by Derek Smith
"Ah! I thought so, from your description. Vague though it was." His suspicions confirmed, the Sergeant drew in a satisfied breath. "This is the man who attacked you?"
Lawrence agreed.
"We've certainly met before. His calling card was a stone."
"Yes." The Sergeant was grimly humorous. "Let's make that introduction formal."
He shut off the light.
"This man is Simon Turner."
5
Colonel Johnson was a ruddy-faced man with a hearty voice which was, for the moment, a trifle less friendly than usual.
He said:
"Frankly, Inspector, I don't appreciate your interest in this matter."
Stephen Castle stood—or rather, sat—his ground.
"In a sense, sir," he returned, "I am already implicated in the case. I was a personal friend of the victim's and I was also responsible for the presence in Querrin House of your chief witness."
The Colonel growled thoughtfully. The two men were seated in his study.
" 'Myes. This fellow Lawrence." He flipped through the papers on his desk. "Hazlitt seemed rather dubious of that young man's evidence."
The Chief Inspector replied firmly:
"Lawrence is completely reliable."
"Perhaps." The Colonel was not convinced. "Anyway, that's not the point." He slapped down his hand on the reports. "As Chief Constable of this county, I'm bound to support my men. Till they request assistance or I'm satisfied that they're not competent to deal with the matter, I see no reason to call in the Yard."
And when you do, thought the Chief Inspector, the trail will be cold.
But he could hardly put such a sentiment into words; and besides, he liked loyalty. So, repressing his feelings, Castle said respectfully:
"When I requested this interview, sir, it wasn't with any intention of over-riding your men's authority. I merely wanted to draw your attention to Mr. Lawrence's possible value."
"Possible value?" repeated Colonel Johnson. "Wait a minute. I have heard something of that young man' reputation. Wasn't he the fellow who—."
He mentioned details.
Castle nodded. "That's correct, sir. It occurred to me that he might be very useful to the County Police. He's no good with routine affairs. But he's an expert at resolving fantasies."
" 'Myes." The Colonel looked thoughtful. "Perhaps you're right. I'll speak to Hazlitt."
"Thank you, sir."
The Colonel said shrewdly:
"Now you've wangled the Yard its unofficial representative, maybe you'll tell me what else you want."
The Inspector chuckled.
"I was hoping, sir," he responded smoothly, "you would allow me to examine the reports of the case to date. Then before returning to London, I might have a brief discussion with Mr. Lawrence. A talk may clear up certain difficulties in the evidence."
"Very well. Though it seems to me," said the Colonel, "you are remarkably well acquainted with the affair already."
"Yes, sir," admitted the Chief Inspector. "Mr. Lawrence telephoned me in the early hours of the morning."
"Did he, by Jove?" The Colonel laughed. "So you fixed this up between you."
Castle made to protest, but the Chief Constable held up his hand. "Never mind. I wish your young friend luck."
He added sardonically:
"He'll need it."
Algy Lawrence strolled along the flagged path under the trees. He was thinking hard.
He believed, in the manner of the greatest of detectives, that the more bizarre a problem, the easier its solution. Yet he could not even begin to explain the mystery of Roger Querrin's death.
He grinned wryly. It was no consolation to reflect that Inspector Hazlitt was just as puzzled and even less confident of success.
He quoted aloud:
"The facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery, is in the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the police."
He took considerable pleasure from the sonorous roll of Dupin's words, and wondered if he dared apply them to himself.
Then he remembered Russell Craig's distaste for young men who liked quotations and grinned again.
His face sobered as he glanced towards the french windows of the room in which Querrin had died. Behind the glass panes, men were working busily.
Lawrence knew that Hazlitt, despite his own exhaustive search, still suspected the existence of a secret entrance. So now a team of experts had set to work examining every inch of the walls, the floor, and the ceiling.
So far they had found nothing. Lawrence had expected little else. Someone spoke his name.
He turned to see Audrey Craig. Touched by the distress on the girl's pretty face, he greeted her gently.
"Hallo, there."
Those were the words he had used at their first meeting. It seemed so long ago….
She said anxiously:
"I'd like to talk with you."
"Go ahead."
They fell into step.
"Algy." It was the first time she had used his Christian name. He felt a tiny shock of pleasure. "Algy, is it true that Simon Turner has been arrested?"
"Yes, it is."
She queried painfully:
"On what charge?"
"Assault, I imagine." He glanced down at her. "He attacked both Hardinge and myself, remember."
"Yes, I heard about that. But I thought, perhaps—."
She did not finish.
Lawrence took her arm.
He said:
"Audrey, my dear. I don't believe that Turner had anything to do with the—with what happened to Roger."
"But he must have been prowling round the house all the time. You remember, I saw somebody moving among the bushes yesterday afternoon—."
"Yes. But Audrey, you've forgotten one thing. The Sergeant was on guard last night. If Turner had ventured near Roger between eleven and twelve o'clock, Hardinge would have nabbed him like a shot."
"If the old man had approached him by way of the gardens, yes." Audrey was eager. "But supposing old Simon managed to smuggle his way into the house earlier in the evening?"
"After I was knocked out," Lawrence reminded her gently, "all the doors and windows were locked from the inside. On the ground floor, at least. And anyway," he finished, "I was on guard myself at the entrance to the passage."
"Just the same," returned Audrey mutinously, "somebody reached—and killed—him."
"That's right," said Algy Lawrence. His voice sounded tired and bitter.
Audrey glanced up quickly, then dropped her hand over his.
She said softly:
"I didn't mean to reproach you. You did your best."
"Yes, I did my best. But it wasn't—enough."
They went on a few paces in silence. Then Audrey made a brave attempt to change the subject.
"Uncle Russ has been disgracing himself again."
Algy grinned. He murmured:
"He merely responded to Susan's charms in his own inimitable style."
To his pleasure, Audrey laughed briefly.
"I suppose we can hardly blame him."
"No. She's a comely wench."
"She's a minx," returned Audrey with feminine ruthlessness. Then she smiled. "But I like her."
"So does Uncle Russ."
Affection and laughter struggled round the sorrow in her grey-green eyes. "He's an old rogue." Her voice faltered. "But he's all I have, now."
There it was again: the grief that stood between them.
The girl exclaimed suddenly:
"You didn't like Roger, did you?"
Lawrence replied awkwardly:
"I hardly knew him."
Audrey said quietly:
"That answer is only an evasion. No, you found him overbearing and obstinate. But, Algy, I have to say this, because somehow it seems important."
She paused, feeling for words that sounded to her only embarrassed and stilted.
&nbs
p; "To me, Roger was all that is kind, and wonderful, and —and lovely in life. He was somehow the meaning of all existence…."
She finished with a hint of tears.
"You'll never understand."
Lawrence squeezed her arm tenderly.
He said:
"I understand, believe me." He added softly:
"We all need somebody to love us."
Something in his tone struck through the turmoil of her own emotions. She looked beyond the mask of his amiable laziness into the shyly romantic places of his soul.
She whispered quickly:
"I hope you find her soon…."
"Steve!"
Lawrence called the name with a mixture of surprise and pleasure. Though he had telephoned his old friend early that morning, he had hardly expected the Chief Inspector to appear so promptly.
Castle stumped along the drive towards him, a bowler hat rammed down hard on his grizzled head, and one hand half in the pocket of his battered old raincoat.
After the girl had left him, Lawrence had continued his stroll in the grounds. He had just been thinking of his friend the Inspector when Steve had appeared at the open gates.
As the young man hailed him, Castle lifted his free hand and waved it in salute.
Lawrence hurried up and gave him a friendly clump on the shoulder.
"I'm glad to see you."
"So you should be," returned Castle gruffly. "I had the devil's own job to get here. And," he warned, "I can't stay for long. I fiddled leave of absence from the Yard— and lost about five good years of my life doing it—but I have to be back there this afternoon."
"Hardly," murmured Algy, "an extensive furlough."
"I put the time to good use, anyway. I had an interview with Colonel Johnson."
"Colonel—?"
"The Chief Constable." The two men walked on a few more paces in silence. Then the Inspector said, less belligerently:
"Well! You don't have to worry. I've wangled you semi-official status. Hazlitt won't bother you."
"Thanks."
Castle glanced at his young friend's impassive face and was not deceived.
He said quietly:
"Listen, Algy. Querrin's dead. So find his murderer. That's all that concerns you now… Don't blame yourself for anything that's happened."
"That's easy to say."
Steve pushed out a profanity with good humoured exasperation. Then he added, more calmly:
"I'll tell you this once, and then the matter's closed." He paused. He said slowly:
"No man's infallible. He can only do his best."
Lawrence shrugged.
"Cold comfort, Steve. I still let Querrin die."
Castle replied quietly:
"If you couldn't save him, no one could."
There was a pause. Then Lawrence said: "Thanks," again, as impassively as before. But this time his tone had subtly lightened.
As they came nearer the house, the Chief Inspector asked:
"How's young Peter?"
"He's all right." Algy reviewed the moment of crisis when the raw edge of hysteria had shown in Querrin's cry. Yet after that ugly moment, Roger's brother had quietened rapidly.
Lawrence murmured:
"I misjudged him. He seems to have kept his head."
Castle nodded. He said abruptly:
"I don't want to see him."
He added:
"This isn't a formal call."
Lawrence said, not as a question:
"You came here to work."
Steve inclined his head. There was no need to elaborate. It wouldn't be the first time they had found a conference useful.
Inside the house, the Inspector removed his hat and peered round. "Where can we talk?"
"Let's go into the library."
Castle eyed his friend suspiciously. He said:
"I don't trust you among so many books."
Algy laughed. "I'll behave."
Once in the room, Steve glared round at the packed shelves and smacked down his hat on the table. He made no attempt to take off his battered raincoat. Lawrence often swore he had never been known to remove it while working.
Algy drew up a couple of easy chairs.
He said:
"We may as well make ourselves comfortable."
The Inspector cleared his throat. He growled:
"Before we start, young Algy, kindly remember this. Aside from the nervous strain involved in edging myself into this thing against official opposition, I've spent the last couple of hours studying nearly every report on the case to date. All this, mark you, since you dragged me down to the 'phone in the small hours of the morning. So for heaven's sake, don't lecture! I can't stand it."
Lawrence put on his usual lazy grin.
The Chief Inspector sighed. He fished out a notebook from one capacious pocket.
"I jotted down the main features of the affair. Though I don't see how it will help us, I admit."
Lawrence settled himself more comfortably.
He said:
"There's only one way to tackle this problem. You and I both know there are only a few basic methods of committing murders in sealed rooms. So if we examine every known principle—."
The Inspector groaned.
"We are bound," pursued Algy inexorably, "to arrive at the particular variation we need to explain the mystery."
Castle mumbled a not very hopeful protest. "At least," he murmured, "try to keep to the point."
Algy chuckled. He asked:
"Do you remember the case of the Dead Magicians?"
A spark of interest showed on the Inspector's rugged face. "You mean that odd affair in America, round about 1938? Yes, I remember. Homer Gavigan handled that for the New York Police Department. Though I believe most of the credit went to a man calling himself"—the Inspector's voice held a high pitch of unbelief—"the Great Merlini."
"That's it. Merlini solved the mystery, then wrote up the case as a novel, calling it Death From a Top Hat. He collaborated with Ross Harte—they used 'Clayton Rawson' as a pseudonym." Lawrence digressed slightly. "There have been four Rawson books to date, though only three have been published in England. More's the pity. Every one is first rate."
Castle stirred restively.
Lawrence said quickly:
"Here's the point. Merlini devoted the bulk of Chapter Thirteen to a lecture"—Castle groaned—"on the general mechanics of the sealed room murder. He indicated that every such crime falls within one of three classes, namely—."
The Chief Inspector held up his hand.
"I've read the book," he growled. "And before you go any further, I'm also well acquainted with Doctor Gideon Fell's famous Locked Room Lecture in The Hollow Man."
"Published in the U.S.A.," threw in Algy irrepressibly, "as The Three Coffins… I'm glad you know it. Fell and John Dickson Carr are experts."
Castle said:
"I have a feeling I'm not going to enjoy this discussion. I can't remember one of those crimes which was solved by an official representative of the police."
"Oh, come now," chided Lawrence. "You've forgotten Edward Beale and Joseph French. They were both Inspectors."
Slightly cheered, Steve Castle nipped through the leaves of his notebook. He said:
"This case is a topsy turvy affair, so let's start with Class Three."
"Which," supplied Lawrence dreamily, "includes those murders committed in a room which is genuinely sealed from the inside, and from which the killer does not escape, but stays there hidden until after the room is forced open from the outside. He leaves, of course, before the room is searched."
"Well," said the Inspector, "how about that?"
"Not a chance," returned Algy decisively, "I don't get caught with whiskery old gags like that. I was first in the room where Querrin died. There was nobody behind the door, under the table, or anywhere else, in or out of sight."
"That checks," admitted Castle, "with young Peter's evidence. He didn't mov
e from the doorway till you sent him to let Hardinge into the house."
"Yes. Even if Peter hadn't been there, I'd still be certain. Once inside the room, I was much too alert to let any one escape."
"I like," commented the Inspector sardonically, "your modesty. But I believe you." He sucked at the stub of his pencil, then doodled absently in his notebook. "Let's slip back to Class One."
"Ah." Lawrence rasped a thumb along the angle of his jaw. "Death in a room which really is sealed because no murderer was actually inside."
"In other words," added Castle, "the killer contrives his victim's decease from outside the"—he finished with distaste—"hermetically sealed chamber."
"Mmmm. And this classification also includes accident or suicide which looks like murder, and the killing of the victim by the first person who enters the room—the dead man, of course, is lying on the floor apparently lifeless but in reality only drugged or unconscious."
"That's not much help," said Steve. "Unless you want me to arrest you."
Algy smiled. "Let's dispose of the other alternatives."
Castle scowled thoughtfully. "It certainly wasn't suicide, and a man doesn't take a knife out of its sheath and stab himself in the back by accident. I suppose you're sure he was unharmed when you left him?"
"If," replied Lawrence with restraint, "you're suggesting that Querrin was stabbed before he went into the room and locked it—." He broke off and laughed. "I think we would all have noticed a dagger between his shoulder blades. No, Steve. Roger was alive and unhurt when he secured the door behind us."
"Well," murmured Castle, "I'd be tempted to suggest another method—the one where the killer does his dirty work from outside, though it appears to have occurred inside—."
"Daggers fired from air guns, and bullets that melt in the wounds," interposed Lawrence helpfully.
"Yes. Except," finished the Inspector, "there was no opening at all in that room. No secret panels, whether the size of a man or a sixpence. And that knife certainly wasn't shot through the keyhole or a Judas window."
"And it didn't," grinned Algy, "fly down the chimney."
"You know," said Castle, "all this talk about daggers is nonsense. The knife was in its place on the wall when Roger sealed the room, so the murderer must have got in to take it down."
"You mean we should eliminate Class One entirely?"
