‘What time was it when you saw him?’
‘Precisely at ten.’
‘That means that he died between two and four.’
‘Most decidedly.’
‘I suppose you have examined the body thoroughly?’
‘I have,’ returned the doctor – his tone was almost indignant.
‘Did you find anything unusual about it?’
‘Unusual! My dear sir, a violent death can never be considered anything but unusual.’
Sir Leonard rose to his feet, and looked straight into the other’s eyes.
‘I’m sorry to have to say it,’ he observed coldly, ‘but I have come to the conclusion that you are no ornament to your profession.’
‘How dare you, sir!’ cried the doctor angrily. ‘How dare—’
‘Not so loud,’ commanded Wallace. ‘May I remind you that a certain amount of respect is due to the dead.’
He turned his back on the angry little man, and spoke to Brien.
‘Ring up Scotland Yard, Billy,’ he instructed, ‘and ask the Commissioner to send down his most competent police surgeon. Brookfield, I want you and Cousins to comb the neighbourhood, and find out if any strangers have been seen about recently. If so, get descriptions of them, names if possible and, in fact, all the information you can. Before starting out, ask the housekeeper if she can give you a meal of some sort. I could do with a snack myself.’
He was left alone with the doctor and the dead body of the professor.
‘I hate to show my contempt for any man,’ he remarked, addressing the still fuming medico, ‘but you call yourself a doctor, and apparently fail to notice what even I saw, and my knowledge of the science of medicine is remarkably vague.’
‘What did you see?’ demanded the doctor, interested in spite of himself.
‘Did you examine the professor’s eyes?’ counter-questioned Wallace.
‘Of course I did. I closed the lids.’
‘And you saw nothing peculiar about them?’
‘No; I can’t say I did. They were no different to any other dead eyes.’
Wallace gave an exclamation of impatience.
‘You can go home, doctor,’ he said. ‘But please remember to keep absolutely silent regarding this affair for the present. Send your bill to Room 12 at the Foreign Office, and you will receive payment.’
The doctor looked at him curiously; then bowed slightly and went out.
‘Of course, the little fool will blab,’ muttered Sir Leonard to himself, and added philosophically, ‘but he can’t do any harm, simply because he is such a fool.’
He was examining the doors of the room, when Brien came back and announced that Scotland Yard’s most competent surgeon was engaged at the moment, but would be down before four o’clock.
‘That will do,’ commented Wallace. ‘Get hold of Brookfield and Cousins before they go off on their little jaunt, and tell them to carry the body to the bedroom, will you?’
Brien nodded.
‘Have you any theories?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid not. Two peculiar things have struck me. One I will keep for the police surgeon, the other is that after murdering the professor the criminal probably took the keys of the safe from his pocket, opened it, then put them back. Now why did he bother to do that? Any ordinary individual would have left them in the door.’
‘Ask me another?’ remarked Brien. ‘I’ll bite. Why did he?’
‘That’s what I want to know.’
‘I don’t see that it matters very much. Perhaps the safe was opened by the professor.’
‘He’d be no more likely to return the keys to his pocket until he had locked it again than anyone else.’
‘No; I suppose not. Let us go and eat. I believe a meal is awaiting our attention in the dining room. At any rate, Cousins and Brookfield are tucking in already, and I’m famished.’
While they were eating Wallace’s mind was busy, and he hardly spoke a word. Directly the meal was finished he went back to the laboratory, and once more examined the doors. The lock of the first, the common type, had been smashed in by Cousins and Brookfield; the second was impossible to break open, and the two Secret Service men had been constrained to send to the dockyard at Sheerness for a steel cutter, with which they had cut out the lock and thus opened the door. The keys still lay on the table where they had been found. One was a powerful affair with a double flange. Sir Leonard inspected it carefully; then put it down and took up the other. That also he subjected to the same careful scrutiny. Brien sat on the solitary chair, smoking a pipe, and watching his colleague. As the latter placed the smaller key by the side of the other, Billy took the pipe from his mouth, and gazed wide-eyed at him.
‘What’s the matter, Leonard?’ he queried. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look quite so grim. Have you discovered anything?’
‘I’m getting on.’ The speaker smiled mirthlessly. His grey eyes were as cold in their expression as the steel door by which he stood. ‘What is the name of the maker on that safe?’
Brien rose and looked; then told him.
‘Go and ring them up, and ask – no; wait a minute!’ He walked out into the passage, and called to the housekeeper. She came quickly, and entered the room timidly in his wake. ‘Can you tell me, Mrs Holdsworth,’ he asked, ‘if the professor ever mislaid the keys of the safe?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied promptly. ‘It was about a fortnight ago. There was a great fuss, and we ransacked the house for them. The maids and I had a bad time. You see, sir, the professor couldn’t get at some papers he wanted very badly, and he stormed and raved until Mr Brookfield advised him to communicate with the makers. They sent duplicate keys down. Then two days afterwards the others were found.’
‘Oh! Where were they?’
‘The professor had left them in the pocket of a pyjama jacket which had been thrown into the soiled linen bag. I found them when I was getting the laundry ready.’
‘Was he usually absent-minded?’
‘No, sir, very rarely.’
‘When they were found, what did he do with the duplicates?’
‘That I can’t tell you, sir.’
‘Never mind. Perhaps Mr Brookfield may be able to tell me. Would you mind showing me to the professor’s bedroom?’
She led the way, and left him and Brien alone in the pleasant chamber which had been the professor’s sleeping apartment. The body of the old scientist now lay on the bed covered by a sheet, having been carried upstairs by Cousins and Brookfield.
Wallace walked round the room apparently taking a very perfunctory interest in it. A medicine cupboard was the first object to rivet his attention. It was locked, but the key was in the keyhole, and he opened the door and examined the orderly rows of bottles arrayed within. Presently, with a low whistle, he took down a phial which was labelled differently from the others, pulled out the stopper, and sniffed the contents. Then he closed it tightly again, and put it in his pocket. After that he went downstairs, and once more called Mrs Holdsworth.
‘Have you ever had reason to suspect that Professor Mason was addicted to drugs?’ he asked.
‘Good gracious, no, sir,’ she returned in astonishment. ‘Why do you ask?’
He smiled.
‘Great chemists often are,’ he observed in non-committal tones. ‘And, as far as I can make out, the professor usually worked all night. It is quite likely, therefore, that he may have taken drugs to ward off fatigue or strain on his nerves.’
‘I don’t think he was given to that sort of thing, sir. He was always so bright and cheerful; not at all the sort of man I should imagine a drug taker would be.’
Sir Leonard stood in thought for a few seconds; then ‘Did he have any refreshment on the nights he worked in his laboratory?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. I always prepared a tray with a plate of sandwiches and a coffee boiler with, of course, milk and sugar.’
‘When did you take it to him?’
‘H
e used to carry the tray in when he went to the laboratory, sir. None of us were ever allowed inside.’
‘What became of the tray that he took with him last night?’
‘I removed it during the morning.’
‘Have the coffee boiler and other articles been washed?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Wallace abruptly took the small bottle from his pocket, and held it up before her eyes.
‘Ever seen this before?’ he asked sharply.
Her face paled, and she gazed at the bottle as though fascinated.
‘Yes, sir,’ she murmured. ‘Where did you find it?’
He ignored the question.
‘Is it yours?’ he demanded.
She damped her lips; then nodded as though too overcome to speak.
‘Will you kindly tell me what it was doing in the professor’s medicine cupboard, if it belongs to you?’
‘I-I don’t know,’ she stammered after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I lost it two days ago, and wondered what could have happened to it.’
‘How could you lose it?’ he queried sarcastically. ‘It is hardly the kind of thing one leaves about, is it? And in any case it couldn’t have walked from your room to the professor’s.’
‘Perhaps he borrowed it, sir.’
‘I presume he would have asked you if he wanted to do that. He wasn’t in the habit of walking into your room and helping himself to your belongings, was he?’ She shook her head dumbly. ‘There’s another thing, Mrs Holdsworth,’ he went on. ‘Professor Mason had quite enough drugs in the laboratory to stock a chemist’s store. Why should he take one which you had in your possession?’
‘I don’t know,’ she murmured again.
‘What did you have it for?’
‘I have suffered from toothache for several weeks, and the only way I could get any rest was by using it.’
‘Whereabouts in your room did you keep this bottle?’
‘On the washstand, sir.’
‘Not even locked up? That was extremely careless of you. It’s dangerous stuff to leave about, you know, Mrs Holdsworth.’
He asked a few more questions; then took aside Brien, who had listened to the catechising with interest.
‘Keep an eye on her, Bill,’ he whispered, ‘and don’t let anybody come upstairs until I return.’
‘What’s all this got to do with the murder?’ asked Brien.
‘Quite a lot.’
‘What’s in the bottle?’
‘Smell!’ He uncorked the phial, and held it up to his friend’s nose. ‘Recognise it?’
‘Ye gods!’ exclaimed Brien. ‘I should think I do.’ He watched Wallace run up the stairs. ‘Things are getting curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say,’ he murmured to himself.
It seemed to him that Mrs Holdsworth had an air more of perplexity than of guilt. That she should be in any way connected with the murder seemed absurd, and he wondered what was at the back of Wallace’s mind. He had made no attempt himself to solve the mystery, knowing well enough that if his chief ’s astute mind failed, his had little chance of succeeding. Yet he thought deeply enough about the extraordinary circumstances of the murder, and was puzzled by the line Sir Leonard was taking. To him it seemed rather aimless wandering about rooms looking for clues when probably the assassin, if indeed the professor had been murdered, had long before crossed to the Continent. There had, in all likelihood, been a boat of some kind waiting for him below the cliff and, as soon as his foul work was completed, he had set sail in her, and was by that time well out of reach of Great Britain’s Secret Service. Brien began to think, as he waited at the foot of the stairs, that this case would prove to be one of Sir Leonard Wallace’s rare failures.
‘It seems to me,’ he soliloquised, ‘that he is not showing his usual skill. This worrying about trivialities will, as far as I can see, lead us nowhere.’
It was quite half an hour before Wallace appeared again; then he came slowly down the stairs, his face set in an expression which Brien thought almost suggested dismay. He went straight to the laboratory and, standing by the table on which the keys rested, looked upwards. High up in the adjacent wall was a large ventilator and, for some minutes, he stood gazing at it as though it fascinated him. Eventually he left the laboratory, and walked out of the house. He calculated where the exterior of the ventilator should be and, having found it, went in search of a ladder. He was not long in discovering one lying in an outhouse, and carried it back with him. As he placed it against the wall of the laboratory, he noticed a stain on one of the rungs, similar smears were to be seen elsewhere as he ascended, while a large one was on the embrasure into which the ventilator was set.
Standing at the top of the ladder he examined the appliance. It possessed three iron slats between two of which, when open, there was plenty of room to insert an arm and, at the same time, look down into the room. Within his field of vision was the end of the marble table where lay the keys. The door and the place where the body of the professor had been were also visible. Having satisfied himself on that point, Wallace turned his attention to the slats of the ventilator, inspecting them carefully; then slowly he descended the ladder, and replaced it in the outhouse. Two or three minutes later he was back in the hall of the house, where Brien stood talking to Mrs Holdsworth.
‘Have you communicated with the professor’s relations?’ he asked the woman.
‘As far as I know there is only a brother living at Gloucester, sir,’ she replied. ‘I sent a telegram to him as soon as I knew of the – the tragedy. His reply came just before you reached here. He said he was coming at once.’
‘Good. Then there is no reason why we should stay down here after the surgeon from Scotland Yard has arrived and made his examination. The local police will take charge this evening.’
Brien followed him into the drawing room, where he wearily threw himself into a chair, and subjected him to a string of questions.
‘For the Lord’s sake, leave me alone for a little while, Bill,’ he pleaded. ‘I want to think.’
He filled and lit his pipe, and lay back in the chair with his eyes half-closed. His whole attitude appeared to denote lassitude and, feeling decidedly intrigued, Brien left the room and took a turn in the neglected garden. He had become by now convinced that Wallace felt himself unable to unravel the mystery. To his mind there could only be one solution, and that was that the professor had committed suicide. What had become of the revolver was, of course, a puzzle, but there was a possibility that Mason, being an inventor, had shot himself in a manner not at once apparent to those who looked only for the weapon. With that idea in his mind Brien started to investigate on his own, eager to prove that suicide was the only feasible solution, and thus to succeed where Wallace, who had completely ignored such a contingency, had failed.
He commenced his search by crawling under the marble slabs, thinking that perhaps the revolver had been fixed beneath one of them and the trigger manipulated in some ingenious manner. But neither had anything underneath to which the weapon could have been fastened. There was not even a ledge. He was sitting on the floor between the tables, feeling rather disappointed, when Wallace entered and stared at him.
‘Hullo, Billy,’ he observed, ‘reconstructing the crime?’
‘I don’t believe there has been a crime at all,’ declared Brien obstinately; ‘at least not the crime of murder. I suppose suicide is a crime, as it is forbidden by law.’
‘You still think the professor committed suicide?’
‘I thought that he might have fastened the revolver under the table, sat down on the floor and pulled the trigger by means of a string, or something.’
Sir Leonard laughed.
‘Why should he do that?’ he asked.
‘He may not have had the courage to hold a revolver to his head and fire. Pulling a string is, after all, not so cold-blooded. Perhaps he didn’t want it to be known that he had killed himself.’
‘But, my dear fellow, such a
contrivance would have been discovered sooner or later. In fact it would have been found immediately, for the string would have given it away. No; he didn’t commit suicide I can assure you. I wish he had,’ he added with deep feeling.
‘Then you have discovered something?’
Wallace nodded.
‘As far as I am concerned,’ he replied, ‘the case is practically finished.’
Brien looked at him admiringly; then hastily rose to his feet. Now that Wallace was with him he began to feel that his efforts at investigation were astonishingly absurd. He decided in his own mind that he had made himself appear ridiculous.
‘I feel an ass,’ he confessed, ‘I actually thought I was going to steal a march on you, and triumph where you had failed.’
‘I wish you had, Billy,’ returned Wallace seriously. ‘Knowing what I know now, nothing would have given me greater pleasure.’
‘What do you mean?’
Sir Leonard was about to answer, when a car was heard to drive up, and he hurried out to meet the doctor from Scotland Yard.
‘Hullo, Sir Leonard,’ greeted the latter, an alert, good-looking man of early middle-age. ‘You have work for me I believe?’
‘I have, Hastings,’ was the reply, ‘but it won’t take you more than a few minutes.’
He told him of the tragedy, took him into the laboratory, and described the position in which the body had been lying. The doctor listened attentively, asked a few pertinent questions; then glanced round him with an air of appreciation.
‘Fine laboratory,’ he commented. ‘So this is where Veronite was created? The Commissioner told me some of the facts before I left,’ he added by way of explanation of his knowledge. ‘Have you discovered yet how the murder was committed?’
‘The professor was shot through the head,’ put in Brien.
‘Yes; I know that,’ smiled the doctor. ‘I meant to say: have you discovered how the assassin got in here?’
Wallace nodded.
‘That and more,’ he observed grimly.
‘Do you think you’ll be able to recover the formula?’ asked Brien eagerly.
‘I hope so. Do you want to see the body right away, Hastings?’
Wallace of the Secret Service Page 10
