The paint we found traces of in the washbowl, and the paint on the hand of the clock, are altogether different. Sergeant Hamper—he started life as a house-painter, and claims to be an authority—swore to it last night. And I’ve had confirmation this morning; one’s an oil, and one’s an enamel. So that’s washed out. But Steffins carried on about it for the rest of the night. Deliver me,” said Hadley, violently, “from any more cases where there are too many women concerned! To conclude the night pleasantly, I had trouble with Stanley; but at least it was somebody I knew how to deal with.”
Dr. Fell laid down his knife and fork. “What about Stanley?”
“Watson said he was laid out with nervous shock and wasn’t responsible. So I was the goat. I took him home to Hampstead in a cab. After all, damn it,” Hadley protested, uncomfortably, “he was once a member of the Force, and it was war service that did for him. Besides, I had to question him, whether I liked it or not. But did he appreciate it? Not half! If you call it appreciation. He turned nasty, refused to answer questions, began raving against the Force. Finally he tried
to fight, and I had to land him one on the jaw and put him to sleep until I could get him home to his sister.” Hadley made a gesture of distaste, drained his coffee cup, and sat down. “It was broad daylight by the time I got back to the Yard, and I hope somebody appreciates it.”
“Yes, you had rather a night,” admitted Dr. Fell, with absentminded encouragement. He leaned back from the table with an expiring sigh of satisfaction, fished up his old black pipe from a pocket of the lurid dressing-gown, and beamed on the chief inspector. “I imagine it would be an insult to ask you whether you’ve learned anything more since then?”
Hadley reached for his briefcase. “I’ve been collecting all the evidence Ames left us about the murder of the shop-walker …”
“Aha!”
“And also the notes of Sergeant Preston, who worked with Ames at collecting the facts before Ames went off on his own. And still what puzzles me most is which of those five women in that house—! They all told such infernally straight stories, Fell! or at least natural stories. It beats me to the extent that I’ve been getting all sorts of fantastic ideas. For instance, I thought, suppose the murderer at Gamridge’s had been a man disguised as a woman?”
Dr. Fell looked at him.
“Don’t gibber, Hadley,” he said, austerely. “I detest gibbering. The men at number sixteen Lincoln’s Inn Fields may have their faults, God knows; but at least none of ’em would be apt to run about dressed up as a woman. Besides—”
“I know, I know. That was knocked on the head straightaway. It seems that when the killer was making a getaway”—he fumbled among his papers and found a typewritten precis—“a Miss Helen Gray (address given) made a grab to stop her. The woman was wearing some sort of blouse or jumper arrangement under her coat, and the whole thing was ripped down from the neck when she tore away from Gray. Both Miss Gray and two men near by testify that there’s no question about its being a woman. The men seem enthusiastically positive on this point. Their testimony is—”
“Tut, tut, Hadley,” said Dr. Fell, reprovingly. “Sometimes there is a limit even to the thoroughness of Scotland Yard. What I don’t understand is this. Do you mean to say that—in spite of all this— nobody, those people or anyone else, could give you a passable description of her?”
Hadley made a noncommittal noise.
“Did you ever have any experience with a mob of excited people all trying to testify to the same incident—when there’s a motorsmash, for instance? The more people there are, the more confusing the story is. In this case it’s worse. In the confusion and milling about, each person was describing somebody else and swearing it was the right person. I’ve got a dozen descriptions, and only a few of ’em remotely tally.”
“But what about Miss Gray and the two cavaliers? Are they reliable?”
“Yes. They’re the only real witnesses we have, because they actually saw the murder done.” Hadley glanced down the sheet. “They saw the woman standing near the counter; they were to the right and behind, but they had a good view. They saw the shop-walker come past them, walk up and take this woman’s arm, saying something to her. She instantly whirled with her other hand towards the counter next to the jewellery display, which unfortunately happened to be silverware. There were a number of table sets in boxes lying exposed on the counter—among them sets of carving-fork, whetstone, and carving-knife. They saw her snatch a knife from one; all are positive she had gloves on. Then it happened. They saw some of the blood go out against the glass front of the showcase, which had lights inside it; and saw her drop the knife. She ran, ducking her head, and Gray made a wild grab at her when the shop-walker collapsed. This is our only clear evidence … Just then the screaming and rushing began.” Melson, putting down his cold coffee, felt an ugly shiver. That detail about the blood splashing the lighted showcase … Dr. Fell said:
“Harrumph, yes. It’s nasty. What about their descriptions, aside from the details of physiology?”
“She had her head down, as I told you. Gray says she was a blonde, rather young. Of the two men, one says she was a blonde and the other a brunette; you see, she had a close-fitting hat on. Gray says the hat was dark blue, the two men say black. Further descriptions—” Hadley’s frown deepened as he turned the page. “Gray says she wore a blue-serge tailored-suit business, with a white blouse, and no coat. Of the two men, one thinks she had on a blue or brown coat, rather long; the other isn’t sure which it was. But all agree absolutely on the white blouse that was torn.”
Hadley flung the papers on the table, and Dr. Fell carefully removed the marmalade from their neighbourhood.
“Which,” declared the chief inspector, “is the devil of the whole thing. Almost any woman you could find would be bound to have any or all of those things in her wardrobe. The torn shirt thing might be a lead—could she pin it together in the washroom, or something like that? I suppose so. Also, if she did wear a long coat she could have concealed it easily. I didn’t have these details last night, or it might have helped me a good deal … Well? What is it?”
“I say, Hadley,” the doctor rumbled with an air of suppressed excitement, “were these details in the newspapers?”
“Probably. At least, they’re marked, ‘Bulletin to Press Association may contain, etc.’ Speak up, will you? What the hell’s that got to do with it?”
Dr. Fell was beginning to recover his good-humour. He lit his pipe, and his vast red face was beaming and shining as the breakfast settled. But he closed one eye meditatively as he looked down the pipe.
“The design is forming, my boy. But you’ve already realized since last night, of course, that—if you accept the alibis of Mrs. Steffins and Mrs. Gorson and Kitty Prentice—you have only two remaining suspects?”
“Lucia Handreth and Eleanor Carver. Naturally. I’ve also realized,” Hadley pointed out, with some bitterness, “how neatly this new evidence is divided between them … Last night we saw the Handreth woman wearing a tailored suit. It was grey instead of blue, but suppose business-like young professional ladies have a habit of wearing them? And one of the reliable witnesses says the killer was a brunette. On the other hand, two of the witnesses—one of them Helen Gray, whom I suspect of being the most reliable of the three so far as observing a woman is concerned—say the killer was a blonde like Eleanor Carver, and last night Eleanor was wearing a blue coat. Right. Fine. Pay your money and take your choice.”
“Steady, my lad,” Dr. Fell suggested, benevolently. “You’re willing, then, to accept the alibis and exclude the other three women?”
“I’m not quite so gullible as all that. No, no! It’s unbeatable in a court of law; but, so far as common sense is concerned, an alibi is the most untrustworthy defense of all—because it only takes two liars to make it. I’ll try to break them, of course. But if I can’t … well, I can’t.”
Dr. Fell pushed the tobacco-jar towards him. He continued to smoke meditatively.
“We’ll let it go at that for the moment, then. The next thing I want to ask you, Hadley, is so simple that we’re apt to lose sight of it. Are you absolutely positive that the same person who stabbed the shop-walker also stabbed the police inspector last night?”
Hadley shifted. “I’m not positive of anything … But certainly some sort of crazy thread joins them! What else have we got to go on?”
“As a matter of fact, that was my next question; question three,” said Dr. Fell, nodding owlishly. “What have we got to go on? Well, chiefly we have Ames’s report, which concerns a nameless accuser. Hadley, it’s remarkable just how nameless that person has been from start to finish. Ames is put on the scent from some anonymous source, so that he first takes up quarters in Portsmouth Street to watch the Carver household. For an anonymous suggestion, it must have been very convincing to make Ames go to all that trouble. The same X next visits Ames, and—I don’t have to outline to you the course of the whole ghostlike, intangible affair from there on. And yet now, with another murder committed and the killer still undetected und
er that one roof, still the accuser hadn’t spoken up! … Have you spent sufficient reflection on the monstrous implications of that?”
“We argued all that last night,” returned Hadley, with something like a groan. “Hang it! You can’t think that somebody was merely pulling Ames’s leg? That would be too fantastic even for this business. And, on the other hand, you certainly can’t imagine that Ames was merely pulling ours! You don’t, do you?”
“No. There may be still a third, and a simple, explanation. I’m trying to suggest it to you by linking up a series of facts by means of questions. I may be wrong,” muttered Dr. Fell, setting his eyeglasses more firmly on his nose, “and, if I am, there’ll be a roar of laughter at my expense that will cave in the walls of Scotland Yard.” He growled to himself for a moment. “But let me indulge the vagary. I have two more questions— numbers four and five. Number four—”
Hadley shrugged. Melson, with his methodical habits, had taken out an envelope and was jotting down the “series of facts.”
“By the way,” Melson said, “talking of things so obvious that nobody has mentioned them: I don’t know anything whatever about the art of detection, but it strikes me that the simplest reason why the accuser hasn’t spoken up may be …”
“Eh?” said Dr. Fell, rather eagerly. “What?”
“That he (or she) is afraid. The woman who stabbed that shop-walker is about as playful as a cobra. She struck so fast once that almost nobody saw her. The accuser might think twice about beginning to intimate in public, ‘I saw So-and-so with a stolen bracelet, or burning a pair of gloves.’ That may be the reason for not being willing to testify until the murderess was in the hands of the police.”
Death-Watch Page 13
