‘Bennett plainly did not like this at all. He said that he wished to come up with us, and, when Inspector Cox demurred, tried to insist on it as a right. After all, wasn’t he the dead man’s brother-in-law, and wasn’t it his house?
‘I saw the Inspector was hesitating; but I didn’t want to excite suspicion if I could help it. So I let the point go, and Inspector Cox gave way. The three of us, with Bennett leading, went up the stairs together, and a moment later were standing again in the room where the body was.
‘Bennett and I both kept silence while the Inspector first stared slowly round the room, sweeping everything with a keen pair of grey eyes of which I liked the look. Then he went up to the desk and stood gazing down at the body. I saw his eyes travel to the revolver lying on the floor, and then back to the desk, where the letter that had moved my curiosity held them for a moment. Following my example, he touched the dead man’s hands and face, and then he took a handkerchief from his pocket and, bending down, picked up the revolver, wrapped it up and put it away. He turned to face us.
‘“Well, Doctor, I suppose we had better leave him where he is till Dr. Swan comes.”
‘I went forward, and joined him beside the body. I began to explain a few technicalities about the wound. Suddenly I realised that Samuel Bennett was no longer with us in the room.
‘“Where’s Bennett gone?” I exclaimed, and dashed out into the corridor, leaving the Inspector agape behind me.
‘There was no sign of Bennett. I went to the head of the stairs, and was wondering what to do when, just as the Inspector came hurrying along to join me, a door opened and the missing man came out.
‘“Where have you been?” I exclaimed.
‘“I like your cheek,” he retorted. “If you must know, I’ve been to the lavatory.” He pushed open the door out of which he had come, revealing a room which did double duty as lavatory and bathroom.
‘“Oh!” I said, rather at a loss, but mighty suspicious of him all the same.
‘“Suppose we get back to our job,” said the Inspector rather tartly.
‘“Quite content to leave it to you,” said Bennett. “I think I’ll join the others downstairs—in case my wife turns up. She’ll have to be told.” He pushed back the swing door, and started down the stairs.’
III
‘“I’ve been badly wanting a word with you alone, Inspector,” said I.
‘“So I guessed,” he answered. “But I reckoned it would keep till I’d seen what there was to see. What’s the trouble, Doctor? Looks straightforward enough to me.”
‘While he was speaking we made our way back to the scene of the tragedy.
‘“It’s not straightforward at all,” I said.
‘“I mean it’s a clear case of suicide.”
‘“I’m pretty sure it isn’t.”
‘“Come, Doctor, aren’t you imagining things? I know Mr. Bennett’s in a stew, and it’s common knowledge in these parts there was no love lost between him and Mr. Allsop. But that doesn’t mean he murdered the man. See here, take the wound first. Are you suggesting any medical reason why it shouldn’t have been self-inflicted?”
‘“No medical reason,” said I. “A man could shoot himself just like that.”
‘“Very well then…” Inspector Cox began.
‘“But not with his left hand,” I went on. “If he shot himself, he must have done it with his right hand.”
‘“Well, why not?” Cox was beginning; but then he suddenly changed it to “Oh, I see!” For, when once the thing was pointed out, the bearing of it was clear. The fallen revolver had been lying under the dead man’s left hand, and his right hand was flung across the desk, where the revolver could not possibly have fallen from it.
‘“Happen to know whether he was left- or right-handed?” I asked.
‘Cox shook his head. “Soon find out,” he said. “You’re sure about that wound, Doctor?”
‘I was saying I felt pretty sure, when there was an interruption. A very small man, with a completely bald head and a very Jewish face, dashed into the room. Inspector Cox introduced him to me as Dr. Swan, the police surgeon.
‘It was the newcomer’s turn to stoop over the body, feel the temperature of the flesh, and peer closely at the powder-blackening round the wound.
‘“Tut, tut,” said Dr. Swan. “Mind if I move him a bit?”
‘Cox gave his permission, and the Doctor gently turned the dead man over. I saw, as the other side of the neck came into view, a very faint mark corresponding to the plainer mark I had already noticed under the left ear.
‘“Well, Doctor,” said the Inspector. “What do you make of him?”
‘“Same as you do, I expect,” Swan answered. “Not much room for doubt about it, is there?”
‘“Dr. Tancred seems to think there is. He declares the man did not commit suicide.”
‘“What!” Swan stood up straight, and stared at me in the utmost astonishment.
‘“I said that, if he shot himself, he did it with his right hand.”
‘“Well, why not?”
‘“The revolver was lying under his left hand when we found him.”
‘Then came another interruption. The big man was at the door. “Them two young chaps wants to know if they’ve to stop here all night,” he said. “I’m staying anyhow—whether I’m wanted or not—till Susan gets back.”
‘“They must stay for the present, till I’ve seen them,” Cox answered. “Here, you knew Mr. Allsop pretty well. Was he left- or right-handed?”
‘“Left,” said the big man without hesitation. “What’s the game?”
‘“Never you mind. And don’t you mention to anybody I asked you that question.”
‘The big man started. “See here,” he said. “D’you mean there’s…something wrong about…this show?”
‘“I’ll talk to you when I’m ready for you,” Cox answered. “Meanwhile, you keep your mouth shut.”
‘“If there has been any dirty work,” said the big man darkly.
‘Inspector Cox packed him off downstairs, and turned back to Swan. “Is Dr. Tancred correct,” he asked, “in saying that wound couldn’t have been inflicted with the man’s left hand?”
‘Swan scrutinised the wound again closely. “I should say so,” he said. “Wouldn’t swear to it.”
‘“There’s something else,” I said. “See that mark, Doctor…and that one? They suggest anything to you?”
‘“Noticed them, of course,” said Swan quickly. “I’m not saying you aren’t right.”
‘Cox, too, bent over the body, and studied intently the faint marks upon the neck. “Meaning what, gentlemen?” he said.
‘“That he was held,” said I. “Someone held him by the scruff of the neck, behind.”
‘“That your view, Doctor?” Cox asked Swan.
‘“Might be. Looks a bit like it. But…” Dr. Swan left his sentence unfinished.
‘“If that’s really so,” said Cox, “it looks a bit like murder. Anything else, Dr. Tancred?”
‘“A good deal,” said I. “Suppose we take the medical points first. How long would Dr. Swan say the man had been dead?”
‘Swan wagged his head at me. “Dr. Tancred knows well enough you can never be certain how long a man’s been dead, not to within a good big margin of error,” he said. “I should say this fellow had been dead between two and four hours. Can’t put it nearer than that.”
‘“That’s quite good enough for my purpose,” said I, taking out my watch. “It’s now just after half-past ten. Now, I was downstairs with Bennett and the three other men who were here. We were all in the bar-parlour when we heard a shot. We came rushing up to this room within a couple of minutes, and it took about five minutes after that to break down the door. I examined the body two or three minutes after that, and looked at my
watch. It was then half-past nine, not much over an hour ago. The shot was fired at the outside at about twenty past nine—under an hour and a quarter from now. I say that it’s physically impossible that this man was killed by it.”
‘“I couldn’t absolutely swear, you know,” Swan put in, “that he wasn’t, even if you’re right about the times. I agree that it is highly unlikely; but body temperatures do play curious tricks.”
‘“But I could swear that the man had been dead a good bit more than a quarter of an hour when I examined him,” I answered.
‘“Yes, you ought to be able to be pretty certain on that point,” Swan agreed.
‘“Then, if Dr. Tancred’s right,” said Cox, “that about clinches it. I suppose that exhausts your points, Doctor?”
‘“By no means,” said I. “But my other points are not medical. Suppose we hold them over for the present.”
‘“You say Bennett and the other three men were all downstairs with you when the shot was fired,” Cox asked.
‘I nodded. “No doubt about that, Inspector. But that’ll keep. I confess, now the body has been shifted, I am feeling a very strong curiosity to have a look at that letter that is lying on the desk.”
‘Inspector Cox bent over the table and read the letter, now fully exposed to view, without touching it. He straightened himself after reading it, and scratched his head. He looked pretty puzzled.
‘“Read it for yourselves, gentlemen,” he said. “But blest if it doesn’t make nonsense of what you were just saying. It says he committed suicide.”
‘I stooped down eagerly and read these words:
‘“DEAR SAM,
“The job’s finished at last, and I’m through. When you see me next, it’ll be for the last time on this side. I’m bound for brighter climes. As for what I’ve got to leave, the pub’s mine by rights; but you’re welcome to it, as long as you give Susan a square deal. I reckon you won’t be sorry to see the last of S. A.”
‘Well, I confess that letter took me all aback. It wasn’t quite the sort of style you’d expect a man to use in his last moments; but there didn’t seem to be much doubt about its meaning. Whereas I’d been dead sure Sidney Allsop had been murdered, there was his own letter—for it would almost certainly turn out to be his writing—apparently declaring his decision to take his own life.
‘“That puts a different complexion on it, eh, Dr. Tancred?” said the Inspector. “You must have been wrong about that wound and about the time of death after all. And, as for those marks on his neck, suppose someone did give him a bit of a shaking, that doesn’t say they murdered him.”
‘While Cox was speaking, I was staring hard at that letter. For I had noticed more than one odd thing about it, though they hadn’t clicked together in my mind at that stage.
‘“I told you I couldn’t be positive about the wound—or the time of death,” said Dr. Swan. “I’m afraid Dr. Tancred has been letting his imagination run away with him.”
‘“I confess,” said I, “I don’t see daylight yet—supposing that is the dead man’s writing. But let me tell you another thing, Inspector. Come over here a minute.”
‘I led him towards the door of the room, hanging broken by one of its hinges. “Now, Inspector, that door was locked when we arrived. We had to break it down.”
‘“Well, what about it?” I could see the Inspector was a bit impatient with my theories now. “I can see it was locked. The key’s in the lock, too.”
‘“That’s just the point,” I answered. “When we stood outside that door, before we broke it down, the key wasn’t in the lock. I saw the light in the room through the keyhole. I could see the exact shape outlined in light—the round hole at the top and the oblong space below. There was no key in the lock then. But someone put it back after we broke into the room.”
‘“You’re able to swear to that, Doctor?”
‘“Yes, I am, and to another thing. When we came rushing upstairs after we heard the shot, there was a smell of gunpowder on the landing. But there was no smell of it in this room. And I smelt it again on the landing when we went downstairs to wait for you.”
‘“Hmm!” said Cox doubtfully. “If you’re right about the key, Doctor—and the smell—it looks fishy. But I don’t see how you can get round that letter. Besides, if the shot you heard was fired on the landing, what are you suggesting? This chap was shot in here, wasn’t he?”
‘“I’m suggesting he was dead long before that shot was fired.”
‘“Then who do you suggest fired it, and what for?”
‘That, I confess, was a poser; for there was no doubt that Bennett and the big man and the two young farmers had all been in the bar-parlour with me when we heard the shot. And, except the dead man, there was absolutely no sign of anyone else in the house. I had to say I had no idea; but I stuck obstinately to my point. I was so persistent that it ended in the three of us making a tour of inspection of all the upper rooms, including the attics and even the flat roof of the inn. There was no one in any of them, and only the one staircase to the ground-floor: so that it seemed impossible anyone could have been there and got away. I lingered a minute or two in the bathroom-lavatory out of which Bennett had come earlier; but it looked perfectly ordinary.
‘I confess that at that stage I felt a bit of a fool,’ said Ben Tancred. ‘But I was as sure as ever I was right about my facts, and, if I was right, Sidney Allsop had not killed himself, whatever that infernal letter of his might say. I went back to the room where the body was, to interrupt Inspector Cox and Dr. Swan, who were discussing rather too audibly my unreliability as a witness.’
IV
‘“I want to have another look at that letter,” said I.
‘Still without touching it, I leant over the desk and studied it again intently. And as I did so, my suspicions clicked together. The letter was written on a single sheet of common grey notepaper, and the writing began quite near the top and went right down to the bottom of the sheet, ending with the initials “S. A.” At the bottom corner, immediately beyond this signature, a small corner had been torn off, leaving just room for the writing.
‘But I had noticed another thing. At some time that sheet of paper had been folded across, as if for insertion in an envelope. The fold had been smoothed out, so that the paper lay almost flat; but there was no mistaking the mark of the crease. Moreover, the fold was not in the middle of the sheet, the part below it being a good inch longer than the part above.
‘“Come and take a good look at this letter, Inspector,” I said. I went on to draw his attention to the fold and to its position, and to the little tear at the corner. I asked him to observe yet another thing. The top edge of the sheet was not perfectly parallel with the bottom edge, and the two sides did not look to me quite parallel either.
‘“I suggest to you,” said I, “that that letter has been at some time folded in an envelope. I suggest that, when that happened, the sheet was a full inch taller than it is now, and that a strip at the top has been cut away since. I suggest that the missing pieces had written on them—a date—and an address. And I suggest something else—that this is not the whole of the letter. It went on to another sheet, and there was a word written where that bit at the bottom has been torn away. You can see it’s only a half sheet. I suggest it has been cut down the side as well as at the top, and that the original letter continued on page four of the complete sheet.”
‘The Inspector had been following closely what I said. When I stopped, he took out a knife from his pocket, and with it turned the sheet of paper up on its side, so that we could see the reverse. It was blank.
‘“Might have been continued on the other side,” he said. “What you say is ingenious, Doctor; but why does it end with the chap’s initials, if he was going on?”
‘“Read it again,” I said. “Those initials aren’t a signature. He’s speaking of himself in
the body of the letter. Probably he’s known as ‘S. A.’ Anyway, I’ve known people speak of themselves that way.”
‘“But if he wrote it all the same…” said Cox, meditatively. “It’s a suicide letter in any case.”
‘“No, that’s just what it’s not,” I exclaimed. “We’ve been misreading it—as we were meant to do. He doesn’t say he’s committing suicide. He says he’s clearing out of the country—after finishing up some job he was on. The ‘brighter climes’ he writes about aren’t heaven. More likely the United States—or South America. I reckon you’re on to something else here, Inspector—as well as murder.”
‘“What do you say, Swan?” Inspector Cox inquired. He was evidently doubtful what line to take.
‘Dr. Swan was doubtful too. “I suppose it can be read that way,” he said.
‘“Of course it can,” I insisted. “Once that occurs to you, you see it can’t mean anything else. The tone of it isn’t a bit like that of a man who’s just about to take his own life. ‘As for what I’ve got to leave’ doesn’t mean all his worldly wealth. It means the pub, which he can’t take away with him. That’s not a suicide’s letter. It’s a crook’s, who’s making his getaway while the going’s good.”
‘They remained doubtful. Suddenly I had a brain-wave. My eye caught the fountain-pen, still lying open on the desk. It had leaked upon a sheet of paper beneath. I saw the stain of the ink. It was bluish. But the ink of the letter had dried not blue but slate-grey. I gave a sharp exclamation. “That proves it,” I said. “That letter was not written with that pen.”
‘I explained my point. The Inspector picked up the pen, and wrote a few words with it. The ink in it was bright blue. Certainly it had never been used to write that ambiguous letter.
‘There followed a search of the dead man’s person, and then of the entire room, to see if he had been in possession of another pen. There was none. That bright blue ink was the only writing material there was in the room, except a stub of pencil in Allsop’s waistcoat-pocket.
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