He had with him a bunch of skeleton keys provided by Colonel Blythe when first the Grumman case was assigned to him, but he found on trying the door that it was unlocked and that the key was on the inside. Silently closing the door, he stood for a little while listening. Then he switched on his torch, over the bulb of which he had wrapped his handkerchief.
There was no one there—just as he had thought. He turned to the door and withdrew the key and directed the subdued light of the torch to it. He saw that it was covered with oil, and that the oil was old and not applied that night. Inserting the key, he locked the door.
The blind was down. On the single bed, the blankets were folded neatly at its foot, and on them were the folded sheets and the pillows. The mattress was rolled into a cylinder at the head of the bed, and this struck Bony as queer because George was to be away only the one night.
There were no washing facilities in this room. There was a chest of drawers and on that was a stand mirror and the man’s shaving and toilet gear. This was all of excellent quality. A pair of ivory-backed hairbrushes lay beside the leather case. There were pots of shaving cream and hair pomade, a couple of combs and several tooth-brushes and a tube of dentifrice. There were, too, three photographs of groups within small and cheap frames.
All these articles displayed in the dimmed beam of the torch indicated that the owner was careless and slovenly in his habits, and George had not revealed this trait at any time to the observant Bony. There on the bed was displayed neatness in the folding of the bed-clothes, when such folding arrangement appeared to be unnecessary. Here on the chest of drawers all was chaotic. He proceeded to examine the contents of the four drawers of the chest. In them were underwear, shirts and collars, socks and a sports suit. The shirts were washed and ironed. There were five of them and the laundress had folded and ironed them as though they were intended for shop sale. Bony took each from the drawer and closely examined them—to find that the creases and the folds were out of the original. The shirts had been “opened” out and then roughly refolded before being put back into the drawer.
Next Bony gave his attention to a leather steamer trunk, old but still in good condition. The lock was evidently out of order, the lid being kept fastened with only one of three buckle straps. Within lay more garments—a dressing gown, several older shirts, a suit of navy-blue serge, several pairs of shoes, and books and unframed photographs of people on ships and of ships. The contents of this trunk smelled heavily of moth repellent.
Bony went carefully over the blue suit, the trousers of which were keenly creased, as were the sleeves of the coat. The repellent was the same as that which he had noticed on the suit of the man who had held up both Bisker and himself and had taken the empty fountain pens.
Replacing the contents of the trunk, Bony closed down the lid and proceeded to direct his torch into corners and under the bed and the chest of drawers. Beneath the bed was another pair of ordinary shoes and a pair of good-quality tennis shoes. On pegs affixed to the door hung an overcoat and an old felt hat. Questions! Standing and leaning against the wall in the darkness following the switching off of the torch, Bony asked questions and sought their answers.
Was the blue suit in the trunk that worn by the gunman? It was similar. It smelled of the same moth repellent, of which there are many, which had clung to the gunman’s clothes. And the old felt hat on the peg looked something like the gunman’s hat.
That the gunman was George, Bony was morally certain, although he had not discovered the kerchief used as a mask or the rubber pads inserted into the mouth to disguise the voice. Neither had he discovered the gunman’s pistol or his own automatic.
There was something else of great interest found in that room. Bony had had plenty of opportunity to study the steward employed at the Chalet, and he was sure he was not in error in summing him up as precise in his habits. He was sure that George would not have left his toilet gear in disorder upon the chest of drawers. He was sure that George would not unfold all those well-laundered shirts and then refold them in such a careless manner. Apart from the man’s training and psychology, what need had he to unfold those shirts?
Then there was the bed. He was to be away for only the one night, and the bedclothes were folded and placed as though the room was expected to be vacant for some time instead of being unoccupied merely for one night. It was most likely that George made his own bed and himself kept the room clean and tidy. Now it was upset, despite the folding of the bedclothes and the rolling of the mattress.
Just as he was convinced that George was the gunman, so he also felt sure that this was the room visited by Sleeman, and that Sleeman had been searching for something. Instead of remaking the bed, he had neatly folded the clothes and rolled the mattress, possibly to give the absent man the idea that during his absence one of the maids had done this—Sleeman had apparently been unable to remake the bed after pulling it to pieces to get at and to search the mattress.
Probably the hairbrushes had been within their leather case, and Sleeman had forgotten to put them back, as he had omitted to replace any article correctly.
What was Sleeman? He used a light to get himself along passages with which a novice in crime would have become familiar after twenty-four hours’ stay at the house. He had come here to ransack a room and had made stupid attempts to hide his work.
Yes, what was Sleeman? What was his interest in George’s room? And if it had been he who had returned from some place long after midnight, and had entered the house by the front door, where had he been and why had he been out so late?
Not altogether disappointed, Bony left George’s room and proceeded along the passage to that used as a lumber room. The door of this room was also unlocked. The key was on the inside of the door, and examination proved that recently it and the lock had been oiled—recently, but not that night.
The interior of this room was three parts filled with old furniture, wooden cases, rolls of linoleum, old-fashioned lattice blinds and ornate gilt-framed pictures. The furniture, although old, was very good and very solid, bespeaking an era long before the modern guest house at a mountain resort.
The dust held Bony’s first interest in this room.
He had not questioned Bisker particularly about its contents, neither had he sought to learn how long the contents had been in it, but the impression which he had received from Bisker was that the place had been a lumber room for a long period. Yet the dust on the surface of this furniture was so slight as to indicate its age as less than a month at the longest.
An interesting point. Well, now he was here, he would see what there was to be seen.
The furniture was stacked and not loosely. He set the torch upon a what-not which he placed beside the door and thus gained its direct light. There was no window blind, but now he was disposed to defy the possibility of being observed from outside.
He proceeded to extract chairs and tables and sofas from the stack, determined to make a passage through it to the far wall. He was obliged to work with extreme care, for the room beyond was occupied by one of the maids. Unused to this kind of labour, as he was unused to this kind of investigation, he yet made not the slightest sound. And when he had worked for nearly twenty minutes he began to hum a tune, to hum unconsciously, so swift was his mounting excitement.
In one of the far corners he came upon two large steamer trunks, three large suitcases, a small leather grip and a bag of golf clubs. Every article was stamped with the letters “B.G.” The trunks and suitcases were plastered with shipping-company and rail labels.
So that was why the dust was so light upon the furniture. The furniture had been thoroughly dusted before Grumman’s luggage had been taken from his room to be stowed away in that corner. The dust on it now had settled after the luggage had been brought there so that there would be presented no finger- and hand-marks and no fingerprints if the remover had not been so stupid as to work without gloves.
Bony began the task of putting all the furniture back. He used his
handkerchief to dust each article as he replaced it, and repeatedly shook the handkerchief, hoping to raise as much dust in the air as possible that it might settle and thus mask his work as a duster.
He was warm when he left the house by the scullery door, which he locked, warm, from exertion, not from mental excitement, which had the effect of making his brain cold. To Bisker, he whispered:
“Have you got any tea and sugar over in your hut?”
“No,” replied Bisker. “Got a billycan over there, and there’s a water tap ’andy.”
“Good! You go back to your hut and make a fire and fill that billy. I’ll steal tea and sugar and some eats from the kitchen. Where is it kept?”
“The tea and sugar you’ll find on the shelf over the electric stove. The tins ain’t large and I could take ’em back when I goes in first thing, sort of,” directed Bisker. “In the cupboard near the winder is a tin of biscuits. I seen the cook put ’em there late last night.”
“All right! I’ll get all that. You make that billy boil fast.”
For the third time this night, Bony entered the kitchen, was there only for a few minutes, and then for the last time emerged through the scullery door. He left the key beneath the brick and carried his treasure trove to Bisker’s hut.
Already flames from the fire were licking determinedly round Bisker’s blackened billycan, and Bisker stood and watched Bony unroll a cloth and display a half leg of mutton, a loaf of bread, some butter, a bread knife, and tins of tea, sugar and milk. “You’re a blinkin’ corker!” he exclaimed.
“I am a hungry man,” Bony admitted. “Night work always makes me hungry. What do you think of the weather now?”
“I’m game to bet it won’t rain after all,” Bisker replied. “Wind’s gone round to the southeast and the stars are breaking out. That suit you?”
“It most certainly does. Now no more talking till that billy boils. Make the tea really strong.”
Bisker nodded, and began to remove his outer garments of two overcoats, muffler, battered felt hat and gum-boots. Now and then he glanced at Bony, to see him roll a cigarette and lean back against the wall whilst seated on a petrol case beside the table. Bisker felt happy—really happy. He was cold, despite the wearing of the two overcoats, and the growing heat of the fire added to his happiness. The interior of the hut, the “tucker” stolen from the kitchen, all transported him far away back into his own country.
Bony was smoking with his eyes closed, and Bisker thought he was tired out. Tired out! Bony’s mind was clear as crystal and as active as a race horse at the barrier.
The water in the billycan broke into violent eruption and Bisker nonchalantly tossed two handfuls of tea into it, permitted it to boil for four seconds and then lifted the can off the flames and dumped it on the floor to assist the leaves to settle. The sound brought Bony from his meditation, and he stood up and proceeded to cut bread, butter it lavishly and then cut meat to make sandwiches. Bisker opened a tin of condensed milk by stabbing its top with his tobacco knife. He poured milk and then the tea into two polished tin pannikins, and Bony said:
“Like old times, eh?”
“Too blinkin’ right!” agreed Bisker, and began to sip noisily at the scalding liquid.
“By the way, did you happen to notice the number of the car which took Mr. Downes away and brought him back?”
“Yes. NX 052 B.”
“Smart work, Bisker. Thank you. Now tell me, between mouthfuls, were you ever in the room next to George’s where the lumber is?”
“Yes.”
“When were you in it last?”
Bisker pondered. Then he said:
“Two months back. The old cat give me the job of going over all the furniture and stuff with the vacuum cleaner. A girl named Joan did it the time before that. She was a maid ’ere. She left soon after, I remember.”
“Do you know when that furniture was first put in there?”
“No. Before my time. It’s always been gone over about every three months since I’ve been ’ere, though.”
They continued to eat for some time in silence, and then Bony asked: “Do you happen to remember near the door-side of the pile a heavy mahogany chest?”
Bisker grinned.
“I do that an’ all,” he replied. “I’ve had me eye on that chest ever since I seed ’er. I asked Miss Jade if she would sell it, and the old cat shut me up with a ‘no’! She’s a great chest, that. I’d like it ’ere to keep me clothes in—and a bottle or two when I should get me ‘ands on a win.”
“When you were dusting it, I suppose you raised the lid and looked inside?”
“I did so.”
“Was there anything in it when you looked?”
“Nothing.”
“No old boots?”
Bisker shook his head and stared long at Bony. Bony was cutting another sandwich for each of them.
“It would seem that Miss Jade values all that furniture,” Bony remarked, noting Bisker’s stare.
“Musta. Has the stuff dusted and polished every so often. Wonder why!”
“So do I.”
After another period of silent eating, Bony asked:
“Have you ever been into George’s room whilst he’s been working here?”
“Oh, yes, often. Me and George ‘as a game of poker now and then. George is a good player and I ain’t so bad meself. We play for matches, as I never seem to ’ave any money.”
“Hum! Well, tell me this.” Bony regarded Bisker calmly but steadily. “When you were in George’s room, did you notice if he was an untidy man?”
“Untidy!” repeated Bisker, a snort in his voice, “Why, George is the most particular bloke with ‘is things I ever come across. Everythink ‘as to be just so. We used to sit playing cards on the chest of drawers, and after we finished, ’e’d collect the brushes and things wot ’e’d took off before we started playin’ and ’e’d mess about with ’em, arranging ’em just so. Same with ‘is bed. I sat on it once, and ’e went crook and made it all over again.”
“He has been here a little over three months. How many times has he gone to the city?”
“Yesterday was the first time. ’E told me ’e was savin’ up ‘is money.”
“You don’t know if he had any friends, then?”
“Oh, yes! ’E’s got one pal wot ’e called Mick,” answered Bisker. “Mick’s been out to see ’im a coupler times. Irish bloke, about George’s age. Lemme think! Yes, Mick came to see ’im about three weeks ago. Came in the afternoon, ’e did. Came out in a car wot stopped down in the road. The driver ’ooted several times and George went down to meet ‘is pal, who was coming up the drive. They ’ad a chin-wag for more’n ’alf an hour, and the old cat got rampant ’cos it was time to serve the afternoon tea.”
“If George arrives back by the first bus this morning, what train will he leave by from Melbourne?” continued Bony.
“’Arf-past eight she leaves the city.”
“Well, thank you, Bisker,” Bony said, contentedly, whilst rolling a cigarette. “I’ve enjoyed that snack very much. By your clock it’s twenty minutes to five, and I have work still to do. If you go along keeping one eye open you will oblige me greatly. Take particular notice of Mr. Sleeman’s shoes when you clean them, and if anyone calls to see Mr. Downes or Mr. Lee, just make a mental note of them and the car numbers. You know how to do that without making yourself too prominent.”
Bisker gave assurance that he would be as close as an oyster and as wide awake as a Derwent Jackass, and at half-past five, in the bleak air of the hour before dawn, Bony pressed the button of the night bell at the Police Station. Mason appeared in pyjamas and dressing gown to let him in and conduct him to the office.
There was no evidence about Mason’s visitor that he had been moving furniture and dusting it, or even that he had been up all night. After leaving Bisker, Bony had returned to his room through the window, where he had changed into a good suit and a smart pair of shoes, after having washe
d and shaved. The hat laid down on the desk was spotless—the raincoat bore not one crease.
“Sorry to call you up so early, Mason,” came the quiet and suave voice. “Needs must when criminals drive. Who is on night duty at the local telephone exchange?”
“One of our men,” replied Mason, and Bony picked up the instrument and proffered it to the Sub-Inspector.
“Ask him who was on duty there yesterday afternoon.”
When Mason replaced the instrument, he said:
“The postmaster.”
“All right! Now I am going over your head, Mason, because I have reason to. Can you contact Superintendent Bolt?”
Mason said that he could and was requested to do so. Whilst waiting for the connection, Bony said to him:
“Please contact the Motor Registration Branch and ascertain who owns the Studebaker car bearing the number NX 052 B. And then, as soon as you think it convenient, interview the Bagshotts about the alleged collector of old boots and clothes. I’ll be back here again later in the day. There is—Thank you.”
Bony accepted the receiver from Mason and leaned back in his chair. Mason heard him say:
“Ah—top of the morning, Super. Bonaparte here.... Er—with reference to the man, George Banks.... You will recall the name.... Oh, yes. That’s right! ... You know, I’ve been thinking that because he forged those references he ought to be taken into custody.... Not serious enough! ... Well, perhaps not, but still I think it might be as well. Somehow or other I’ve gained the impression that he removed certain travelling equipment and personal effects from the room occupied by the late Mr. Grumman.”
Bony ceased speaking and the watching Mason saw the slow smile spread over his dark face. After a little while, Bony spoke again:
“Mason is not in the position of effecting an early arrest. Banks went down to the city yesterday afternoon, and he promised his employer to be back on the first bus this morning. To do that he must catch the eight-thirty train from the city. I think it most probable that Banks will be in possession of concealed firearms; I stress the plural because I have reason to think he will be in possession of my own pistol. I like that pistol and I want it back, you understand? It fits so perfectly into the palm of my hand.
The Devil's Steps Page 19
