“Pure feminine bias,” growled Coombe. “Miss Delareign is a most logical writer.”
“She may be logical on paper, but in conversation she’s thoroughly stupid,” said Miss Coombe firmly.
Macdonald got up at this juncture.
“I want to have another look at the telephone-room,” he said, and Graham Coombe replied:
“I thought that was coming. I’ve been wondering all this time why you didn’t concentrate on that. It’s obvious that you think there’s some problem to be solved over Gardien’s death.”
“I may be quite wrong,” said Macdonald; “but all I have done is cautionary. I rang up both my own department and the division authorities, and they concurred in my putting through a preliminary inquiry, even though it may be proved redundant. As for the room—that stayed put. It won’t change its mind in the interval. People’s minds and memories don’t stay put. They take colour from their contacts.”
Miss Coombe finished her second cup of tea with satisfaction. “I’m obviously the first to regret that such a deplorable accident has happened to one of our guests,” she observed in her calm way, “but I can’t help being intelligently interested in the investigation. If I were you, Graham, I should go and check up your first editions. I’ve had the silver counted already, and I know my own bits and pieces are intact. I locked my bedroom door,” she observed to Macdonald. “After all, I didn’t know any of these people, and I do like to be on the safe side!”
Macdonald controlled his mirth with difficulty. Obviously Miss Coombe ran her brother’s house most efficiently, but Macdonald guessed that the publisher had some difficult moments with his plain-spoken sister.
Unlocking the door of the telephone-room, Macdonald stood and looked at it. Save for the fact that Gardien’s body had been removed after photographs had been taken, everything was in the same position as when Macdonald and Coombe made their grim discovery. The drawer of the bureau was half pulled out, the electric flex trailed loosely on the floor. The table under the window, which held the telephone and telephone books, stood pushed into its place against the wall, though it had been moved when the window had been shut. When Macdonald had first inspected the room after finding Gardien’s body, the window had been open at the top.
Standing with his back to the door, Macdonald had thought out possibilities involving the presence of the intruder. The latter had been seen to go into the telephone-room. Conceivably he had been occupied in going through the bureau when the door opened. The relative positions of door, arm-chair and bureau would have made it possible for the searcher to drop into concealment behind the big chair. Gardien, on entering the room, might have sat at the table under the window or (more probably) in the large arm-chair, his drink within reach on the stool beside him, while he pondered on the “unsporting” nature of such promising looking damsels as that learned historian, Miss Valerie Woodstock. Following that line of reasoning, Gardien must have sat in that arm-chair for best part of half an hour—smoking a cigar, perhaps; an ash-tray and its contents had been scattered on the floor, and the butt end of a cigar lay under the bureau. The intruder, concealed behind the chair, must have got very stiff, weary and anxious. Some involuntary movement on the latter’s part startled Gardien, who jumped up. Some sort of fracas might have followed which involved one of the men with the line of flex and the plug was then jerked violently from its socket, causing the fuse in the manner which Dr. Wright had suggested (and in which the electrician had concurred). Whereupon Gardien had collapsed from heart failure, and the intruder had rushed out through the hall, and had collided with Miss Delareign by the stairs.
Not an entirely satisfactory reconstruction, Macdonald meditated, even assuming that everybody had recorded the exact truth. Why should the intruder have rushed to the back of the hall, instead of making direct for the front door—a much safer exit? Leaving his place by the door, Macdonald went and stood by the bureau and considered it. It was a good piece, built of fine dark mahogany, a hundred years old, perhaps. Closed, it formed a solid-looking rectangular shape, flat fronted and flat topped, with cupboards below, and a flap above which closed flush with the cupboard doors. To open it, or use it as a writing desk, it was necessary to grasp the metal ring handles of the flap and draw them towards you; the flap could then be let down by pressing metal buttons on either side, inset in the interior sides of the bureau. At the moment the flap was pulled out, but not let down, and the little drawers within, each with their ivory button, were all closed.
Turning the beam of his electric torch on to the interior of the flap, Macdonald examined the workmanship of the handles. The metal ring handles were each held in a lion’s head boss on the front of the flap by nuts screwed on to short rods which ran through the thickness of the wood. Torch in hand, Macdonald stood and stared down at the nuts, his mind working furiously. A few tiny shreds of fine copper wire shone in the beam of the torch; they were held in the nuts in the same manner in which the wires of a flex are screwed against the poles of an ordinary electric fitment. Resisting the temptation to touch the nuts and see if they could be easily unscrewed (he had no pliers at hand), Macdonald bent his head this way and that to make certain that he was not woolgathering, and then went and sat down on the chair by the telephone table and stared at the wall opposite to him, with the partly-opened bureau and the electric-power point in the wainscot.
“Well, if that’s the explanation, it’s about as neat as anything could be,” he meditated. “A minimum of apparatus and mechanics of the simplest.”
Neat and workman-like with his own fingers, possessing enough knowledge of electric fitments to do repairs to his car and domestic fittings, Macdonald saw how that desk could be turned into a death trap. Some one brought in a plug to fit the power point. Connected with this plug was a stout flex or miniature cable capable of carrying the full available voltage. This flex was divided into its component sections, some yard or so before its end, and the bared wires were then screwed under the nuts of either handle inside the flap of the bureau. Thus arranged, even with the power on at the source, the thing was harmless—until some one was induced to pull open the flap. Grasping both handles firmly, they would then complete the circuit, and the current would run through their body as through the wiring. The only apparatus to be brought into the house would be the plug and length of flex, easily concealable in a man’s pocket or woman’s bag. A couple of minutes to loosen and rescrew the nuts with the wires inserted behind them, and all would be complete. The flap could then have been almost shut, and the extra flex, running down by the side of the bureau farthest away from the door, would have been out of sight.
Sitting staring at the bureau, with its wrought bronze handles, Macdonald envisaged the full possibilities of the diabolically simple scheme. It would not have been necessary for the organiser of it to have been in the room when the victim was electrocuted. Some message which would have ensured that Gardien would open the bureau would have been enough to complete the business, and Macdonald could not help realising how simple it would have been for the organisers of the Treasure Hunt to lead a seeker to the bureau. Any one opening it would instinctively grasp both handles to pull forward the heavy flap.
Dismissing that line of thought for the moment, the chief inspector went back to the matter of the fuse. It seemed probable that this occurred when the contact was abruptly broken as Gardien’s grip on the handles gave way when his body fell on the floor, but the fuse and consequent “black-out” might well have come as a total surprise to the ingenious murderer. It would not have been foreseen, and it was probably the darkness which had been the cause of the piece of negligence which now proved the certainty of foul play—the leaving of the broken particles of wire behind the nuts on the bureau. Once the electric current had done its work it was necessary for the murderer to remove his flex, and the darkness had made him (or her) nervous. Instead of unscrewing the nuts and removing the wiring carefully, the murderer had tugged the flex away in a panic,
removed the plug from the point, and fled. Wisdom would have decreed replacing the plug from the electric fire in its proper point—but in the darkness who would have waited to fumble for a point in the wainscot, when any movement might mean discovery? That sudden fuse must have meant a shock for the murderer. What was forgotten? What remained that should have been removed? Nerves might well have paralysed memory and ingenuity in the “darkness which may be felt.” The memory of the phrase flashed back into Macdonald’s mind. Valerie Woodstock had asked him the origin of the phrase just before the lights failed. “Let there be a darkness over the land of Egypt, a darkness which may be felt.” Macdonald’s retentive memory went back to the book of Exodus. Spoiling the Egyptians… Had there been a grim humour behind the game which had been played that evening? Treasure seeking, or death in the dark?
Dismissing this train of thought also as out of place for the immediate present, Macdonald took his torch again and bent to examine the power point in the wainscot. The fuse had left its trace here, for the white porcelain was blackened round the circular slots. The plug from the stove which lay on the floor was bright and untarnished, showing no such signs. Remembering the marks which he had seen on Gardien’s hands when he first examined him, Macdonald thought it possible that his grip had tightened on the two handles as the current ran through him. There would have been a mechanical contraction of the flexor muscles at first which would have caused the fingers to shut more tightly. Then as the legs collapsed, the weight of the falling body would have dragged the hands away. That the current might have heated the metal handles in its transit, Macdonald was reasonably sure. The narrow-beaded edge of the elaborate ring handles was of a different metal from the handle itself, and the difference in resistance to the current of the two metals would have resulted in heating that with the higher resistance as the current went through it. The beaded edge of the handles might well have heated up while the circuit was complete, and thus left their marks on the gripping hands. Macdonald thanked his stars for the impulse which had led him to call up a medical man on whose promptitude he could rely. Dr. Wright had come at once—but even so, the tell-tale marks had nearly faded out by the time he examined the body. What proof had he, Macdonald, got that murder and not natural causes had resulted in Gardien’s death? Barring those marks on the dead man’s hands, and the minute frayings of copper wire—nothing. If an electric shock had caused death, it was probable that a post-mortem examination would tell nothing. A weak heart had ceased to function—that was all.
Going to the telephone, Macdonald put through a call to his own department. He intended to have this room watched during the night. Even with his hand on the receiver, another thought made him pause. He remembered his own voice saying to Peter Vernon, “I shall feel a fool either way, if I go or if I stay away.”
Was he to have been fooled—a murder committed under his very nose and a verdict of natural causes to ensue? Not if he could help it. The message he put through was different from that which he had first intended.
Turning back to the door at last, he locked it behind him and went into the lounge. Graham Coombe was standing by the fire, and Macdonald saw the publisher jump as the door opened.
“My God! I’m glad to see you again,” said Coombe. “I’m getting the dithers over this evening’s performance. If you had gone and had a heart attack in the telephone-room, too, it would have about put the lid on the entertainment. You seem to me to have been in there for hours! Any further light on the events of the evening?”
“I have been studying the electric fittings,” replied Macdonald. “It seems very probable, in my opinion, that Mr. Gardien’s death was caused by an electric shock, and the possibility of foul play must be taken into consideration. I’m afraid that the nature of my report will make a full investigation inevitable.”
Coombe groaned aloud. “What you mean is that the man was murdered. Consequently, every one who was in this house this evening is under suspicion. The only comfort is, that there was an unauthorised stranger in our midst. It seems common sense to connect that up with your ‘possibility of foul play.’ But why in the name of all that’s reasonable should the chap have chosen my house to stage a murder in? Beats me altogether!”
Miss Coombe at that moment came sailing downstairs, her wide moiré skirts swishing pleasantly as she moved.
“I have never yet had a party without finding somebody’s property left about afterwards,” she observed. “People are amazingly careless over their possessions. Item: one evening bag with no name in it, but I believe it’s Miss Delareign’s. Item: one cigarette-case, with the initials V. W. on it, or is it a repair outfit? Item: one pair of long gloves. I always put them into the lost property box there, and wait until people claim them.”
She indicated a box-stool by the wall near the fireplace, on which stood an ash-tray. “And heaven knows I provide enough ash-trays for an army, but people will balance their cigarettes on tables and ledges. Look at that—sheer vandalism.”
She pointed to a charred mark on the edge of the “lost property box.” “Disgusting habit!”
Moving the ash-tray, she opened the box, which formed the seat of the stool. “Such odd things people leave in the house. What on earth is this? A skipping rope?”
She pulled out something from the box and Macdonald laid a hand on her arm.
“No. It’s not a skipping rope. It’s electric flex—and a pretty powerful one at that.”
“Oh, Lord,” groaned Coombe. “This is the sort of thing which we can expect now. I wish to God some one had electrocuted me if they wanted a little practice at that sort of thing. I shouldn’t have minded an investigation then.”
Miss Coombe stared at the curving line of flex in Macdonald’s hand, her eyes very bright and clear.
“I suppose that settles it?” she said. “Now you’ll be on the warpath for a full electrocution outfit? ‘Just hold this for me for a moment, dear’ sort of thing. And to think I led you to it in the best ‘planting’ style. Well, Graham. Curiouser and curiouser. It looks as though we’re for it.”
“Miss Coombe, nobody realises better than I do how unpleasant the situation must be for you and your brother,” said Macdonald quietly. “If you will accept a word of advice, I think you would be wise to go to your rooms and rest. I am afraid that the only thing for me to do is to get a man sent down by my department to search the lower part of the house immediately. It would be much better to get it done now while the servants are upstairs and before anything has been moved for cleaning.”
“So far as I am concerned, you can search anything and everything,” replied Miss Coombe. “You want me out of the way and I want to go to bed, so we’ll say good-night. I don’t pretend that there are not a multitude of questions I should like to ask, but for the time being they can wait. So far as I can see, the less Graham and I do in the way of talking, the better.”
With the calmest of bows, she turned towards the stairs again, having put her collection of lost property in the box stool, and she walked upstairs without turning her head.
Coombe gave a deep sigh. “Susan’s a wonderful woman,” he observed. “She’s seen so many strange things in her life that she seems incapable of being startled any more. She was one of the first hunger strikers in the suffragette days, and used her prison experiences to write a memorandum for the Home Office on desirable reforms in women’s prisons. From being a militant in politics, and a nurse in war-time, she has become a logical pacifist in her maturity. She will probably write another memorandum after this, on the possible efficacy of women inspectors in the C.I.D. Frankly, I haven’t her strength of mind. I want to know what has happened in my house, and what you are going to do about it.”
“The answers to both questions, so far as they go, are obvious,” replied Macdonald. “A death has occurred here, and the electric circuit was interrupted. I believe that the two events were connected. The length of flex which your sister found strengthens that belief. Since I was here on
the spot, the authorities instructed me to undertake what investigation seemed indicated. I want to search all the rooms used by your guests this evening, and to study the staircase and exits. That is the immediate programme. You have promised to let me have a complete list of the clues made for the Treasure Hunters, and to-morrow I shall hope for a conversation with you concerning every one who was here this evening.”
Graham Coombe’s face puckered in a frown of distress.
“I ought to have followed Susan’s lead and not begun to ask questions,” he said. “I asked for a snubbing, because it’s obvious that you can’t answer questions. But one thing does seem to stand out unpleasantly: If the wiring system of this house were used to bring about Gardien’s death, it looks as though some one familiar with the house were responsible for it. To the best of my knowledge and belief, I am the only person in the house who had ever seen Gardien before. Far from desiring his death, it was to my advantage to have him alive. He was a very profitable addition to my list.”
His troubled face showed a glimmer of its mischievous smile. “Really, my dear chap, the situation’s ridiculous. I ask one of my most valuable authors to my house in order to murder him, and I invite a C.I.D. man to see me do it. It’s the sort of situation which Miss Rees could write up to perfection.” He faced Macdonald and looked at him steadily. “Susan always tells me that I talk too much; but I find it rather a relief to get things into words. It’s quite obvious that I must be suspect number one, and I bear no resentment about it, but I shall find the situation less uncomfortable if we both face it—you and I. Having told you that I expect to be suspected, I shall be able to talk to you with less embarrassment than if we both walked round the nasty thought in circles.” Coombe actually chuckled here. “I always cheer up when I look worries in the face,” he added. “It’s the business of appearing hearty when I feel frantic that gets me down.”
These Names Make Clues Page 6
