Except For One Thing

by John Russell Fearn

  He soon found that which he sought — the hacksaw hanging in the tool-rack at the far end of the laboratory. He inspected the blade, its small razor-edged teeth, and then unscrewed the blade quickly and slipped it in a long cellophane envelope. From his inside pocket be brought out another blade to replace the one he had taken. Being standard size the difference was unlikely to be noticed.

  Job done, Garth departed as silently as he had arrived, anxious to be away before there was any chance of Richard returning…

  He need not have worried. Richard was some distance from his home, standing by the slack wire rail overlooking open fields. He was remembering how he had thought of himself as something godlike in the devising of his scheme.

  Now depression gripped him; as the mild wind blew in his face. Once Valerie had been alive, Joyce had been desperately in love with him, and he had been planning a masterpiece of strategy to defeat Scotland Yard…Now Valerie was dead, Joyce was utterly against him, everything he had striven for had been wiped out. He wondered about leaving the country and making a fresh start somewhere else, then rejected the idea. It would draw suspicion. No, he’d stay and finish the job, prove that he could beat Scotland Yard.

  Some day perhaps Joyce would reconsider when she saw that he was not arrested. He still loved her, otherwise the fury that had lashed him at her words would still be with him and waiting, prompting him to destroy her. She was the only girl he ever wanted to possess…

  Turning up his coat collar about his ears he wandered off into the night.

  *

  Towards half-past eight Chief Inspector Garth entered his office to find the indefatigable Whittaker busy at his typewriter setting out the details of the Valerie Hadfield case in readiness for the day when the evidence would have to be presented. Normally Whittaker would have been at home by now, but at times like these — with the Assistant Commissioner on the prod — he became secretary to his chief.

  “Any luck, sir?” he asked Garth as he came in.

  “Well, I managed to play my hunch, anyway. I got the hacksaw blade and replaced it with another one.”

  Whittaker got up and looked at the blade in the cellophane envelope as his superior put it on the desk.

  “I think,” Garth said, “we can safely assume by this time that had Valerie Hadfield’s body been anywhere to be found it would have been. The police of the entire country have been looking for it, using the most modern equipment — without result. The only other alternative is…dismemberment.”

  “Uh-huh,” Whittaker admitted. “Nothing new about that, sir. Crippen and others…They all tried it.”

  “Exactly — and it seemed to me that we might have the same thing here. Dick Harvey’s laboratory is not that of a surgeon, of course, and the only instrument I noticed that could have done a dismemberment job was a hacksaw. Certainly I don’t think he’d use an ordinary wood-saw such as he is using for the building of that garage. In fact, I think those particular tools have been loaned by the builders. I admit that there might be other instruments hidden away — but my interest centred on the hacksaw, chiefly because it is a common fault of a self-assured killer to be so convinced of his own immunity that he leaves the fatal weapon in full view. I decided it could do no harm to look…And here’s the blade.”

  “But surely, sir, if Mr. Harvey did chop up Valerie Hadfield he’d have taken care to clean up everything afterwards? Remove bloodstains and so on?”

  “I grant you that he has got rid of bloodstains, but I am inclined to doubt over-scrupulousness with the hacksaw. It has a myriad of tiny teeth for material to lodge between. Ordinary cleaning would leave slight deposit between the teeth. Acid alone could make it absolutely clean, but that on the other hand would leave visible markings on the steel blade that would draw attention to it. So, I think Dick Harvey cleaned the blade as well as possible, and left it at that.”

  “But — but why should he leave it at that, sir?”

  “Because, my both-feet-on-the-ground friend, he had such a foolproof scheme for disposing of Valerie he might easily have been over-confident on the smaller, less important details.

  Whittaker frowned. “Then just what do you think he did do with that woman?”

  “It’s a pretty ghastly idea I have in mind, Whitty,” he muttered. “Too ghastly to mention yet in case I’m wrong…” He brisked suddenly and whipped up the long envelope. “Anyway, let’s see what pathology has to say.”

  They left the office together and to Garth’s satisfaction Dr. Winters was present finishing an overtime analysis when they arrived in his department. He took the hacksaw blade Garth handed to him and studied it through the transparency of the envelope.

  “Find out if this blade is clean, will you, Doc?” Garth asked. “Or whether anything is on it which might help us.”

  “With pleasure.” Winters stripped the cellophane away. “But I can’t give you an immediate answer. If there’s anything to be found on the blade it means a good deal of steeping, and then there’s foam reaction and filtration to be done. I might have something for you by this time tomorrow. All depends.”

  “That’ll do,” Garth said quietly. “And use every trick you know with these bottles and beakers of yours to make that blade sit up and beg. My whole reputation may depend on it!”

  *

  Richard had spent another sleepless night. Any hope of sleep had vanished after Joyce had delivered her farewell speech.

  When he got up he felt too leaden to shave and so came downstairs unshaven in his old working suit. Mrs. Baxter found him short tempered, vindictive about the quality of his breakfast — and finally he stalked outside with nothing more inside him than some tea and a good deal of cigarette smoke.

  He worked until noon applying plaster to the garage ceiling, came in and had a good lunch and a shave — after which he felt a trifle better — and then during the afternoon he finished the plastering and began the task of making the garage doors. Towards nightfall he gave up, moved all the timber to one side and left the driveway free. Nothing to prevent him bringing the Jaguar home now and telling the contractors to take away the remains of their stuff. The doors would be finished and on by the next night. Be something to do to walk over and fetch the Jaguar…

  He was just leaving the driveway towards seven o’clock when he collided with somebody coming along the street. Under the street lamp he saw the black

  Homberg hat and horn-rimmed glasses of Dr. Prescott.

  “Hello, Richard,” Howard Prescott acknowledged quietly.

  “Sorry I bumped into you…Er…How’s Joyce?”

  “Quite well, thank you.” Howard Prescott prepared to move on but Richard caught his arm fiercely.

  “Doctor Prescott, can’t you convince Joyce that she’s all wrong about me — convince her that I love her. God knows, I do!”

  “Joyce is an adult with a mind of her own. It’s not my job to influence her — and besides I couldn’t and remain truthful.”

  “If you think that about me why don’t you turn me over to the police?”

  “I am not a police officer, Richard. I shall not state my private opinion to anybody else. That is the work of the law.”

  “Look here, Doctor. Just supposing I had done the thing you and Joyce believe — which I haven’t — speaking as a philosopher, what do you think I should do?”

  Richard found Prescott’s hand gripping his arm.

  “Admit the fact! Go to Scotland Yard and give yourself up! I know what you’ve done, even if the police haven’t arrested you, even if you haven’t admitted the fact. Your eyes are haunted by something that is in your mind…I’ve seen men like that before, men with some great anguish in their souls. There’s no way to cure it except by expiating your sin. All of us have something to expiate, be it big or small.”

  “Including you?”

  “Naturally. As your friend I’m telling you the way out. The horror of the thing you’ve done will never leave you, Richard, until you drag it into the open
…Good night.”

  Richard stared after him, then turned and continued up the street towards the public garage. Confess! What sort of a damned fool did Howard Prescott take him for? But at the back of his mind the suggestion had taken root. If there was no other surcease from this deepening anguish of mind and body he might be forced into it — or die. Finish it quickly.

  “Fool!” Richard whispered angrily. “Garth believes you’re innocent! He said so! When the Yard gives up the chase go abroad and find another girl…”

  Meanwhile, Garth had come to the end of his day’s vigil of fretting. Doctor Winters was in the office with his report in his hand.

  “Well, doctor,” Garth asked. “Is the blade clean — or not?”

  “Not! The precipitin reaction shows traces of tissue which have yielded human protein, as opposed to animal tissue.” Winters let the report fall from his fingers on to the desk. “There’s not enough residue to say anything much or to identify sex or age, but you can rest assured that that hacksaw has been deep inside a human being’s flesh…somewhere.”

  Garth felt for his cheroots. He wasn’t conscious of Winter’s departure or of Whittaker’s tense, questioning face.

  “Human protein,” he said. “Now I’m as good as sure where the body of Valerie Hadfield went!”

  CHAPTER XVII

  Next morning Garth arrived at his office to find Whittaker studying a report from Divisional Inspector Whiteside.

  “You’re looking darned pleased with yourself,” Garth commented.

  “Read this, sir!”

  “This, sir. Maybe the last link in the evidence.”

  Garth picked up the report and read it aloud slowly:

  ““Divisional Inspector’s Report: Acting on the instructions of Chief Inspector Garth have contacted all outfitters and emporia in a general area between Belsize Park and the city. A firm by the name of Flensburg in Medville Street, Camden Town, has reported that one of their salesmen sold a ready-made suit, raincoat, et cetera, to a person who gave his name — for invoice purposes — as Kenneth Garson. The salesman remembers him because there was an error in the change. The clothes are identical with those worn by Rixton Williams (according to spectators) and Kenneth Garson’s description would fit perfectly with that of Richard Harvey. The clothes were bought on Thursday, October tenth. Would suggest interview with Flensburg’s salesman to clear up details.””

  “Looks like it, sir, doesn’t it?” Whittaker asked.

  “Definitely!” Garth answered grimly. “I’ll go over right away and see this chap. The chances are that he is the only person who has ever seen Rixton Williams before he became that person. You’d better stay here in case anything else comes in. I’ll be back here as soon as I can.”

  Garth hurried out to his official car. Half an hour later he returned to find Richard in the office, seated in the armchair by the door, smoking and talking to Whittaker.

  Richard waved a hand to him. “Taking a change from sitting in the chair, eh?”

  “Good for the indigestion,” Garth replied, hanging up his hat and coat.

  “How are things with you?”

  “I’m afraid I’m in the dog house.”

  “Oh?” Garth sat at his desk and began to write something swiftly.

  “Joyce Prescott won’t have a thing to do with me. She thinks that because I’ve admitted knowing Valerie Hadfield I must necessarily have murdered her, or made her magically vanish. Damned tough on me, I can tell you.”

  Garth finished writing and handed the slip to Whittaker. The sergeant read: Flensburg’s salesman has identified Harvey as Rixton Williams. Add this to report in preparation.

  Whittaker went over to the noiseless typewriter and settled down to work, half an ear cocked for what his chief was going to say next.

  “So you’ve lost your lady love, eh?” Garth sat back and grinned. “What makes you so cocksure that you don’t deserve it?”

  “You well know I don’t deserve it!” Richard retorted. “And the sooner you find out who Rixton Williams is the better I’ll like it! Then I can come out into the open and reclaim Joyce and my self respect. It’s not exactly pleasant when the woman you love thinks you’re a killer.”

  “Dick, I’m afraid your lady love is going to have to think nasty things about you for a long time to come,” Garth admitted. “Between us three here, this case has me licked! I just don’t know who killed Peter Cranston or who caused Valerie to disappear!”

  Richard felt a wild drumming in his ears.

  “I’ll probably get my ears boxed by the Assistant Commissioner. Every lead we’ve had so far travels a certain distance and then stops dead. Every time I find myself hamstrung for lack of proof.” Garth slammed his fist on the desk. “There isn’t a scrap of proof! This Mr. X, Mr. Williams, whatever in hell you like to call him, has played a brilliant hand and got me tied in knots. In other words, Dick — you win our bet! You said a perfect crime could exist, and I said it couldn’t. I thank my lucky stars we didn’t actually play for real stakes.”

  Richard laughed silently to himself at the memory of the advice of Dr. Prescott. Confess, he had said!

  Richard smiled and got to his feet, crushing out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Well, so you’re beaten. What’s next?”

  “Relegate the case to the files of the unsolved,” Garth said moodily. “I’ve never had one like this since I became Chief Inspector — but to every man his Waterloo…And since you are the victor,” he added briefly, “you might at least be magnanimous. Haven’t you any suggestions to cheer me on my way?”

  “I’ll buy you a lunch,” Richard said. “Just to show you that there’s no hard feelings. Then, as part of my terms as victor, I think I should drive you to Miss Prescott’s this afternoon and make you admit that you can’t solve this business. That should put her in the right mood for accepting me again.”

  Garth shook his head. “Sorry Dick, that’s out. My admission of defeat is for you and the Assistant Commissioner. No outsiders. But I’ll come and have lunch with you with pleasure.”

  As he followed Richard out of the office, only Sergeant Whittaker saw the profound wink aimed back at him.

  *

  Garth stayed beside Richard for the rest of the day. They had lunch together and for the afternoon turned in to see a film — entirely at Garth’s request to “take his mind off things.” It went towards five when they emerged again into the waning daylight and walked slowly towards the car park.

  “Well, I feel a heap better for your company, Dick,” Garth confessed, smiling. “I’ve even lost my indigestion for a while. Only thing spoiling my peace of mind now is going back to the office to see if anything fresh has turned up.”

  Richard could not quite fathom the Chief Inspector’s mood. It seemed odd that he could take nearly a whole day off and do nothing except what he wanted — unless his high position entitled him to do so. Anyway, the case was closed and that was all that mattered, and because of it ego still ruled Richard.

  He felt somehow tempted to rub it in even more — display everything openly, flaunt it in Garth’s face, knowing all the time he couldn’t derive a single clue from it all. Be a good idea to force Garth to inspect his garage now it was finished. Let him look at the very thing he was seeking and come away unaware of it. Then indeed it would be a perfect crime.

  As they reached the car, Richard said, “Why go back to that dump of yours in Whitehall? Why not come home with me? I’m alone and I could do with a bit of cheering up.”

  Garth grinned as he considered the truth propounded by many a psychologist — that the criminal mind, when it believes itself safe, seeks only one thing: the glorification of its actions. A crime, as such, loses all its magnificence if there be none but the criminal to appreciate it. Richard, running true to type, was about to reveal the final shadings in his masterpiece that so far had been forced into the background from sheer necessity.

  “Okay, might as well make a day of it,” Garth agreed. �
��Besides I like your brandy. Does my stomach good.”

  At length, as their car approached Richard’s house, Garth saw the newly completed garage, minus doors, looming up along the drive of the house in the glare of the headlights.

  “So you actually built it!” he exclaimed.

  “And had Rothwell’s take the surplus away. Only the doors to finish.” Richard grinned cynically as he switched off the ignition. “Didn’t think I would do it, did you?”

  Garth grinned. “I admit I thought you’d make a mess of it!”

  “I’ll show you it properly after dinner and make you admit once again that you’re wrong. I’ll leave the car here and then we can use the headlights later. I’ve taken the extension flex back into the laboratory…Come along.”

  Garth followed Richard to the front door of the house. Old Baxter came out of the back regions to take their coats.

  “The Inspector will be staying for dinner, Baxter,” Richard told him. “Tell your wife, will you please?”

  “Yes, Mr. Richard, sir.”

  Richard took Garth’s arm. “Come along upstairs and freshen up.”

  Garth went with him up the broad staircase and ten minutes later they were both seated in the library awaiting dinner, discussing everything except the one thing they were both thinking about…the garage. Even at dinner they both avoided the subject, but at last Richard drifted round to it when they got to the coffee.

  “Funny, I suppose, that I should take such pride in a garage,” he mused, studying the pale eyes across the table. “Only I don’t look at it that way. I simply regard it as a work of art brought to a successful conclusion.”

  “Is that why you went on building it even though you knew Joyce had turned against you?” Garth inquired.