by Derek Smith
Hazlitt eyed him. He said stiffly:
"The Doctor agrees with you. The old man died some time before his body was discovered. But to be on the safe side, we'll say Turner was murdered somewhere between twenty past four and a quarter past five. Those are definitely the outside limits."
Lawrence's mouth tightened.
He mused softly:
"So he died while the Sergeant and I were sitting in the Charge Room."
"Exactly." There was an odd note in the Inspector's voice. "I suppose you're prepared to testify that nobody went through the door to the cells?"
"Yes." Lawrence and Hardinge spoke together.
"Thank you." Hazlitt was heavily courteous. He smacked his hands on the back of a chair, and pressed his fingers hard against the wood. He said slowly:
"Once more, your evidence proves the crime could not have been committed."
Lawrence protested, not very hopefully:
"Surely things aren't as bad as that."
"Judge for yourself." The Inspector twisted round the chair and straddled it. "Listen, both of you. Every window in this station is barred. You know that, Hardinge. You've complained of it often enough… There is no back door, no means of reaching the cells except by way of the door at the rear of the Charge Room, and no means of communication between that office and the Sergeant's living quarters except through this door here." He jerked his thumb behind him.
"In other words, there's only one entrance to the station. The front door."
"Oh, Lord," breathed Algy Lawrence. "We know that no one came through there except—."
"Except Russell Craig. Who went no further than the Charge Room, where you were talking."
"And left again soon after." Wisely, Lawrence made no mention of the old rogue's wild theories. "Wait a second. Could someone have been hiding in the station?" He answered his own question. "No, that's out. We searched everywhere, as soon as we discovered the body."
"Yes. It's hardly likely that any one could enter the station unseen. But in any case there was no way of leaving without detection." Hazlitt rasped knuckles against his chin. "Nobody tampered with the grilles, or walked through solid walls."
Lawrence shifted uncomfortably. Fear squirmed through his mind.
Hazlitt said:
"We have another witness."
He hesitated, then added half apologetically:
"Miss Watson, the post-mistress."
Algy remembered the lady with a shock. "Of course. She must have been watching us all the time."
"You're right. She was. Since we put old Simon in the cells, she's hardly taken her eyes off the station."
Hardinge chuckled faintly. "I can vouch for that."
The Inspector muttered:
"She's an infernal old busybody, but for once her prying has been useful." Hazlitt directed his next remark to Lawrence. "She saw you go into the station shortly after four. That roused her curiosity—she knows your reputation, apparently."
"Such," said Algy idly, "is fame."
The Inspector grunted. "Um. Anyway, that did it. She can't see into the station, thank God—the frosted windows cut off vision—but she kept her eyes on the entrance. She's willing to swear that nobody went into or out of this building between the time of your arrival this afternoon and mine this evening, except Russell Craig—."
"And the Sergeant and myself, when he called me back at five minutes to six. Oh yes, and the constable who arrived on the hour."
"We needn't consider Shaw," growled Hazlitt. "Or Tyssen."
"Right." Lawrence was thoughtful. "Well, that seems conclusive. Always provided that the old girl's reliable."
Hardinge coughed. He pointed out:
"We've agreed her testimony ourselves. You can't get into the station or the passage to the cells without passing through the Charge Room."
Hazlitt cut in:
"That's right. Besides Simon Turner, there were only three men in the building: the Sergeant, here; yourself, Mr. Lawrence; and Russell Craig."
His eyes slitted.
He repeated grimly:
"Only three."
Lawrence said flippantly:
"You pays your money, you takes your choice. Which of us killed him, Inspector?"
The Sergeant's face was strained. He protested:
"It's no joke."
Lawrence nodded. "I'm sorry."
Hazlitt stood up suddenly. "Let's get down to essentials. No one is above suspicion in a case like this, whether he's a Sergeant of Police"—his gaze switched to the smiling young man with the smooth blond hair—"or a story-book amateur."
"Agreed," said Algy politely. "Fortunately, I have an alibi."
"We'll check it in due course," returned the Inspector coldly.
He pushed open the communicating door and called some instructions to his men. Turning back, he commented sourly:
"There was a case, a few years ago, where we found a trick exit in a police station wall. I'm making sure there's no such funny business here."
"You should rid yourself," remarked Lawrence brightly, "of this secret panel complex. It's hopelessly vieux jeu."
Hardinge glanced at his young friend sharply. He realized that Algy's flippancy was only a mask… Lawrence was obviously deeply troubled.
As if he had read the Sergeant's thoughts, Algy murmured:
"Don't mind me, gentlemen."
He grinned. "I haven't a clue."
The Inspector did not laugh. He said:
"Three men. We'll consider each of you in turn."
He paced the floor. "First, Russell Craig. He arrived about a quarter to five, and stayed fifteen or twenty minutes."
"Uh huh."
"During that time, he remained seated in the Charge Room. That's your evidence, Mr. Lawrence, and the Sergeant's. It seems conclusive."
He added in parenthesis:
"I've sent a man to interview him at the House. Though I don't imagine we'll learn anything we don't already know." Just the same, his tone implied, we'll put the old rogue through it.
Lawrence said sleepily: "So we eliminate Uncle Russ." He yawned. "One from three leaves two."
"Then," continued Hazlitt grimly, "there was Sergeant Hardinge."
Lawrence glanced at both the policemen curiously. He knew that neither was at his ease.
The Inspector said:
"We'll examine the Sergeant's movements in detail. The corroborative evidence is all yours, Mr. Lawrence. Check me if I go wrong."
Hardinge flushed painfully. He confided to Algy later: "It was the most awkward moment of my life."
Hazlitt, repressing his feelings and his professional pride, went on:
"The Sergeant escorted you to the cells, where you interviewed the prisoner. Turner was still alive when you left. Hardinge went with you along the corridor, through the Charge Room, and out on to the front porch. Then you re-entered the station. The Sergeant fetched your gun, then you both remained seated in the Charge Room until Craig arrived to interrupt your discussions. He stayed, as I said before, for about twenty minutes. During that time, the Sergeant left you twice—for brief periods— to make tea."
Hazlitt's tone suggested disapproval.
He continued:
"Craig left, and Hardinge and yourself remained in the Charge Room until just after a quarter to six. At that time, as we now know, Turner was already dead. And had been so, in fact, since (at least) one half hour before."
The Inspector relaxed and smiled.
"Well, Sergeant, that clears you. You had no opportunity to go into the cells. You were alone only briefly, while making tea in your quarters. Since every window is barred—and we've checked the grilles thoroughly— and there is no communicating door, you had no possible means of going from these rooms here"—he glanced round—"to the cells at the rear. The rest of the time, you were with Mr. Lawrence."
He looked towards Algy for confirmation. Lawrence inclined his blond head slowly.
He said quietly:
/> "Two from three leaves—one."
John Hardinge jumped up suddenly.
He said, with a faint trace of excitement: "Before you go any further, sir. I have an idea."
"I'm glad to hear it," returned the Inspector with ferocious humour.
The Sergeant pursued, undaunted:
"Perhaps we're approaching this problem from the wrong angle. All our evidence goes to prove that no one could have reached old Simon from the front—."
"The door in the Charge Room," interjected his superior testily, "is the only means of access."
"Yes, sir. But—." Hardinge followed a side trail momentarily. "I'd suggest that somebody was hiding in one of the empty cells, or in the office at the back, until the coast was clear; strangled Turner, then waited till Mr. Lawrence had left, and I hurried after him—."
"But—."
The Sergeant swept on breathlessly: "And slipped out of the station then. But we know that didn't happen, since Miss Watson was watching and swears that no one left. So we can disregard that particular theory."
Hazlitt thanked him ponderously. "I'm not a complete fool. That solution was the first I considered. So if that's all you can suggest—."
"It isn't, sir." The Sergeant sounded eager. "There is no back door. Nevertheless, the killer could still have struck from the rear."
"Through brick walls?" queried Hazlitt sarcastically.
"If I could demonstrate, sir—.?"
Hardinge trailed the question invitingly.
"All right," grunted the Inspector. "What do you want to do?"
The Sergeant explained quickly.
Hazlitt nodded again, then went to the door and called:
"Shaw! Go with the Sergeant, will you?"
Hardinge and the constable left the station. Lawrence and Hazlitt went through the main office and into the corridor behind.
Men were working in the passage, examining the walls.
The Inspector commented:
"Every inch of this building is going to be tested. If there is a trap, we'll spring it."
They went into the dead man's cell. The body had been removed, though chalk marks on the floor showed where it had fallen.
Hazlitt growled to himself. "What now? I—. Ah, there's Hardinge."
The Sergeant's voice floated down to them from the small window above their heads. There was the sound of a scramble, then Hardinge's face appeared behind the bars.
He said:
"I'm standing on the constable's back, sir, so we'd better not delay. Mr. Lawrence, will you act as Simon Turner?"
Algy agreed, not without a certain apprehension. He sat down on the bunk.
Hardinge called softly: "Simon!"
Lawrence glanced up.
"Here, quickly… Don't make a sound."
The young man clambered up on the narrow bed.
Hardinge whispered:
"I'll get you away."
The window was open. He pointed a hand through the bars. "What's that, behind you?"
Lawrence twisted. The Sergeant's hands shot round the bars, seized the back of his neck, and held him tight.
Algy struggled involuntarily, but did not succeed in breaking the other's grip.
Hardinge said calmly:
"Before Turner could escape, he would be unconscious. A strong man wouldn't find it too difficult to support his weight. When old Simon was dead, his killer let him fall down to the floor."
He released his grasp. Lawrence co-operated handsomely, allowing himself to slide off the bunk and sprawl near the ominous chalk marks.
Hardinge said triumphantly:
"There you are, sir. I—. What's that? Oh, sorry, Constable. I'll get down."
He disappeared.
Lawrence stood up, brushing the dust from his clothes. He angled an eyebrow. "Well, Inspector. What do you think?"
Hazlitt shook his head.
"It's a pretty theory. But it won't hold water."
Lawrence squatted on the bed once more. "I can see one flaw, of course. But—."
The Inspector interrupted.
"I'll explain in a minute."
Footsteps sounded in the passage outside. Hazlitt went to the door and glanced out. "In here, Sergeant."
Hardinge appeared, followed by Shaw. The constable was rubbing his back ruefully.
Lawrence said, with a twinkle:
"Fine acting, Sergeant. You scared me silly."
Hardinge smiled. "I hope you weren't hurt."
"No," grinned Algy. "I fared better than the constable, here."
Hardinge said seriously:
"I didn't mean to suggest the killer had a confederate. He must have found some other support for his feet."
Lawrence grinned again. "I hate to picture even the most enterprising of murderers wandering through Bristley with a step ladder or an old soap box."
The Inspector frowned. "Please, Mr. Lawrence." He turned to Hardinge. "I don't like to disappoint you, Sergeant. Your explanation is fairly good. It fits most of the facts. Unfortunately, we know this crime was not committed in that way."
Lawrence sparked interest in his lazy blue eyes.
He said accusingly:
"You have something up your sleeve."
"Yes," returned Hazlitt, heavily.
He said:
"We have—another witness."
He finished wearily:
"Tell them, Shaw."
The young constable stepped forward. Pride and a certain embarrassment showed clearly on his face. It was his first experience of the spotlight.
He murmured:
"On the afternoon of—."
"You're not in the witness box now," interrupted the Inspector. "Just tell us informally."
"Yes, sir. Well—." Shaw moistened his lips. "I wasn't on duty this afternoon, as you know. When I left Querrin House this morning, I didn't have to report here till six o'clock this evening. But as I lodge in a house behind the station, and—and as I knew Turner had been arrested, I decided to keep watch."
"Like," interposed Hazlitt sardonically, "our Miss Watson. I think the constable suspected that the prisoner would attempt a movie-style break out."
Shaw flushed. "Anyway, there's a clear view of the back of the station from the window of my room. I kept an eye on Turner's cell."
"All the time?"
"From three o'clock till half-past five." He hesitated. "I had to get ready for duty. So—so my landlady took over then. She watched till six o'clock."
"Amateur detectives," growled Hazlitt. "Everywhere."
The comment was not unkindly meant.
Lawrence rubbed his cheek. "I know what's coming."
He paused invitingly.
Shaw said clearly:
"No one, at any time, approached the window of Turner's cell."
Lawrence slouched back on the bunk. He was not happy.
He said:
"That's that."
"Yes." The Inspector turned to Hardinge. "I'm afraid we've exploded your theory. In any case, there were other objections."
He pointed upwards. "That window was locked from the inside. We opened it ourselves after the investigation began. Then there was the door."
He stepped towards it. "You told us yourself it was open when you discovered the body."
Hardinge nodded slowly.
Hazlitt scowled abstractedly. "We've examined the interior of the lock. There were scratches inside—marks in the coating of grease—which suggest the use of a picklock, or a skeleton key."
"Held," supplied Lawrence, "in a phantom hand."
The Inspector made no reply.
He said:
"There's one other point. Turner may well have been stunned before he was killed. Doctor Tyssen found a bruise on the back of the dead man's head, under the hair."
Lawrence sat up. The words were oddly familiar. He snapped his fingers. "Roger Querrin. His head was bruised, too."
Hazlitt agreed. "That's not the only similarity between the crimes."
"Both murders," nodded Algy cheerfully, "being committed by an invisible man who walks through solid walls."
He added wickedly:
"According to the evidence."
The Inspector contradicted him with surprising mildness. "You may remember that the Sergeant interrupted my analysis of your testimony with his demonstration of a theory."
He stared down at the young man on the bunk.
"I was about to say that one person only had an opportunity to reach Turner's cell unseen. This man, for a brief but vital period, had no alibi whatever."
Algy's eyebrows went up.
"So you've found the guilty man. Who is he, Inspector?"
Hazlitt said gently:
"You are, Mr. Lawrence."
Lawrence asked equably:
"Am I under arrest?"
Hazlitt laughed, and broke the tension. Still enjoying the young man's discomfort, he said:
"No. But according to the evidence"—he accented the phrase maliciously—"you were the only man with sufficient opportunity. Logically, then, you killed Simon Turner."
"That kind of logic," murmured Lawrence, "doesn't meet with my approval."
Hardinge made a protest.
"Sir, I've already provided Mr. Lawrence with an alibi."
The Inspector shook his head. "No, Sergeant. Think. After you left the prisoner, you went with Lawrence to the front door. Then you both re-entered the station. Why?"
"I had to return his g—."
The word died on his lips.
Hazlitt was satisfied. "Exactly. You went into your living quarters to fetch and return this young man's gun." He broke off, and turned.
He said politely:
"You might let me have that pistol, by the way."
Algy grinned. He produced the automatic and levelled it at the Inspector. Then he laughed and reversed the gun, holding it by the barrel.
Hazlitt grasped the butt and thanked him politely.
He went on smoothly:
"At this point, Mr. Lawrence was alone in the Charge Room and had access to the passage leading to the cells."
Lawrence stretched his legs out lazily. "I'm willing to let myself be searched. You'll find I have no picklock with me."
"You didn't need one. The Sergeant had left the keys to the cells in his desk."
"The drawer," objected Algy, "was locked."
