“It was a funny sort of noise, like somebody choking, and then stumbling a bit. I thought it was because she’d heard me and was frightened. So I ducked down, rather …”
“How far were you from the stairs, then?”
“I don’t know. It’s all a fog. Stop a bit, though. I must have been a goodish distance away, because I hadn’t got much outside my door. Or was I? Don’t remember … But when I bent down, I touched or kicked something; don’t remember which; and it was that glove.”
“You are trying to tell us that you found that glove on the floor some distance from the stairs? Come now!”
“I tell you it’s true! Damned bad form doubting. Look here, I don’t know where it was, but it was on the floor, because I nearly dropped my flask when I picked it up, and it was draughty. I thought I’d duck back to my room and wait till she’d gone. So I did. Softly, you know. On tiptoe. Then I don’t know what happened. I don’t even remember getting to my room. The next thing I knew it was daylight and I was lying on my bed still half-dressed, and feeling like hell.”
“Why did you pick up the glove?”
“I—I was trying to do a good turn, dash it!” protested the other, with weak querulousness. The dull gaze was returning to his eyes. “At least, I think so. Yes, of course. I thought, ‘Little lady’s lost her glove, poor old girl. Aunt Steffins finds it there, going to be trouble. Poor old girl. Give it to her tomorrow and say, ‘Tut, tut, I know where you were last night.’ Ha-ha! … I say, old chap, I don’t feel well. Maybe if I have time I can remember some more. I seem to remember—” He ruffled up his hair, and then shook his head blankly. “No. It’s gone. But now that I keep on thinking, I seem to remember …” Dr. Fell, who throughout all this recital had kept silent, lumbered forward. Between his teeth he still gripped the stump of a long-dead cigar, but he took it out and put it quietly in an ash-tray before he looked down at Paull.
“Be quiet a minute, Hadley,” he rumbled. “Somebody’s life depends on this … Let me see if I can assist your memory, young man. Think back. You’re in the hall now, in the dark. You say it was draughty. Now think of the door at the head of the stairs, the one on the way up to the roof where you thought Eleanor was going. You’d have noticed that if—was it draughty because that door was open?”
“Yes, by Gad! It was!” muttered Paull, sitting up. “Absolutely. I know now. That’s what I was trying to think of, because …”
“Don’t lead him, Fell!” snapped Hadley. “He’ll remember anything if you suggest it to him.”
“I’m suggesting nothing now. It’s coming back to you now, young fella, isn’t it?” He pointed with his cane. “Why are you sure it was open?”
“Because the trap-door to the roof was open, too,” said Paull.
There was a silence. Topsyturvydom had returned again. Melson looked past Dr. Fell’s big cape, at the dull gleam on the ferrule of the cane as he held it out, and beyond it Paull’s fat pale face against the big blue chair. In the young man’s eyes there was a growing light of revelation and more—of certainty. You could not help believing him. “This is sheer fooling,” Hadley said, heavily. “Stand back, Fell. I’m not going to have this sort of thing forced on witnesses … It happens, Mr. Paull, that a reliable person—one who happened to be sober at the time—has told us that trap-door was solidly bolted when he looked at it a little while afterwards. In the meantime, the door leading to it was locked and the key missing.”
Paull sat back. Into his expression had slowly come a look that was not weak or querulous.
“I say, old chap,” he said, quietly, “I’m getting a bit tired of having people call me a liar. If you think I’ve enjoyed telling how I made a ruddy ass of myself, think again. I’m doing the best I can; I know what the truth is, and I’ll face you with it in every coroner’s court from here to Melbourne … The door was open. So was the trap. I know that because I saw the moonlight.”
“Moonlight?”
“Rather. When you open that door there’s a straight passage, without windows, that runs back to a sort of staircase-ladder at the end. Above that there’s a little box-room, not big enough to stand up in, and the trapdoor is just above. I know that. We’d thought of putting a roof-garden to sit in on the flat part of the roof once. We couldn’t; too much smoke from the chimneys all about … But I know it.
“I know what I saw. It was a sort of line of moonlight on the floor of the passage. If I could see the passage, the door was open; and if I could see the moonlight, the trap was open. That’s flat. The trap was open, right enough. Dammit all, now I know what put it in my mind about Eleanor! That was it.”
“But did you see anybody to identify?” asked Dr. Fell. “No. Just—something moving. Or things.”
Hadley walked slowly about the table, knocking his knuckles against it, his head down. But he became aware of the glove in his hand, and his indecision did not last.
“I don’t imagine it much matters,” he said. “Since I found in the finger of this glove—the glove used by the murderess—the key that opens that door. My advice to you, Mr. Paull, is to go to your room, slosh yourself with water, and get some breakfast. If you have any more inspirations, come and tell me.” He looked significantly at Dr. Fell and Melson. “I think, gentlemen, that a glance at the trap-door …”
“Delighted,” said Paull. “Thanks for the drinks, old lad. I’m a new man.”
He closed the door so quietly that Melson suspected he had thought of slamming it. Hadley followed a moment afterwards, glancing left towards the door of Paull’s own room as it also closed. In the direction of the chief inspector’s measuring eye, Melson saw that the staircase was some little distance away from Paull’s room— from the trail of the blood-marks, say about fifteen feet. The curtains were drawn back on the big windows at the front of the hall, and harsh light illumined it clearly. Some effort had been made to scrub out the stains, but the wet discoloured rubbing of the nap on the red-flowered carpet showed the trail more clearly than the blood itself.
It would be impossible, Melson thought, to determine on which step of the stairs Ames had stood when the clock-hand pierced his neck. The first stains began on the second tread from the top, but, since he had presumably remained on his feet until he stumbled across the threshold upstairs, then the blow might have been struck lower down. First the trail turned towards the right (coming upstairs), as though the dying man had tried to hold to the banisters for a moment or two; then it zigzagged to the left, passed the top tread, zigzagged right again and grew more plain, as though Ames had gone down on one knee briefly, and at last on to the double doors.
Hadley looked at Dr. Fell, and Dr. Fell at the chief inspector. Both had their minds set on something; battle was coming, but neither would open the subject. Hadley examined the newel-post, peered down the narrow stairwell to the floor below, and glanced back at Paull’s door.
“I wonder,” he remarked, abruptly, “how long it took him to— make that progress?”
“Two or three minutes, probably.” The doctor spoke with gruff abstraction. “It was slow going, or the track wouldn’t be so easy to follow.”
“But he didn’t cry out.”
“No. The murderer struck for a spot that made sure he wouldn’t.”
“And from behind …” Hadley peered round. “Any idea where the murderess might have stood? If she came up on him, followed him up—”
“In all probability, the person who killed Ames stood flattened against the wall opposite the banisters, about three treads down. As Ames passed, the killer struck. It’s likely Ames was walking up with his hand on the banister-rail: most of us do when we go up a strange stairway in the dark. The blow brought Ames nearly to his knees— that would be where the track turns right, where he grabbed with both hands for the banister-rail. Then he lost his grip, turned left, and kept on as you see.”
“Ames walked past, but didn’t see the killer?”
“That,” said Dr. Fell, a long sniff rumbling in his nose, “is the p
oint in the reconstruction I wanted you to see. It’s a question of light. Now this hall, as I think we’ve heard several times, was pitch dark. Question: how the devil could the murderer see to strike? Well, there’s only one way it could have been managed, and I tested it last night … Look downstairs; you’ll have to go down a little way. So. You see those narrow windows at either side of the front door? One of ’em is directly on a line with the banisters, and there’s a street lamp outside. A person coming up in the dark has his head and shoulders faintly but clearly silhouetted, whereas the murderer would be in shadow. As I say, I tested it last night. I asked Eleanor Carver to show me where she was standing when she first saw the body from the stairs, and it worked out.”
Hadley straightened up. “So you asked Eleanor Carver,” he repeated in a curious voice. “I want to talk to you about that … Let’s go and see that bolt on the trap-door; to the roof, maybe. Where we can have some private conversation.”
There was strain here, the strain between old friends. Hadley took one of the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door at the head of the stairs. It opened inwards, and he groped on the left-hand wall inside for a light-switch. A dull electric bulb hanging without shade from the ceiling revealed a narrow passage, dark-panelled and stuffy, with a strip of ragged carpet on the floor and at the other end a steep flight of stairs like a stepladder. The ceiling was low, accounting for the box-room overhead in a sort of loft, and Melson found himself coughing in the dust that trembled round the light. Hadley let the lock click shut. Then he dropped his defences.
“Fell,” he said, abruptly, “what’s the matter with you?”
Dr. Fell peered at the stepladder, hesitated and then he chuckled. That chuckle, booming out in the musty confines of the passage, eased and then destroyed the strain; a deep and Gargantuan mirth that kept back the terrors of the case. Drawing out his gaudy bandanna, he mopped his forehead, and the twinkle returned to his eye.
“Nerves,” he admitted. “Didn’t know I could have ’em. It’s the result of going until noon without the strengthening influence of beer. And also because I’ve been through one of the worst interludes I ever hope to put in. Heh. And also—”
“You don’t believe that girl is guilty.”
“Eleanor Carver? I do not,” said the doctor, with a tremendous honking battle-cry as he blew his nose. “Haa, hum. No. But first suppose you look at that trapdoor and see what there is to be said for young Paull’s evidence.”
Hadley climbed the ladder until only the lower part of his legs showed. They heard his hands bumping, the sound of a match struck, and then an exclamation of satisfaction. Dusting off his hands, he descended and stuck his head under the loft.
“That settles it. That most definitely settles it. The murderer didn’t come down through here; and, what’s more, the murderer didn’t slip back up through that trap leaving it bolted on the inside behind him. It is bolted, my boy. Hard and fast, and it takes a good wrench to move it.”
Dr. Fell twirled the bandanna.
“And so,” he observed, musingly, “your star witness was drunk and seeing things?”
“Exactly. This proves that only El … Hold on! What the devil do you mean, my star witness?”
“Isn’t he? Didn’t he prove to you that Eleanor committed the murder? Now I am aware,” said the other, with relish, “of your concurrence with Emerson when he says that a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds. But in this matter I am going to shout for a little consistency. You damned well can’t have it both ways. When Paull produced a blood-stained glove which he says he picked up in a pitch-dark hall, you applaud his shrewd presence of mind. When he says he sees a comparatively harmless patch of moonlight— which in the dark is usually more noticeable than a black glove, anyway—then you go off the deep end and accuse him of delirium tremens. Tut, tut. You may believe or disbelieve his story; I don’t mind. But you can’t accept the part you like and yell scorn on the part that doesn’t happen to suit your theory. To my simple mind, there ought to be an equal falsehood or an equal truth.”
“I can,” returned Hadley, “if the facts happen to support me. The trap is bolted: he was mistaken about that. But on the other hand, here is the glove. I’ve got it in my pocket. You don’t doubt the glove, do you?”
“I only doubt its importance … See here, now. Do you honestly think the murderer used that glove? Can you picture Eleanor Carver, after stabbing poor old Ames, plucking off the glove and hurling it into the air in pure joyous abandon—for the police to find with her initials inside? It must have sailed some distance, by the way, if it travelled from the head of the stairs to Paull’s door. ‘The Mystery of the Flying Glove,’ a Scotland Yard Thriller, by David F. Hadley … Eyewash, my fathead. First-class, guaranteed-British eyewash. Put Paull into the box to tell that story, and a good counsel would laugh you out of court. But what do you do? You swallow that piece of evidence intact, and sternly deny the business of the trap-door! Hasn’t it occurred to you that the trap-door may have been open then, and bolted now, for the astounding reason that somebody later bolted it?”
Hadley studied him. His face wore a grim smile. He patted the pocket where he had put the glove.
“You’re good enough at ridicule. I’ve always admitted that …”
“But don’t you see any reason in it?”
The other hesitated. “Your own type of firework reasoning, maybe. But I don’t want any advocacy, and it strikes me you’re doing what’s known as whistling in a graveyard. You’ve made up your mind this girl isn’t guilty …”
“I know she isn’t. Look here, what do you mean to do?”
“Face her with the glove. If it really does belong to her … Now take it easy and look at the facts of the case. The evidence fits down to the smallest joint, even to her admitting herself that she had a habit of carrying a key in the finger of a glove—where we found the key in this one!
“We had decided that suspects in the department-store business narrowed down to Handreth and Carver. Handreth proved an alibi. The witnesses at Gamridge’s didn’t get a look at the girl’s face—but in everything else the description exactly fits Eleanor. She even admitted she was at the store at the time of the murder …”
“Now,” interrupted Dr. Fell, bitterly, “I will proceed to give you a piece of evidence which fits into your case and will please you no end. I had a talk with Carver—Johannus. He thinks she’s guilty, and apparently jumped to the conclusion after the Gamridge robbery and murder, to such an extent that he lied to us last night about remembering the reason, he said, ‘We had some difficulty with her as a child—’ changed his mind, and shut up. Kleptomania, my lad. Kleptomania, for a fiver.”
“Are you joking?”
“Nooo-o!” rumbled Dr. Fell. “Seize the bright objects; that’s it. Probably everybody knows about it. The only reason why La Steffins didn’t mention it last night was probably because her narrow imagination couldn’t connect anybody in her own house with murder. Seize the bright objects: bracelets, rings, watches … If the bright objects happen to belong to your guardian, the inhibitions strongly rooted from the past prevent you from pinching ’em except when they’re out of his care— in another person’s charge—or sold to somebody else. These inhibitions! The clock was sold to Sir Edwin Paull; one watch was sold to Boscombe, and Gamridge’s were financially responsible for good care of the other. Seize the bright objects; watches, rings—carving knives.”
Hadley was struggling with his notebook.
“Have you gone stark insane?” demanded the chief inspector. “You’re making out an unanswerable case against your own client! I’ve got—”
Dr. Fell drew a deep breath and quieted down.
“I’m telling you this,” he replied, “first, so that you can’t say that the defense hasn’t been fair; second, to make you see what I’ve been seeing looming up in one deadly mass on that girl from the first—and third, because I don’t believe one single damned word of it. Li
ke some of your other fortuitous circumstances, Hadley, it’s much too good to be true … Shall I go on and pile up your case for you? There’s a good deal more of it.”
“What is the defence?”
Dr. Fell stumped up and down the passage, which seemed to stifle him.
“I don’t know,” he answered, dully. “I can’t make it—yet. Look here, shall we get out of this place? I’d much rather be overheard than suffocated … But if I tell you your case, and drive in all the good stout coffin nails, will you grant me a grace of time to pull ’em out again?”
Hadley walked ahead of him to the door. “You think you know who did commit the murder?”
“Yes. And, as usual, its the last person you might have suspected—No, I’m not going to tell you. Is it a go?”
Hadley fiddled with the spring-latch, clicking it back and forth. “The Carver girl is guilty. I’m almost sure of that. But I’m willing to admit your confounded positiveness has got me uneasy … Well, look here! In default of more evidence, I can hold my hand until I make certain of the glove and test all other possibilities; in the meantime, we’ll let her alo—”
With a decisive gesture he was opening the door, and stopped. He came face to face at the head of the stairs with Sergeant Preston, the swarthy-faced master of search.
“Ah, sir!” said Preston, with a grin. “I’ve been looking all over the house for you. I wanted to tell you that it’s all up. Ho-ho!”
“All up?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve found the stuff—hidden very neatly in her room, but we found it.”
Melson felt a constriction in his throat, and he heard Dr. Fell mutter something as Hadley asked the obvious question …
“Why, the young lady’s room, sir,” said Preston. “Miss Eleanor Carver’s. Will you come downstairs and see?”
16
Proof Behind the Panel
HADLEY DID NOT LOOK AT DR. FELL while they tramped downstairs. Possibly the sergeant also sensed the tension; for, after a curious glance at the chief inspector, he was silent. Melson found himself thinking with something of a shock that the thing had become definite: no mere accusation, but as real as death and thin rope. Before him floated Eleanor Carver’s face—the long bobbed hair, the heavy-lidded blue eyes, the eager, voluptuous mouth moving in silent speech … She was out walking with Hastings; or had she returned? They gave them short shrift in England. Three clear Sundays after sentence, and then the walk at dawn. In the lower hall Hadley turned to Preston.
Death-Watch Page 17
