by Otto Penzler
“You aren’t suggesting, doctor——” began Hanson.
“Listen, Inspector! Do you honestly think that the Lucian gang had the brains to carry out this affair to-night? As I’ve said, they’re mere gunmen. Shock-tactics—that’s their line. The way the Kestar diamond was stolen from this office shows a different psychology. You’ve already admitted it has the ‘Baron’s’ touch from beginning to end.” Raphael had been addressing the Inspector, but his eyes were upon Winch, and now he spoke directly to him: “When you left this office at five-thirty, Mr. Winch, you saw nothing suspicious?”
“Nothing,” said the clerk, moistening his thin lips.
“And you, Mr. Bluthner? You went home at six o’clock, leaving Oakley working at a ledger. There was nobody else in the office except the charwoman and the plain-clothes man. Did you actually see the charwoman?”
“No, but I heard her in Winch’s room as I went out.” He pointed towards the glass partition.
Raphael’s dark eyes opened wide. “You had a diamond worth fifty thousand pounds in this office, and you weren’t sufficiently interested to have a last look round, and make sure all was well!”
Jacob Bluthner scowled at his polished finger-nails. “There was a plain-clothes man on duty,” he grunted. “Wasn’t that sufficient?”
Dr. Louis Raphael sighed. “Let us turn to the question of finger-prints,” he said slowly. “Naturally the police have taken photographs of every finger-print they could find in this room. Some of them will no doubt be yours, Miss Symons,” he said, glancing at the typist.
“Naturally,” she replied at once. “I handled several things here during the day.”
“That glass, for instance?” Raphael inquired, pointing to a tumbler that stood beside the water-carafe on the mantelpiece.
The girl’s eyes narrowed for the fraction of a second, then she shook her head quickly. “No, I don’t think so—I had no reason …”
“No? Someone poured out a glass of water, as you can see, from the carafe. But the tumbler seems to have been carefully wiped out afterwards. A strange thing to have done, don’t you think, Miss Symons?”
“Rather strange,” she agreed; “but I don’t know what you mean …”
“No matter,” murmured Raphael. “All of you have probably touched different things in this room during the day, and the police would like to eliminate your finger-prints from those they have photographed. You have no objection, any of you, to Inspector Hanson taking a record of your finger-prints?”
Jacob Bluthner sat up in his chair. “Is it absolutely necessary?”
“Absolutely,” said Raphael. “And you, Mr. Winch—you are agreeable?”
Winch gave a twisted smile, and shrugged his shoulders. Inspector Hanson had opened his attaché-case, which lay on the desk, and took out a small block of wood with a copper plate. Wetting a roller with thick ink, he passed it over the surface of the plate, then placed his thumb upon it, and made an impression on a sheet of paper. “You see, it’s quite simple,” he said; “I’d like both hands, please.” He laid on the desk a bundle of printed forms, with a ruled square for each impression. The three records did not take many minutes to complete.
“Better push off to bed, Meredith,” said Raphael, when we got back to his house on the Embankment. “There’s nothing more you can do now. We’ll resume our pleasant conversation with these three people at nine o’clock to-morrow morning. They’ve agreed to come here.” He pulled off his coat as Paine came forward with his dressing-gown.
“Take up a decanter of sherry to the study, Paine, and a new box of cigarettes. Inspector Hanson may be back shortly, but I’ll let him in myself. You can go to bed—and you too, Meredith. Good night to you both.”
I made my way upstairs to my bedroom, which was at the back of the house; and pulling up the blind, I looked out over the laboratory roof to the dark Temple gardens, and the few lighted windows beyond. It had been one of the strangest evenings in my experience, and my mind was too full of what had happened for much sleep to come my way.
Again and again I went over the events of the evening, trying to penetrate to the heart of that ugly affair in Hatton Garden. What was the meaning of Raphael’s cryptic reference to the empty tumbler on the mantelpiece? Did he believe that the dead man had been drugged before the theft of the diamond took place? But even if this were so, how had the thief got away under the very nose of the plain-clothes man on duty?…
It was a long time before I dozed off, and I woke up again an hour or two later. I could hear somebody playing a piano, and then I remembered what the Harley Street specialist had told me—how Raphael would sit for hours at night, playing softly to himself while he concentrated upon his problems.
My mind felt unusually clear, and after about twenty minutes had passed I felt a sudden desire for a cigarette. Lighting one, I went over to the window. The night was very still. I could hear the intermittent rumble of traffic over Waterloo Bridge—perhaps lorries for the Covent Garden market—and a tug-boat hooted on the river. Again my thoughts went back to the happenings of the evening, and I wondered what the conference at nine o’clock next morning would bring forth. But the next moment my heart missed a beat, and I peered forth into the darkness.
In the glass cupola on the roof of Dr. Raphael’s laboratory, a dozen yards away, there was a sudden blink of light. It could not be Raphael himself, for I could still hear the music coming from the study. Who could be moving about down there at such an hour?
And then I saw that I had made a mistake. It wasn’t in the laboratory I had seen the sudden gleam: it was in the skylight of the ante-room where the dead body of the murdered man lay.
I thought quickly. Whatever was happening, Raphael ought to know of it at once; and I rapidly hauled on some clothes, and hurried along the passage.
The study was in darkness, except for the shaded lamp at the piano. Raphael sat with a cigarette between his lips, his eyes half-closed, his fingers straying over the keyboard. He looked up with a frown of enquiry, and I explained what I had seen.
“The sooner we get downstairs, the better,” he said quickly. “Just a moment.”
With one hand still straying over the keyboard, he leaned back towards the open cabinet of gramophone records behind him. He pulled out a disc, and glanced at it. A few seconds later the gramophone was playing a piano-piece, and Raphael was hurrying across the study. “If the music had stopped, they might have smelt a rat downstairs,” he whispered. “Come along, Meredith.”
Across the hall and into the laboratory we tiptoed. I kept at Raphael’s heels, moving cautiously in case I should blunder into some object and give away our presence. Raphael halted, and his fingers closed on my arm. The door leading into the ante-room was ajar, and I caught my breath.
The ray of an electric torch was shining upon the pallid face of the dead man on the table, and I could discern the vague outline of a dark figure bending over it. Then the light was switched off, and there was the quiet sound of retreating footsteps. A moment later, the door leading out into the alley was gently closed.
And then, to my utter surprise, Raphael spoke aloud in the darkness:
“Are you there, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” replied a voice, and a man moved quietly forward.
“Which of them was it?”
“I couldn’t make out, sir. I was waiting to see what the game was.”
“I know what the game is now, Sergeant. Somebody has been in to see that the way is clear—in a few minutes there’s going to be an attempt to steal that body. Slip a bar across that door, and make sure nobody gets in again. Then ring up the Yard for two more men at once.” Raphael paused, and from the open window of the study above I could still hear the music playing. “I think I can leave the matter in your hands, Sergeant. Don’t disturb me unless I’m required.”
Upstairs in the passage, Raphael gave a short laugh. “I had an idea it was the ‘Baron’ who stole the Kestar diamond,” he said in the
darkness. “Now I’m certain of it. Good night, Meredith.”
I was awakened next morning with my breakfast on a tray, and it was in a very puzzled frame of mind that I went downstairs to the library at nine o’clock. When I entered the room, I found that Mr. Bluthner, Winch, and Miss Symons had already arrived.
They sat around the table, with Inspector Hanson at the head of it. The atmosphere was a trifle frigid, and nobody spoke; but there was a look of quiet satisfaction in the Inspector’s eye which suggested that he was well pleased with the turn things had taken.
A couple of minutes later Dr. Raphael came in; and with a quick “Good morning,” he got down at once to business.
“I must thank you all for coming here so early,” he said, “and I don’t think I need detain you for more than a few minutes. Since last night, the situation has altered—or rather developed, and in the direction I expected. Scotland Yard has now fairly complete evidence that it was not the Lucian gang who stole the Kestar diamond.”
Mr. Jacob Bluthner leaned forward in his chair. “You sound confident, Dr. Raphael. Where is this evidence? I would like to know about it.”
Raphael smiled. “Some of it is here in this room, Mr. Bluthner!”
The man Winch drew in his breath sharply; his pale eyes were fixed upon Raphael’s face as the latter continued:
“You see, six years ago the Yard had an opportunity of taking the finger-prints of a certain gentleman I’ve already mentioned. I need not go into that, but it was the only slip the ‘Baron’ ever made—until last night when he made his second slip. And I think it will be the last.”
In the brief silence that followed, Inspector Hanson cleared his throat loudly, and there was an odd glitter in his eye. I could not help noting that he occupied the chair nearest to the door.
“I have always been interested in the ‘Baron’s’ activities,” went on Raphael. “It used to be thought that he worked alone, but I sometimes wondered if he had assistance of a very clever woman. What happened last night has confirmed it.” He took a cigarette from an open box on the table and lit it carefully. “An attempt was made last night to steal the body of Oakley from the ante-room of my laboratory. I believe that the attempt was organised by this woman, and it failed because we were ready for it. Sit down, Miss Symons!” he added sharply as she half-rose to her feet.
In a flash she had recovered her composure, and her red lips parted in a smile. “Well, Dr. Raphael?”
But he turned to Jacob Bluthner, who sat with his face drawn and his fingers gripping the edge of the table.
“It wasn’t Scotland Yard that the ‘Baron’ was afraid of last night, Mr. Bluthner,” said Raphael quietly. “It was the Lucian gang. Knowing about the old feud between them, I was forced to this conclusion. In making their plans to steal the Kestar diamond, they must have tumbled to the truth about the ‘Baron’s’ identity. If the Lucian crowd had succeeded, they would have had the Kestar diamond now—and the ‘Baron’ would have had a bullet through his brain.” Raphael rose from his chair. “But he was too clever for them, Mr. Bluthner. The ‘Baron’ got away last night with the stone. Perhaps you would all like to see it!”
From the pocket of his dressing-gown, he drew a small wad of cotton wool, which he opened and placed on the table. Before our eyes there gleamed a white clear stone.
Inspector Hanson moved back his chair. “Go ahead, doctor,” he said abruptly.
Raphael nodded. “As for the ‘Baron’, I think his activities in Hatton Garden are at an end——” He was interrupted by Miss Symons. She had risen to her feet and was staring across the table at him with an insolent smile.
“Well, doctor,” she said with a slight drawl, “I guess you’ve got the goods! And I guess you know who the ‘Baron’s’ woman friend is. But I’ll tell you this. You can bluff till your ink is dry, but you’ve got no evidence against her. Not as much as would go on a threepenny piece!” With a laugh, she snapped her gloved fingers.
There was a glint of white teeth as Raphael smiled at her. “Do you know, my dear lady, I believe you’re right. The ‘Baron’s’ lady friend is at perfect liberty to walk out of this house. If you don’t believe me, ask Inspector Hanson!” His eyes strayed to the white face of Winch, and then towards Bluthner. “You see, we’ve got the important one—the ‘Baron’ himself. His finger-prints prove it without an atom of doubt. He left the office in Hatton Garden last evening with the diamond in his possession—it was found in the hollowed heel of his shoe. That shoe is going into the Black Museum at Scotland Yard as a permanent relic of the Kestar diamond case! As for the ‘Baron’ himself, I fancy he will be a guest of His Majesty for several years to come——”
“If you ever find him!” cried Miss Symons, turning towards the door.
“He is in this room now,” said Raphael, looking at her closely.
Bluthner gave a quick glance as Dr. Raphael took a few steps down the long narrow room and swept back the curtains which divided the library into two.
Standing erect was a square-shouldered man, and in an armchair beside him there lay a huddled figure with manacles on his wrists. His lips were white, and his sullen eyes were staring at the carpet.
With a sudden start, I recognised him. It was Oakley himself—the man I had seen last night in the ante-room of Dr. Raphael’s laboratory, lying upon the table stiff and motionless.
“And now, Meredith,” said Raphael an hour later, “let us get down to work on the historical section of my book. Yes, the case of the Kestar diamond might be worth mentioning in a later chapter. And yet I wonder! … It was an old, old game the ‘Baron’ played. He pulled off the same kind of thing ten years ago in New York before he began to work in England. To be carried away as dead, with fifty grains of a powerful derivative of the drug Conium in him—it took some nerve. If he had been put in the local mortuary, they’d have found the place empty in the morning—and that would have been the end of it. He had every symptom of death, Meredith,” he continued. “If I’d been the police sergeon who examined him earlier in the evening, I’d have said he had died of shock following a blow on the head. When he was brought to my laboratory a few hours later, I was a little puzzled at getting a slight reflex from the pupils of his eyes, and when I took a blood-film I was still more puzzled. After we came back from Hatton Garden, and you went off to bed, I made a further examination. The body was certainly alive, and I told Hanson to put one of his men to watch the laboratory. Hanson showed up strongly at the end. It was his idea to take the dead man’s finger-prints, although I wasn’t absolutely certain about his accomplice until Miss Symons gave herself away.… Incidentally, the effects of the drug lasted about twelve hours. I must look into the question of the Conium derivatives.”
“The Lucian gang must be feeling pretty fed up,” I remarked with a laugh.
“If it hadn’t been for the Lucian gang,” said Raphael deliberately, “the ‘Baron’ would have got right away with the loot. They had discovered who he was: they were out to get the Kestar diamond—and their revenge on the ‘Baron’ as well.” And then a smile crept into his dark eyes. “To sum it up in a word, the ‘Baron’s’ only chance of leaving Hatton Garden alive last night was to leave it—dead! And now, Meredith, to work.…”
THE ODOUR OF SANCTITY
IT IS NO SIMPLE TASK to plot and write a good detective novel, but Kate Ellis (1953–) has managed to make it more difficult for herself (and more satisfying for readers) by intertwining her contemporary mysteries with crimes and other events of the past. Born in Liverpool, she came late to the literary world, having worked first as a teacher, an accountant, and a marketer before winning the North West Playwrights’ competition and producing her first book, The Merchant’s House, in 1999.
Fifteen of her novels feature Detective Sergeant Wesley Peterson, a policeman of Trinidadian descent who has a degree in archaeology, which comes in useful on more than one of his cases. He and his wife, a teacher, are newly arrived from London in the ancient coa
stal town of Tradmouth in rural South Devon when the first book begins, and this is where all his cases occur. Modern police procedures are the hallmark of these adventures, though they are always intruded upon and complicated by the discovery of some long-ago mystery. Ellis also has written two novels about Detective Inspector Joe Plantagenet, set in the North Yorkshire town of York (thinly disguised as Eborby), which are grittier than the Peterson series but also involve more than several plotlines that need to be first connected and then unraveled.
“The Odour of Sanctity” was first published in The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries and Impossible Crimes, edited by Mike Ashley (London, Robinson, 2000).
KATE ELLIS
THE BRAKES HISSED with relief as the coach drew up in the car park at the back of Bickby Hall, and Vicky Vine—known as “Miss” on weekdays—climbed out onto the concrete first, clutching a clipboard protectively to her ample chest. Only two girls had been sick on the coach and one boy had bumped his head on the luggage rack. Three casualties: that was good going at this stage.
Vicky did a swift head count as her class emerged from the coach under the disapproving eye of the small, balding car park attendant. All there, every one of them: chattering; pushing; slouching; strutting; blazers shiny and misshapen, ties askew. 8C … the flower of Bickby Comprehensive: Vicky looked at them and sighed. She had done the history trip to Bickby Hall so many times: year after year; class after class; the bright and the dull; those interested in history and those who found the Elizabethan mansion, perched incongruously on the edge of a run down housing estate, less appealing than a double maths lesson.
Some girls began to giggle as they spotted their guide. Most of the boys stared, open mouthed, at the apparition.
“Is that the ghost, miss?” one wit asked as the dark haired woman emerged from the Hall’s massive oak door in full Elizabethan costume; a huge-skirted creation in faded brocade with big padded sleeves, topped by a limp, yellowed ruff. The woman seemed to glide across the car park towards them, and when she reached Vicky she gave her a nervous smile.
