“The broken wrist-watch?”
“Count up my good deeds.”
“You can reckon the broken wrist-watch with your missing screw, Mr. Bultin,” said Kendall. “It sounds well in print, but to the police it’s just A B C.”
“Perhaps, but I said my alphabet before the doctor did. And I found something else, besides the time the man died. A key.”
He took it from his pocket and handed it to the inspector.
“Bultin’s a devil,” reflected Pratt, “but I believe rather a tired devil.”
“It will probably fit the black bag,” commented Bultin.
“Yes? And then?” said Kendall, pocketing the key.
“Lord Aveling arrived, and later the doctor. When the question of identity arose, I told them of the little scene at the railway station. You’ve heard about that?” Kendall nodded. “So when both Miss Wilding and Mrs. Chater denied any knowledge of Body Number One, even refusing to go to the studio to see it, and when Miss Aveling telephoned through to her father the news about Body Number Two, I asked Lord Aveling for a car and went, with his approval, to the railway station. Mrs. Chater, of course, had not left the house at that time. The last I heard of her was that she returned to her room, refusing to see anybody.”
“But she saw somebody when she learned of her husband’s death,” interposed Pratt. “She saw the doctor.”
“Yes, I understand he told her,” answered Kendall, “and there was a bad scene.”
Pratt glanced towards the wall. The Chaters’ room was the next one.
“A very bad scene. I heard Mrs. Chater shouting that somebody would swing for it, but I didn’t hear who was going to swing. The doctor may have given her something to quieten her—but, after all, he will have described all that to you.”
“But you heard the doctor leave?”
“Yes. I left my room at the same time. He said he was going to phone the police.”
“And then you went back to your room?”
“Not at once.”
“You did not follow the doctor to the phone?”
“He wouldn’t let any one follow him to the phone.”
“He was quite right. What did you do?”
“What did I do? Let me think, Inspector. What did I do? Does it matter?”
“I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
“True. I keep on forgetting you are intelligent. I think it must be the influence of my friend Mr. Bultin. Ah, I know what I did. I went to a bathroom to wash my hands. They weren’t dirty. I don’t know why I did it. Restlessness, very likely. Then I began to come back to my room. Then I changed my mind—more restlessness—and went down to the hall.”
“Wasn’t the doctor telephoning from there?”
“He had finished. I washed for a long while. Vinolia soap.” He raised a hand to his nose. “The evidence is still there. I really went down to find out if Mr. Bultin had returned, but he hadn’t. Then I came back, and tried to drown reality in the imagination of Edyth Fermoy-Jones.” His hand now touched the book in his lap. “I fear it was a case of out of the frying-pan.”
Kendall turned back to Bultin.
“Well?”
“I thought you’d forgotten me,” answered Bultin.
“I don’t forget anything,” said Kendall. “I haven’t even forgotten that drawer. What happened at the station?”
Now Bultin drew out his own note-book and read from it.
“‘Body Number One. Arrived Flensham 12.10 p.m., Friday. Single third from London. Seemed restless. Watched other passengers depart. Stayed on platform a few minutes. Asked porter when next London train was due. Told 3.28. Left station. Next seen at Black Stag, inn adjoining station, twenty minutes later. Asked for lunch. Put bag on chair and sat by window overlooking platform. Black bag. Shiny leather, about fourteen inches. “Seemed to bulge like,” said Mrs. Blore, proprietress of inn. She also bulged like. Lunch served 12.50. Cold beef and pickles. Ate little. “Well, how can you eat when you smoke at the same time?”—Mrs. Blore. Smoked continually. Also kept looking at his wrist-watch. Note: Must have been going all right then. Left inn at 1.25, circa. Took bag with him. Seen by farm-boy at 1.40 and 2.15 passing gate to field. Same direction both times. Bob Smith, Brook Farm, quarter-mile from station. Note: Does not seem to have walked far. Round and round in a circle? Returned to inn at three. Sat in window as before. Bag on chair as before. Watching platform so intently, did not notice Mrs. Blore come in and look at him and then go out again. Was at window when 3.28 train came in. Did not move (assumedly) till train had gone out again—’’’
“Half a moment!” interrupted Kendall. He turned to the cover of his own book, to the inside of which he had fastened a loose sheet. “3.28. That was the train Mrs. Leveridge and Mr. Foss arrived on.”
“Correct,” answered Bultin, looking up. “Have you questioned them, then?”
“Not yet,” said Kendall. The particulars were down on his list of guests, and he was adding to them. “Carry on.”
Bultin continued:
“‘Left room at about 3.40. Met Mrs. Blore in passage. Asked her time of next London train. Was told 5.56. Returned to room for bag. Left again. Said he was coming back, and confirmed time of next train. Getting dark. Not seen by anybody till he was back, and not then till Mrs. Blore went in with the lamp and found him at window. Must have slipped in quietly. Bag on chair, as before. Note: Never let bag out of his sight. Query: What’s in bag? Asked third time when train arrived. Still smoking and consulting watch. “If ever a man seemed dippy.”—Mrs. Blore. Had tea at 5.10. Bread-and-butter and seed cake. Ate very little, and returned afterwards to window. Was asked if staying the night. Didn’t know yet. Was asked if bag should be taken to his room. Shouted, “Don’t touch my bag!” “You’d have thought some one had trod on his toe.”—Mrs. Blore. Mrs. Blore wheezed before speaking. Compare telephone bell. Later Mrs. Blore heard him laughing. Gave her the jellies. Left room with bag at 5.35. Paced road outside station till 5.56. See A3 for continuation.’ ”
Bultin paused. “Do you want it?”
“Of course,” replied Kendall.
“It’s less concise.”
“I want every word.”
The inspector’s tone was more friendly than it had been. Bultin felt better, then became annoyed with himself for feeling better. It reminded him that he had felt worse. He liked the complete upper hand, not this sense that he was a small boy regaining favour with his master.
He turned back several pages of his note-book, and read out his account of the station episode. The last time he had read this aloud had been by the quarry. When he had finished, he returned to the pages he had left, and resumed, in concise style again:
“‘Man did not go back to inn. Did not pay his bill. I paid it for him. Henceforth, Mrs. Blore mine for ever. Even told me sardines gave her wind. Searched for somebody who had seen man. No luck. Tried Brook Farm. Found Bob Smith in trouble. Left bicycle against gate while working, forgot it, went back for it, found it gone. Distressed because it was his sister’s bicycle, and had borrowed it without permission. Got description of bicycle. Old Hercules, front mudguard bent, bottom screw of makers’ name-plate on back missing. Gave Bob half a crown and promised to find bicycle. Query: Did man follow our cab on foot, see bicycle, and use it for rest of journey? Worked out distance. Our car reached Bragley Court about a quarter-past six. Minute after Earnshaw’s car. Man in a hurry on bicycle could arrive soon after half-past—’’’
“I was in the studio about twenty minutes later,” interrupted Pratt, who was following these details as intently as the inspector. “The time I found my picture ruined.”
“I’ve got that,” said Bultin. “Here’s your complete time-sheet. ‘Pratt left studio unlocked after showing picture to Rowe, 4.35. Left bedroom to return to studio, meeting Taverley in passage, 6.43. Talked to Mrs. Leverid
ge at back door to lawn, 6.45. Entered studio, 6.50. Found picture ruined. Left studio, locking it, 6.55. Picture was ruined, therefore, between 4.35 and 6.50. If ruined by man from inn, time narrowed to from 6.30 to 6.50. But after locking some one in studio at 6.55, Pratt had tussle with unknown man outside studio at 6.56. Query: Which was the man from the inn, i.e. Body Number One? Query: Which ruined the picture? Query: Must it have been the man locked in the studio? Query: Who was the other man, whether he ruined the picture or not? Probability that the man from the inn—i.e. Body Number One—was the person locked in the studio. But why should he ruin the picture?’’’
He paused, and glanced towards Pratt.
“Yes, have you any theory?” asked Kendall.
“None at all,” replied Pratt. “I have never seen the gentleman described as Body Number One. By the way, we used to call him Z, and the other unknown man X. Shall we revert to these less lugubrious titles?”
“Have you any theory why anybody should have ruined your picture?” inquired Kendall. “I notice that Taverley and Mrs. Leveridge are mentioned in Mr. Bultin’s time-sheet.”
“At first I thought it might be Taverley,” answered Pratt.
“Why?”
“He does not think the picture does the subject justice. In fact, he loathes it.”
“Has he said so?”
“Some things do not need to be said.”
“Have you quarrelled?”
“No one has ever quarrelled with Taverley. He is one of those irritating individuals who present the other cheek.”
“You have no other reason for suspecting him, then?”
“I found a cigarette-end outside the studio. A brand he smokes. He had given Mrs. Leveridge a similar cigarette just before I spoke to her at—your list, please, Bultin?—6.45.”
“I have a note about Taverley,” interposed Bultin. “‘Taverley clear. Have spoken to him. Said he was going to studio to look at picture, but heard some one there and changed his mind. Thought it might be Pratt. Dropped cigarette-end when turning away from studio—saw Mrs. Leveridge at back door—gave her cigarette—and went up to his room to shave. Story fits, and Taverley an oddity who cannot lie. Plays life with a straight bat, God help him!’’’
“Wait a bit—that gives us another item for your time-sheet,” exclaimed Kendall. “Did Taverley stop and talk to Mrs. Leveridge?”
“No. Just long enough to give her the cigarette.”
“Then he heard some one in the studio, say, three minutes before Mr. Pratt met him outside this room at 6.43. Agree to that?”
“Indubitably.”
“Which means, Mr. Bultin, that somebody was in the studio at 6.40. He might even have dived in when he heard Taverley coming. We’ve no proof yet, however, whether this was the person who spoilt the picture—or whether it was Z or X. It’s a puzzle.”
“I trust, for Art’s sake, you will solve the puzzle,” observed Pratt.
“With no disrespect to Art, your picture is a secondary consideration,” retorted the inspector, rather sharply. “I am merely hoping it will give me a line on graver matters. Is there anything you can add to Mr. Bultin’s notes?”
“Nothing,” answered Pratt. “Otherwise I would be charmed to oblige after your pretty compliment.”
“Would it be too much, Mr. Bultin, to ask for a copy of your notes?”
“It would be asking a lot,” replied Bultin, “but perhaps not too much.”
“Thank you. And now, please—the drawer?”
Bultin got up from his chair. He paused for a moment. It was a nasty moment. He considered his tactics.
“Have I been of any service to you, Inspector?” he asked.
“Indubitably,” smiled Kendall.
“If I continue the service—duplicate the notes, for instance—you will interpret a small irregularity committed before you came upon the scene—to zeal?”
“I’ve already told you that I don’t make bargains,” answered Kendall, his smile changing to a frown.
“Then I must trust in your wisdom—and your knowledge of the power as well as the necessities of the press. Before going to the station I found something. I found it in a little pond between the studio and the wood. I thought it might be useful to withhold my discovery for a short while.”
“Useful to your newspaper?”
“Certainly. Like the notes I made and am going to copy out for you. I work for my newspaper. My editor pays me for it, and millions of people read and enjoy what I write. But my work can incidentally benefit the police, and any work I should have done regarding my find in the pond would have benefited the police. But now the police can do the work themselves.”
He walked to the drawer.
“Well, what did you find?” asked Kendall.
“A knife,” replied Bultin. “I put it in here till I had time to examine it.”
He opened the drawer, and then stood motionless. For once, Lionel Bultin was beaten by a situation. The inspector sprang to his feet.
“Not there?” he cried sharply.
Bultin blinked and slowly shook his head. Then he turned to Pratt. But Pratt, looking very solemn, also shook his head.
“No—not there,” said Bultin.
Chapter XXI
A Woman With a Knife
“Stay here—don’t leave the room!” ordered Kendall. “And don’t touch that drawer. Let it remain just as it is!”
As the inspector darted out into the passage Pratt regarded the open drawer with its ominous lack of content, and then his eyes sought Bultin’s quizzically.
“Have you been quite wise, Lionel?” he inquired.
“Yesterday you left a studio door unlocked,” answered Bultin.
“And paid the price.”
“I see—and my price will be to swing for two murders? I’m not worrying.”
Pratt’s eyes returned to the open drawer.
“I suppose two is the right number?” he queried.
“I’ve thought of that,” said Bultin.
“So has our detective.”
“Obviously he has. And the reason we are not to touch that drawer is because it may have finger-prints. I wonder what time we shall get dinner to-night?”
Pratt glanced at the clock.
“Fifty-eight minutes to go,” he commented. “It looks like being a busy fifty-eight minutes. What about the finger-prints on the knife? They’d have been useful.”
“You surprise me,” murmured Bultin. After a little pause he added: “But of course flowing water does not preserve them.”
“Where did you find the knife exactly?”
“The little pond near the top of the drop. At the spot where it narrows just before spilling over.”
“And when?”
“Are you carrying on for the inspector?”
“Was it while I returned to the house to report?”
“To be precise, at 5.11 p.m.”
Pratt smiled rather dryly.
“You’re a sleuth on time,” he admitted. “You ought to edit the A.B.C.”
“I have written a detective novel,” replied Bultin. “Also, the notice of it.”
They fell into a silence. Presently the inspector returned, looking warm. He made straight for the drawer.
“We’ve been good boys,” said Pratt.
“I’m taking that for granted,” answered Kendall. “One of you has got to be particularly good for having been particularly bad.”
He drew the drawer out carefully—there was nothing in it saving lining-paper—and left the room again. They heard him turn into the Chaters’ room. But he did not stay, returning almost at once.
“Drawer being examined for finger-prints?” asked Bultin.
“Sometimes detectives get good ideas,” replied Kendall. “Hallo! That’s almost ironic
!” He stared suddenly at a wardrobe. The empty drawer had been extracted from a small chest. “I ought to have begun here, and I’ve left it to the last! Like to open that wardrobe for me?”
Pratt turned towards the wardrobe, with its long door.
“Speaking for myself, I should positively hate it,” he said. “Are you looking for the third body?”
“Perhaps I think two’s enough, and am trying to prevent a third,” retorted Kendall, and crossed to the wardrobe himself.
He pulled the door open. Two dress-suits hung innocently from hooks. He closed the door and looked under the beds and behind a screen.
“This is most unpleasant,” commented Pratt, “but I suppose it is necessary. You are searching for the Woman with the Knife?”
“Good title,” murmured Bultin.
“Just his habit,” explained Pratt. “It has nothing whatever to do with his inside emotion. Nor have my own words much to do with mine. I am beginning to feel thoroughly uncomfortable.”
“So is everybody else,” said Kendall, “and particularly the individual who killed Chater—if Chater was killed. Or if his wife has any logical reason for thinking he was killed,” he added. “It’s her mind we’ve got to think about, rather than its accuracy.” He returned to Pratt and Bultin. “Look here, do either of you know anything at all about Chater?”
“Nothing,” answered Pratt, while Bultin shook his head.
“Well, I do,” went on Kendall. “Years ago—his name was Green then—he was imprisoned for blackmail. He probably hasn’t lost the habit.”
“I am sure he hasn’t,” replied Pratt.
“Oh! Then you do know something?”
“Only that I had already sized him up, during our happily brief acquaintance, as World Snooper Number One.”
“Perhaps you agree there may be more than one person here who—to put it bluntly—may be quite relieved that Chater is out of the way?”
“Yes, if you’ll take that as a general agreement, Inspector. I am not naming anybody.”
“But could you?”
“I might try a few conjectures, and set you on some wrong tracks. I think you had better follow your own conjectures, if you have any. Don’t forget a journalist is present.”
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