by Derek Smith
"I don't know what I mean," confessed the Chief Inspector. "The whole point of every crime in Class One is that the doors and windows are locked by the victim himself. And we know that's what happened here. Roger sealed the room. So logically, the killer must have struck from outside."
"So logically," said Lawrence rudely, "nuts. That knife couldn't leave the sheath without somebody's hand on it. And I refuse to believe Querrin was so obliging as to co-operate with his murderer by helping him to rig a booby trap with it."
"Never mind who fixed it," said Castle eagerly. "Was there any sort of mechanical device in that room?"
Algy shook his head. "No. I searched it, remember. There was nothing capable of firing a spitball, let alone a dagger."
"Yes, that's true." The Inspector sounded depressed. "The County Police even examined the furniture."
"They're still at it," agreed Lawrence, with a grin.
"They're wasting their time," commented Steve, with a snort. "Hazlitt still thinks, against all reason, there's a secret passage somewhere. It's the sort of damn' fool notion he would get in his noggin."
"Anyway," smiled Algy, "it's probably the only way he can preserve his sanity."
"I sympathize there… What's left, then?"
"Not very much. We've exhausted nearly every possibility in Class One. Roger definitely wasn't the victim of any elaborate trickery such as Rupert Penny described in his brilliant Sealed Room Murder. And he wasn't driven to knife himself by poison, gas, or the sight of a horrible insect."
"So?"
"So," said Lawrence, "that's all, pal. We've eliminated Classes One and Three. Therefore the killer's method must be somewhere in Category Two."
The Inspector nodded agreement, though he still looked worried.
"You mean that the room only seemed to be sealed, because the murderer tampered with the door or the windows."
"Yes. But," warned Algy, "be careful. There's a big headache in store. This room wasn't just locked. It was also guarded."
Castle swore.
He said:
"Don't confuse me, curse you. Our conclusion is this: the killer was in the room with Querrin. When he knifed Roger, he somehow contrived an escape."
"Mmmm. But how?"
"Don't ask me, for God's sake. But I'll tell you this. The medical evidence appears to confirm the theory. Roger's wound could not possibly have been self inflicted. Moreover, the doctor found a bruise on the back of his head under the hair. Suggesting he was stunned from behind, then stabbed while unconscious."
Lawrence was aware of the faintest of tremors. He had the sudden, appalling vision of a killer oozing like smoke through the solid walls.
He said abruptly:
"This is a devilish problem. How in blazes did the murderer break into the room in the first place?"
"He wasn't," inquired the Inspector, "hiding there when Roger locked the door?"
Lawrence emphasized the negative. "No. I made sure of that before we left him." He paused. "Wait a minute. I didn't look up the chimney. The fire was still burning."
Even as he spoke, he realized the quibble was ridiculous.
Castle said grimly:
"You can forget the chimney. It was examined thoroughly. It hasn't been swept for years. Nothing could pass up or down it without dislodging half a ton of soot."
"I judged it impassable," murmured Algy. "I'm glad you agree." Castle said unhappily:
"We're back to the door and the windows."
"Yes," agreed Lawrence unhelpfully. "Aren't we?"
"Oh, Lord," exploded Steve. "I'm foxed."
"Take some aspirin," advised Algy. "While I run through the known methods of hocussing locks and bolts. There aren't many, so it shouldn't take long."
Steve passed a hand across his forehead. Lawrence went on:
"The french windows were closed and bolted. Now, funny business with string, usually involving the keyhole of—or the gap under—a door, has often been employed to shoot bolts from outside. But in the first place, we're not considering a door, and in the second place, both bolts on the windows are so stiff they could never respond to any pressure from without."
Castle grunted irritably. He said:
"Granted. The only other way of fiddling the windows would be to remove a pane of glass, reach through and shoot the bolts, and then replace the glass from outside. And we know that didn't happen, because none of the putty was new."
"There is," mused Algy, "one other possibility. Somebody could have tampered with the hinges."
Castle dissented. "No. You can't do that without leaving traces. The screws hadn't been touched."
"Then," said Lawrence quietly, "I'll stake my life on this. Those french windows could only have been secured from inside the room."
The Chief Inspector scowled.
"You don't need to convince me, blast it. Let's consider the door."
Lawrence looked puzzled.
He said:
"This ought to be easy, on the face of it. Yet—." He broke off. "At least, since the key wasn't left in the lock, we don't have to concern ourselves with that hardy annual, the stem which was gripped and turned with pliers from outside."
"No," said Castle. He added incautiously:
"I wonder who thought of that first."
"Fitz-James O'Brien," said Lawrence promptly. "He wrote a yarn called The Diamond Lens, which appeared in 1858." He added: "It wasn't a detective story."
"Thank God for that, anyway," cried the Chief Inspector. "I should have known better than to ask."
Algy grinned. He asked:
"The lock on the door was new. Have you checked with the manufacturers?"
"Yes." Castle flicked through his notebook once more. "Though they sell a good many locks of that type, they never duplicate the wards. And they swear there was only one key made to fit, and that, we know, was kept by Querrin on a chain attached to his braces."
"Which rules out the possibility of anybody stealing it to take a wax impression." Lawrence rubbed his cheek. "Anyway, there would hardly have been time to cut a duplicate. The lock itself wasn't put in till yesterday morning." He grinned. "I'm beaten, Steve. I know how to lock a door from outside and then return the key to the mantelpiece by means of string and staples. But I've no idea how to get the key back to a dead man's pocket."
He snapped his fingers. "Did the killer use a picklock?" Castle shook his head.
"When you fired through the lock you made a mess of it. But there was enough of the inner mechanism left for the police to discount that particular possibility. They made a thorough examination… As you're aware, the exploring motions of a picklock or a skeleton key leave traces in the coating of grease inside a lock. The same applies to a paraffin-coated blank inserted and twisted till it touches the mechanism. The idea," he explained unnecessarily, "is to use the marks resulting as a guide to filing the key to fit. But that always leaves traces." He shook his head again. "No, Algy. There was no skeleton, and no duplicate. The only key corresponding to the wards of that lock was the one in Querrin's pocket."
Lawrence smiled again, entirely without humour.
"Then there was no way whatever of escaping from the room." Steve asked desperately:
"I suppose the door really was locked?"
Lawrence stared at him.
"If," he said politely, "you're implying that Peter and I were mugs enough to be fooled into believing a door could be secured when it wasn't, then all I can say is—."
"Yes, yes," roared Castle hurriedly.
Lawrence grinned. He said:
"I don't blame you for doubting my evidence. I'd be sceptical myself in your shoes. But the fact remains, there is simply no possibility of trickery of that sort— bolts being shot and keys replaced, etcetera, etcetera— after the door was forced, because I was the only person to enter and search the room until the police took over. Even Peter stayed in the doorway. He didn't venture across the threshold."
The Inspector gestured helple
ssly. He said:
"Perhaps we're mistaken in concentrating on the sealed chamber aspects of the thing. Let's consider the—the accessibility of the room."
Lawrence raised a quizzical eyebrow.
He said:
"That's a good principle. If you can't solve a problem, ignore it."
He pressed his finger tips together, and sank lower in his chair.
"Still, let's do things your way. First, the windows. By-passing the bogey of the bolts, and supposing our friend the Sergeant to be totally blind, we put our killer on the steps beyond the sill. All right, then. How on earth does he manage to get to the path without leaving tracks in the soft wet soil of the flower-beds? The rain stopped twenty minutes before Roger died."
The Inspector scratched his nose. "It's impossible. It's much too far to jump, and a pole vault is out of the question."
Algy strangled a laugh. "And don't talk to me about ladders. Those beds are so wide, you'd need something like a thirty or forty foot ladder to get the right sort of incline against the house. And how could you possibly remove it without stepping off the path?"
Steve smacked his knee.
"All right, then. Nobody left through the windows. You proved that before."
"That leaves the door and the passage outside. I was guarding the corridor myself.
The only other exit from the passage was the window half-way along. That was locked—."
"Yes," interrupted his friend, "and we examined the catch. It couldn't conceivably have been secured from outside the house. And again, there were no footprints or marks of any kind on the earth between the house wall and the path."
"Besides," added Lawrence, "Hardinge tells me that from where he was stationed under the trees, he could see down that side of the house—Roger's room was on the corner, remember—and nobody came near it."
"Oh, Lord."
Algy continued:
"And the only other exit from the passage, the double doorway in the main hall, was under my own continuous guard."
"I wonder," said the Inspector, not very hopefully, "if anybody could have slipped past you as you went up the corridor."
"Stop wondering. I'm not blind. Neither is Peter. The candlelight wasn't strong, but it was adequate. That passage was entirely deserted. Besides, you're evading the most puzzling point of all."
"I know," said Steve, unhappily. "You heard Roger scream while you were standing in front of the door. I—. Wait a minute!" He thumped his leg with sudden excitement.
"What's the matter?"
Castle spaced his words carefully.
"Didn't I tell you just now that Querrin was stunned before he was stabbed? So how could he—."
"Scream when he was knifed?" Lawrence took the question away. "Hold your horses, Steve. You don't know Roger was unconscious. He might have been momentarily blacked out, and have come round as the dagger went in. Or he might only have been dazed and helpless. In either case he could have cried out."
"Oh." The Inspector slumped back. He said, with a brief show of spirit:
"Just the same, that scream might have been a fake."
Lawrence said slowly:
"I wondered if you'd suggest that." He shook his head thoughtfully. "I don't see it, Steve. You're forgetting I searched that room. There wasn't any sort of recording device there. No gramophone, no radio, no telephone, no dictaphone—not even a speaking tube. And even if it was a fake, you still haven't explained how the killer got out of the room and past the guards—either then or earlier."
"Oh, well. It was just an idea."
The Inspector was glum and rather angry.
He roared:
"God damn it, do you realize what we've done? We've eliminated every possibility, and—and proved this crime could never have been committed!"
Lawrence began to laugh. Then he stopped, suddenly.
Steve Castle asked curiously:
"What is it?"
"I was thinking," replied Lawrence in a small, queer voice. "We've made out a perfect case, and pinned the guilt square on the only possible culprit. But you'll never arrest him."
He laughed again.
He said softly:
"You can't put handcuffs—on a ghost."
Algy Lawrence stood at the top of the steps, watching Steve Castle as he stumped down the drive towards the gates.
He waved a lazy farewell, then re-entered the house. He stopped for a moment by the telephone and his hand strayed towards the receiver.
A voice from above called:
"Pssst!"
Lawrence glanced upwards. The large-nosed face of Russell Craig was peering down over the banisters.
"My boy," said that gentleman courteously, "I would like a word with you."
"Right."
Lawrence made his way up the broad staircase. He was rather surprised to find the landing deserted.
Then Craig's head appeared once more, disembodied and smiling, like Alice's Cheshire Cat. The old rogue was leaning out from behind the door of a room near the head of the stairs.
"This way, my boy."
Lawrence followed Uncle Russ through the open door and looked round with interest. This was apparently Craig's cubby hole, and it was very comfortably furnished.
Audrey's uncle indicated an easy chair, then seated himself on the bed.
"You called here last night," he murmured. "But I'm afraid I was too sleepy to invite you in."
"We had," agreed Algy, "the devil's own job to rouse you."
"Yes." Craig stroked the side of his nose. "I had slipped from the clutch of Bacchus to the softer arms of Morpheus."
Lawrence nodded. "This is a pleasant room. Do you spend much time here?"
"Not," confessed his companion, "usually. But just now the house seems crammed with detectives. And they all," he finished glumly, "disapprove of me."
Algy laughed.
"Never mind. I'll smuggle you a book from the library."
"I am," said Uncle Russ, "reasonably well supplied with reading matter."
He indicated a volume lying beside him on the bed.
"Krafft-Ebing," grinned Lawrence. "I hope you can understand Latin."
"My boy," returned Craig courteously, "I never fully appreciated the benefit of a classical education until I first saw a copy of Psychopathia Sexualis. However. Enough," he said expansively, "of frivolous matters. I have been employing my time more usefully of late."
"How, exactly?"
Uncle Russ said impressively:
"I have been evolving a solution to the mystery of Roger Querrin's death."
"Have you, now?" Lawrence eyed the old rogue quizzically. "I'd like to hear it."
"You will, my boy. But not just yet. In any event," Russell Craig admitted, "my analysis is not entirely completed." He hesitated. "There is one point, my dear fellow. I understand that in a measure you have, shall we say, the ear or confidence of the police? Yes. Well, then." He looked a trifle embarrassed. "Are they offering anything in the nature of a reward?"
Algy hid a smile. He replied: "I'm afraid not."
"Oh." Craig looked disappointed. "That's a pity."
Lawrence went on:
"Of course, Peter may——"
"Ah." Uncle Russ was cheered. "Peter. Yes, I may speak to Peter."
Lawrence stood up. "If that's all, then—."
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. As Craig called out: "Come in," Algy turned to see Susan York on the threshold.
She spoke to the young man demurely.
"Excuse me, sir. You're wanted on the telephone."
"Thanks." He nodded and smiled.
She went out with a sidelong glance at Russell Craig in which amusement and mischief showed clearly.
Uncle Russ turned slightly pink.
He said defensively:
"I hope the police aren't still brooding over that little affair involving Susan."
"Don't worry about it."
Craig fumbled an apologia. He said:
"I like to stroke a pair of pretty legs, or pat a sleek behind. There's nothing wrong in that, my boy. It's natural."
"This," murmured Algy, "was more than a pat."
"She has such a provokingly attractive derrière," said Craig. "A slap seemed the most appropriate salute."
A smile was still flickering at the corners of the young man's mouth as he picked up the receiver from the table in the hall below.
"Lawrence speaking."
"Hallo, sir. Hardinge here."
"Hallo, Sergeant. I'm glad you rang. I was thinking of calling you myself."
"Oh." Comprehension sounded in the Sergeant's voice. "About Turner, perhaps?"
"That's right."
"Good." Hardinge seemed pleased. He said:
"I'd like to speak to you about old Simon. I have an idea he might prove rather useful."
Interest quickened the young man's words.
"Of course. You're at the station, I suppose? Shall I come down to see you?"
"If you would, sir." The Sergeant said with decision:
"I'd prefer not to talk over the 'phone."
"I understand."
"One other thing, sir." Hesitation showed faintly in Hardinge's metallically distorted tones.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Peter, sir. He told us plainly enough last night he suspects Turner of complicity in his brother's murder—."
"Well?"
"Without offence, sir, Mr. Querrin is at the moment a trifle hysterical. Turner and he—."
"Had better not meet." Lawrence helped the Sergeant to finish. "I agree. Don't worry. I'll keep Peter out of the way."
Hardinge suggested:
"Miss Craig might be willing to help you."
"Mmmm," said Algy, thoughtfully. "That's an idea. She needs company. I'll mention the matter to her. Her uncle," he grinned briefly, "is otherwise engaged."
Hardinge said smoothly:
"I'll expect you, then."
"I'm leaving at once."
Lawrence dropped the receiver into its cradle. He stayed for a moment with his hand resting idly on the instrument. He was alone in the hall.
Somewhere above him, a door closed softly.
6
It was late afternoon before Algy Lawrence entered the police station again. The front door stood open. The fair haired young man walked over the step and found himself in the equivalent of a three-sided box.
