by Derek Smith
"That's that." He glanced towards Sergeant Hardinge. "D'ye want the technicalities?"
"Not now, Doctor. Thank you."
"No." The plump little man growled good-humouredly. "Doubt if ye'd understand 'em, anyway… Well, he's dead. Till I've done the post-mortem, there's not much else I can tell you… He's been dead for half an hour."
Lawrence said politely:
"We knew that, too. I was with him when he died."
"Were ye now?" Tyssen eyed him thoughtfully. "You didn't kill him, by any chance?"
Lawrence said: "No," soberly. He realized that, as an explanation, it would be hardly less fantastic than the truth. "Whatever," he told himself, "that might be." He closed his mind resolutely to the supernatural.
"Ah, well." Tyssen looked down, without compassion, at the thing that had once been a man. "There's a story about this room, isn't there? But," he finished disgustedly, "I don't believe in miracles. Even dark ones… Where can I wash my hands?"
Lawrence went to the doorway and called down the passage:
"Peter!"
Querrin came into the room.
Lawrence said apologetically:
"Would you show the doctor a bathroom?"
They went out. Peter, carefully, did not look at his brother.
Hardinge and Lawrence glanced at each other in silence. There seemed nothing to say.
The Sergeant cleared his throat.
He said:
"Inspector Hazlitt will be here soon. I'd like you to admit him, sir, if you would." He added an obvious comment. "I'd better stay here."
Lawrence nodded without resentment. The case was the Sergeant's till his superiors arrived.
"All right. I'll wait in the hall."
Hardly had he stepped out of the passage, however, before he heard the sound of tyres scrunching over the drive.
He went to the door, fumbled with its chain, then threw it open.
Three men climbed out of the police car, and made their way up the steps towards him. The leader was a uniformed Inspector, lean and caustic eyed.
Lawrence introduced himself. If the Inspector knew the fair-haired young man by reputation, he betrayed nothing in his manner.
"Hazlitt, County Police," he muttered sourly, by way of acknowledgment. He jerked a thumb towards his companions. "Sudlow, easy with that camera! Draycott, you'll look after the fingerprints." He turned back to Algy.
"Now, Mr. er—um—."
"Lawrence."
"Mr. Lawrence. Lead on, please."
Doctor Tyssen appeared on the landing above. He called down the stairs:
"Hi, Hazlitt! Get that body to the mortuary when you can, will you? I'm off now."
"Just a minute, Doctor. I shall want to ask you some questions."
"The devil you will." Tyssen towelled his hands vigorously. "Leave your blasted questions till morning… And don't tell me it's after midnight. I'm in no mood to split hairs."
He headed back to the bathroom.
The Inspector har-rumphed irritably and followed Lawrence into the passage.
Hardinge stiffened and saluted as his superior came into the room.
Hazlitt nodded a reply, then looked at the Sergeant without favour.
He said dryly:
"Why are you wearing your cape?"
Hardinge looked surprised.
"It was raining, sir. And I was on guard outside."
"Were you? Well, you're dry enough now, man. Go and take it off."
Hardinge went out, his face impassive.
Lawrence felt a thin flush of anger. He decided that he did not like the Inspector, and waited with perverse satisfaction… It wouldn't be long before Hazlitt found himself faced with the worst problem of his officious career.
The Inspector gave his men their orders, then drew Algy to one side while Sudlow and Draycott busied themselves round the body with chalk and camera. Plain clothes men, they worked with a smooth efficiency.
Hazlitt said importantly:
"Now, Mr. Lawrence. What can you tell me about this?"
Algy sketched a quick but thorough outline of the events leading up to the crime. He noticed with a faintly malicious glow of humour at the back of his lazy blue eyes, that the Inspector grew increasingly incredulous as the minutes slid by.
"So you see," finished Algy, "the way things are."
Hazlitt said, directly:
"Mr. Lawrence. Are you a fool?"
"No," replied the young man coolly. "Are you?"
The Inspector ignore d his question. He commented dryly:
"Then you must be a liar."
Lawrence grinned at him lazily. He said:
"Go ahead and arrest me. Though I ought to warn you. Everything I've told you will be confirmed by Peter Querrin. We were together every second since we left his brother in this room."
Hazlitt stared at him bleakly. Then he turned to his men.
"Sudlow, examine every inch of these walls for a secret, entrance. And don't forget the floor and the ceiling… We'll settle this damned nonsense once and for all."
Hardinge had returned and was standing quietly by the door. The Inspector said: "I'll question you in a minute."
A flash bulb glared as Sudlow manoeuvred his camera for a final shot of the victim. Hazlitt growled:
"Didn't I tell you… Oh, well. Finish your pictures first. And photograph the bolts on those french windows.'^ He looked at the shattered door. "And that." He asked Lawrence:
"Did you have to make such a mess of the lock?"
"I hadn't a picklock with me."
The Inspector's eyes were not friendly. He turned his head. “Draycott, go over this whole room for fingerprints. And examine that key chain, too. It looks as if it spilled out in a struggle."
Lawrence shook his head. "No, Inspector." He explained briefly.
Hazlitt was annoyed, but made no direct reply. Instead, he jerked towards Hardinge and said coldly:
"Nobody should meddle with evidence. You ought to have stopped him, Sergeant."
Algy broke in:
"The Sergeant was still outside in the gardens."
The Inspector ignored him.
He went on:
"You don't appear to advantage, Hardinge. You had no business here at all. And then"—he raised his voice slightly—"a man is killed and you let his murderer escape without lifting a hand to stop him."
Hardinge's eyes grew frosty, but he showed no other sign of resentment.
Lawrence admired his self control. He sprang to his ally's defence.
He said mildly:
"What does it matter? Since the evidence proves this killer can walk straight through solid walls of brick and plaster, where would you find a cell to hold him?"
Hazlitt reddened.
"Your story's fantastic—."
"Though it happens to be true. You know," continued Lawrence, who was beginning to enjoy himself, "I'm looking forward to the inquest. I can hear the jury now. They'll bring in a verdict of murder by a person or ghosts unknown."
With an angry exclamation, the Inspector turned aside.
He snapped over his shoulder:
"Spirits don't leave fingerprints. But I'll wager we'll find plenty here. Draycott!"
Draycott, who had already set to work with an insufflator, squatted back on his heels and listened patiently.
"Go over every surface in this room. Somehow or other, we're going to account for every print… There should be valuable traces—if Mr. Lawrence hasn't destroyed them all," added Hazlitt, with a faint sneer.
"I left you a few to play with," said the young man, equably.
The Inspector flew off at a tangent.
"Who reported this crime to the police?"
Hardinge replied. "Peter Querrin, sir." He added: "I thought I had better stay beside the body."
"Did you?" said Hazlitt. He managed to make the remark offensive. "I think I'd better interview that young man. We'll hear what he has to say."
"Handle him
gently, Inspector," said Algy, cheerily. "He's my alibi." Hazlitt went on heedlessly:
'Sergeant, I shall want to interview everybody in the house. Round 'em all up together—yes, put 'em in the drawing-room, that will do—and I'll question them later." He looked towards Algy and smiled. "Oh, yes," He added softly, "and see that Mr. Lawrence has no chance to compare notes—with Mr. Peter Querrin."
Algy smiled, though wryly. It was a novelty to find himself considered as a suspect.
Hazlitt made as if to dismiss the Sergeant, then recalled him for questioning.
Lawrence listened incuriously to the Inspector's barking voice and Hardinge's low-toned replies. As he expected, the Sergeant's report was entirely negative: he had neither seen nor heard anything suspicious until the scream and the shots had sounded from the guarded;; room. Nobody had approached the house or left it.
Later, as the two men paced down the corridor, Algy murmured:
"You may have trouble with your Inspector. He acted as if he didn't believe your story either."
Hardinge chuckled grimly.
He replied:
"You can hardly blame him. This whole affair's incredible. Fortunately"—and he gave once more the ghost of a laugh—"my evidence is already confirmed. Or it will be, when the Inspector looks outside."
"How's that?"
The Sergeant responded with another question.
"Did you notice when the rain stopped to-night?"
"Some time before twelve."
"At twenty minutes to," said Hardinge. "Much to my relief. It was no joke, waiting around in that downpour. Besides, when the clouds drifted away from the moon I had a much better view of the house… However, that's not the point."
He began to speak more slowly, emphasizing the words. "The ground outside is like freshly dampened sand. You can't put a foot anywhere without leaving clear traces."
"Of course," said Lawrence. "And the only approach to the room is over bare, uncultivated soil."
"And," finished his ally triumphantly, "there isn't a mark of any kind in the earth outside the windows."
"Well, that's proof enough," agreed Algy thoughtfully. "Our murderer didn't leave that way. Though," he added with a wicked grin, "since we've already granted him the power of passing through brick walls, we might just as well believe him to be both invisible and lighter than air."
The Sergeant did not laugh.
He said gravely:
"There's trickery somewhere." He paused. "There has to be."
"Yes," said Lawrence. "But I'll lay you odds the Inspector, for one, can't find it."
They had paused in the lighted hall. Hardinge eyed his young friend shrewdly. He said:
"You'll stay on the case, of course."
It was not a question.
Lawrence responded with a nod. "Yes. Though I won't be welcome." He hesitated, then said slowly: "You know, Sergeant, I don't think I shall solve this case myself."
A query flickered in Hardinge's keen blue eyes.
He murmured:
"That's defeatist talk."
"No, not exactly," returned Algy. His face was relaxed and lazy. He said softly:
"I have a feeling the credit for clearing up this mystery is going to belong to one man only."
He grinned.
"To a certain Sergeant Hardinge."
John Hardinge was not a stupid man. He took Lawrence's meaning at once.
He murmured:
"Thank you, sir. But"—he hesitated—"I'm a member of the police. I couldn't step on the Inspector's corns."
"The Inspector's corns be damned!" exclaimed Algy, rudely. "I've no official standing. I have to pass on my theories to somebody. And I certainly don't intend to co-operate with Hazlitt. . . . Don't you see, man," he continued, coaxingly, "what a feather in your cap it would be—."
"If I explained the killing," finished Hardinge. "Of course." His eyes glimmered. "It would lead to promotion."
"It might," said Lawrence, "mean a transfer. To the Yard, perhaps."
"Pipe dreams," said the Sergeant wryly. "Oh, well. We'll see."
His face was impassive. Yet there was a keen pleasure behind the placidity in his eyes.
Audrey Craig's eyes were tired with too much weeping.
She said dully:
"There's nothing I can tell you, Inspector. Nothing at all."
Hazlitt, with difficulty, repressed his irritation.
He said:
"Come now, Miss Craig. You want to help us, surely?" He fiddled with the notes he had been making. "You went up to your room at half-past ten?"
"Yes. I wanted to stay, but Roger and—and the others, felt I'd be better out of the way—."
"Yes, yes. You didn't leave your room, then?"
"No. I went to bed, and tried to sleep." Her mouth trembled. "I dozed a little, I believe."
"And then?"
"I heard—sounds, like shots."
"My pistol, of course," said Algy from across the room.
"Mr. Lawrence!" The Inspector was testy. "Please don't interrupt… Now, Miss Craig."
Audrey's voice was only a whisper. "For a minute or; so I was too scared to move. Then I got up and put on my dressing-gown." She shivered, and not wholly with cold. "My bedroom is the farthest from the stairway. By the time I reached the hall, Peter was calling the doctor, and the Sergeant had come in from the gardens. Then—."
Hazlitt wasn't entirely without sympathy.
He said quietly:
"We know the rest." He sighed. "Very well, then. Is that all you can tell me?"
She nodded speechlessly.
Hazlitt said:
"It's not very much."
"I'm sorry."
The Inspector dropped his pencil. It made a tiny and irritable clatter on the shiny table.
They were sitting in the library. Hazlitt and his men, having completed their examination of the room and the grounds immediately surrounding, had begun the weary routine of taking statements from every person in the house. So far their questions had only served to deepen the mystery.
The Inspector said: "Very well," again. "Sergeant, take Miss Craig back to the drawing-room." He looked at the girl. "Or would you prefer to go up to your room?"
"Please."
Algy, who had been leaning against the book shelves, straightened up and stepped forward.
He said gently:
"You'll be all right?"
A smile touched her eyes, briefly.
"Yes."
He came over and squeezed her hand encouragingly.
She smiled once more, then he released her fingers.
The door closed behind her.
Hazlitt leaned back with a scowl.
"No help at all," he muttered. He rustled the papers on the table in front of him, and stared at his notes of Peter Querrin's evidence.
"Young Querrin, now," he said, disagreeably. "He did nothing but tell us of a lot of vague suspicions— though," he admitted, "some of them were justified. More's the pity. Hmmm… This part about Simon Turner, though." He turned his head. "Hardinge, you know the man, I believe. Think there's anything in it?"
"Frankly, sir," answered the Sergeant, "no. And I doubt if Mr. Peter really believes it himself."
"Agreed," said Lawrence. "He's just clutching at straws. He's trying to help us—but he's trying too hard."
"The Lord preserve me," said Hazlitt, "from over-enthusiastic witnesses." His eyes, resting on Algy's lazy face, added clearly: and from meddling amateurs.
Lawrence grinned. He turned back to the shelves and ran a hand over the backs of the closely packed volumes.
The Inspector looked at Sudlow, who had been taking down the statements in shorthand. He said:
"Let me have your transcripts of the evidence as soon as possible. I shall want to study them."
"Yes, Inspector." Sudlow resigned himself to a sleepless night.
Hazlitt scowled once more at his notes. Possibly he was annoyed because Querrin's story confirmed
Lawrence's so completely.
He said:
"This crime's fantastic. It—it just couldn't have happened."
Lawrence took a book from the shelves, and glanced up with a smile.
"Easy," he warned. "You're playing the murderer's game. This killing was planned by a clever man. He's led us, as he intended, into a blind alley. So now we're facing the blank walls of an impossibility… Just the same, there's an answer somewhere. And I'm going to find it."
It took the Inspector a long second to realize that this last remark was a challenge. Then he reddened, and snapped:
"You don't think I'll allow you to interfere and—and play detective again, do you?"
"Off hand," returned Algy gently, "I don't see how you're going to stop me."
The ghost of a smile flitted across the Sergeant's face. Possibly the Inspector saw it, for he immediately despatched his subordinate to the drawing-room to fetch Russell Craig for questioning.
Lawrence flipped over the pages of the book in his hand, concealing a grin. He fancied that Hazlitt had betrayed his knowledge of the young man's reputation.
The Inspector said, with an effort:
"There's no need for us to quarrel. Perhaps you can help me."
Lawrence never refused a friendly overture. He said:
"I have a fair grounding in locked room theory. Though frankly, I don't see how it will serve for the moment."
Hazlitt said disgustedly: "A sealed room murder!"
He made the four words sound like an obscenity.
"Say what you like," murmured Algy, "these crimes are fascinating problems." He turned the spine of the volume in his hands towards the Inspector. "And this is the book that began them all."
"What?"
It was an exclamation more than a question.
Lawrence grinned. "You can't arrest the author. He died in 1926." A pleasant fervour had crept into his voice. "This is The Big Bow Mystery, by Israel Zangwill. Published," he added, "in London, by Henry in 1892."
"Oh," said Hazlitt scornfully. "A detective story."
"Don't sneer," said Algy seriously. "A principle is a principle, whether in fiction or in fact. A sealed room may be fantastic, but it's a perfect protection. You can't possibly send the killer to trial without explaining how he escaped. "
"Well," said the Inspector restively, "does that book help us?"
"No," said Lawrence. Not, he told himself, unless you believe I'm the killer. Wisely he kept that to himself. "But it's a very rare item. Hallo, this is the 1895 edition. There ought to be a special Introduction… Yes, here it is."
