“To a homicide suspect,” said the detective. “Has anyone left the premises since the shooting?”
“No one’s left since I arrived,” said Constable Wilkins. “I can’t say what ’appened before that, Sergeant.”
“Mr. McPhee and I went out to notify the constable,” I volunteered. “Other than that, I believe everyone has stayed here the entire time.”
“McPhee, eh?” The detective turned to the constable. “I assume you’ve noted down everyone’s name, Wilkins.”
The constable swallowed. “No, sir, I’ve ’ardly ’ad the chance. You got ’ere so quick, I’d just begun—”
“I see,” said the detective, tight-mouthed. He pulled a small notebook and a pencil out of his pocket. “Well, we’ll just have to start at the beginning and do everything properly. You there, what’s your name and place of residence?” He addressed this question to my employer.
“Samuel Langhorne Clemens, of Hartford, Connecticut,” said my employer. “That’s in America, or was the last time I checked.”
“Are you attempting to be facetious?” said the detective. His expression was stony. “I don’t advise it—this is a very serious matter you’re involved in, I’ll have you know. Anything you say can be held against you.”
“Really? I hardly noticed how serious it was, I was paying so much attention to that dead man over there,” said Mr. Clemens, puffing vigorously on his pipe. “But I hope you won’t hold it against me if I try to be facetious. It’s what I do for a living, and they tell me I’m pretty good at it, by and large. Of course, being English, you might not be able to tell the difference.”
“Exactly what do you mean by that?” the detective began, but he was interrupted by a knock on the outer door. “That’ll be the doctor, likely enough, or maybe the chief,” he said. “Be a good fellow, Wilkins, and see who it is.”
“Aye, Sergeant,” said the constable, moving to the door. After a moment, I heard the door open and the constable said, “ ’Ullo, Chief Inspector. We’ve got quite a puzzle ’ere.”
“It won’t be such a great puzzle, once I’ve had a look at it,” said the new arrival, striding energetically into the apartment. He was a short, athletically built man—something in his face reminded me of a ferret, but his manner was all bulldog. He didn’t stop to remove his hat or overcoat, but came straight into the inner room where we were all standing.
“I’m glad you’re here, Chief Inspector,” said Sergeant Coleman, deferentially, although I noticed he looked askance at the new arrival’s pipe, which gave off a particularly noxious odor. “I’ve begun interviewing the suspects, sir.”
“Good man, good man,” said the new arrival. “I’ll just have a look around, and we’ll soon know what’s what.” He walked over to the sofa where the body lay, knelt down, and grasped it by the chin to turn the face toward him. He looked intently at the wound. “This man’s been shot,” he said, accusingly.
“Yes, sir, so we believe,” said Sergeant Coleman.
“Well, then, where’s the gun?” asked the chief inspector, standing up and peering round the room. “I can’t say I’ve ever yet seen a man shot without a gun, and I am no spring chicken.”
“We haven’t found the weapon yet,” Coleman replied.
“Well, then, either it’s hidden or it’s been spirited away,” said the chief inspector. “Where have you looked?”
“Well, sir, I’d just arrived, and I thought it better to get the suspects’ names and—”
“Aye, so you told me. Well, you go ahead with that business.” He stopped and looked at the rest of us for the first time. “Here now, I know that face,” he said, staring at my employer. “Haven’t I seen you before?”
“I reckon you might have,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ve been to London a couple of times before, and sometimes they put my picture in the newspapers and magazines.”
“Do they, now? And what have you done to merit that?” asked the chief inspector. He was still wearing his coat and hat, and his pipe was filling the room with fumes even stronger than those coming from the other gentlemen’s pipes.
“Oh, a couple of things,” said Mr. Clemens. “Told the truth about kings and queens, and stood up against injustice, and took some people down a peg when I thought they needed it. Nothing anybody else couldn’t have done, if they took a mind to.”
“Now I’ve got it,” said the chief inspector, brightly. “I did see you in one of the magazines. You’re that American writer fellow, Train, Twain, something like that. Pleased to meet you—Lestrade’s the name, Chief Inspector Lestrade.” He pronounced it to rhyme with played.
“Always a pleasure to meet an admirer,” said Mr. Clemens, shaking Lestrade’s proffered hand. Then his expression turned serious as he continued: “But tell me, Inspector; my wife and daughter and some other ladies—including that poor fellow’s widow—are in the next room, there. I reckon they’d be a lot better off in their own homes. How soon do you think they’ll be able to go?”
“Ladies, eh?” said Lestrade, following Mr. Clemens’s gesture toward the closed door. “Well, we certainly don’t want to keep them here any longer than we need to, Mr. Train. This is an ugly bit of business, and no doubt about it. No place for a lady at all, really. But you see, we’ve got a murder on our hands.”
“Yes, I’d noticed that,” said my employer. “That’s why we sent for a policeman. We didn’t have much need for one before that.”
“Good, I’m glad you understand, then,” said Lestrade. “What we’ll have to do is get everyone’s name, along with a domicile or place of lodging, and statements from anyone who was present when this fellow was shot . . .”
“Well, that lets me clean off, sure as fire,” said McPhee. “I wasn’t in this here room at all when the hammer fell, and there’s a dozen witnesses can swear to that.”
“A dozen witnesses?” Lestrade’s eyebrows rose. “What, were there that many of you in the place?”
“An even dozen including the dead man, yes—though he won’t be much good as a witness,” said Mr. Clemens. “In fact, it was dark enough that none of us really counts for much as a witness.”
“Dark, you say?” asked Lestrade. He took off his hat and fanned himself with it. “Do you mean to tell me this fellow was shot while the lights were out?”
“Maybe we ought to begin at the beginning,” said Sergeant Coleman, timidly.
“Yes, I think we had best do that,” said Lestrade. He tossed his hat onto the table, and began to unbutton his overcoat. “This is a rum business,” he said. “As much as I’d like to let the ladies go, I’m afraid we’ve got to get some answers before we can let anyone leave the scene. Now, I’m going to have Coleman take your statements out in that room while I have a look around for clues in here.”
“Yes, sir,” said the younger detective. He turned and pointed to Mr. Clemens. “I’d just begun talking to this gentleman, and I think we’ll just continue with him. Come along, please.”
Mr. Clemens and I began to follow Coleman into the anteroom when Lestrade turned and said to me, “Hello, young fellow, where do you think you’re going?”
“I am Mr. Clemens’s secretary,” I said. “He may need my assistance.”
“I’m terribly sorry, but that’s just the kind of thing we can’t allow in the midst of a murder investigation,” said Lestrade. “The sergeant will interview you one at a time, and I’ll ask the rest of you to wait in the room with the ladies. Constable, will you see to it?”
“Yes, Chief Inspector,” said Constable Wilkins. “Gentlemen, if you’ll be so kind? You, too, ma’am.”
Politely but very efficiently, the constable herded us into the room with Mrs. Clemens, Susy, and the three other ladies, to wait our turn. Noting her husband’s absence, Mrs. Clemens turned a searching look toward me. “Where is Samuel?” she asked.
“They’re taking his statement,” I said. “I don’t think he’s in any trouble; they’re going to ask us all to give statements.”
“Well, I can give you my statement right now,” said McPhee. “I wasn’t even in the room, and I didn’t do nothing. They can’t find any flies on Ed McPhee, this time.”
“I’ll ask you to wait until you see Sergeant Coleman to speak of the case, sir,” said the constable. “You’ll all have your chance to talk, but until then, I must ask you to be patient.”
I did my best, but patience is hard to conjure up when one is waiting to be quizzed about a murder. At least, I was glad that they had taken Mr. Clemens first. He would have been extremely awkward company if he’d been forced to wait, and I was uncomfortable enough already—especially since I had every reason to believe that one of the people in the room with me was a cold-blooded murderer.
7
Waiting is hard in the best of circumstances. Standing in a small room waiting to be questioned by the police about a violent crime that took place in one’s presence would disconcert a saint.
With eleven of us in a small bedroom, there was not space for everyone to sit, even with a couple of chairs brought in from the outer room. And there was no room at all to pace. Cedric Villiers, McPhee, and I remained standing. I pulled out my watch for perhaps the third time to see how long Mr. Clemens had been talking to Detective Coleman. Half an hour. At that rate, it would be nearly four in the morning before the last of us had been questioned. Would they insist on interrogating the entire group before letting any of us go home?
At last, Mr. Clemens came stomping in the door, followed by Constable Wilkins, who looked round the room and asked, “Mrs. Parkhurst, would you be so kind as to come with me? And bring your purse, please. We’ll be needing to search it.”
The doctor’s widow stood up from the edge of the bed, where she had been sitting. Her sister, who had sat consoling her, stood and threw her arms around her. “Be brave, dearest Cornelia,” she said.
Mrs. Parkhurst nodded and squeezed her sister’s hand. “This will not be hard, Ophelia,” she said. “Believe me, the hard part is already over.” She smiled bravely and followed the constable out of the room. The door closed behind her, and the rest of us turned instinctively to Mr. Clemens.
He looked around the room at ten anxious faces and spread his hands. “Well, the good news is that I convinced that brass monkey of a detective to interview the ladies first, and to let each of us go home once we’ve answered his silly questions. So at least some of us will be able to get to bed at a sensible hour. The bad news is that he intends to go through the whole list tonight, so the rest of us will have to wait until he’s ready for us. Oh, and one more piece of news—a doctor came to look at the body while they were talking to me, and now it’s official, Parkhurst’s dead, shot by a person or persons unknown.”
“That’s hardly news,” said Sir Denis. “Nobody could have lasted long with that head wound.”
“Sure, but Scotland Yard can’t settle for something that obvious,” said Mr. Clemens. “That chief inspector’s out there going over the place on his hands and knees, tapping on floorboards and picking up specks of dust. If there’s been an ashtray spilled in that room anytime in the last week, I reckon he’ll know the make of every cigar that was smoked there, and whether it was lit with a match or off the gas. That don’t mean he’ll catch the shooter, but if they give medals for diligence, I’d bet he’s already got a bushelful.”
“That’s really brilliant,” said Cedric Villiers, his voice dripping sarcasm. “The fellow putters about looking for clues, when he’s got near a dozen eyewitnesses sitting here. Why doesn’t he send out for another interrogator so as to speed things up? Or better yet, do some real work himself? I’ll wager I’m not the only one who had other plans for the evening.”
“Don’t sell the police short,” said Sir Denis. He sat next to his wife on the windowsill, which had been fashioned into a comfortable-looking bench, just wide enough for the two of them. I could have seen it as a pleasant spot for reading or conversation, in other circumstances. “I’ve heard of this Lestrade from my friends in the Home Secretary’s office,” he continued. “They call him one of the best men in Scotland Yard, an absolute terrier. Once he gets his teeth into a clue, he’ll not let go until he’s followed it home.”
Cedric Villiers snorted. “That’s not what I’ve heard. Word is, Lestrade’s too bullheaded to be any use. He might have been a good man once, but he’s let success and promotion go to his head. I can believe it, after what I’ve seen tonight.”
“We’ll find out soon enough how good he is,” said Mr. Clemens. “Lestrade came in and listened some while that young puppy was trying to pry me open. He seemed to think it was important that nobody heard the gun go off. I reckon he’s right, although I’m not so sure he has to look very far for the explanation. All that other noise—”
“Never mind the other noise,” said Sir Denis. “I know the sound of gunfire, and I’ll swear there wasn’t a weapon fired within yards of me tonight.”
“That ain’t the half of it,” said Mr. Clemens. “Lestrade’s right about one thing, if nothing else—if a man’s been shot, there’s got to be a gun somewhere. Where the hell is it?”
“I wonder . . .” It was Hannah Boulton who spoke, her voice tremulous. She was sitting on the foot of the bed, wringing her hands. She looked to Sir Denis, as if asking permission to speak, and he nodded to her.
“Could it be possible that the shot was not fired in this world?” she asked, her eyes wide. “That would explain why we neither heard nor saw the weapon, and why it cannot now be found.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Sir Denis, slapping his forehead. “I’ve never heard of such a thing, but yes, it might account for the missing gun. Do you think it’s possible, Clemens?”
“I wouldn’t waste time on that idea,” said Mr. Clemens, shaking his head. “It’s against all common sense, not that common sense is all that common anymore.”
“The spirits you heard tonight are real,” said Martha McPhee, quietly. “I know that as well as I know anything.”
“Maybe so, but that ain’t the question on the floor,” said Mr. Clemens, pointing downward. “Even if there is a spirit world, and even if we heard voices from it tonight, you’re going to have a pile of convincing to do if you want me to believe that some spook took a potshot at the doctor.”
“I’m surprised at your lack of imagination,” said Cedric Villiers. “Surely, Clemens, you aren’t going to rule out the possibility of a supernatural agency without due consideration.”
“You’re the ones who ought to be ashamed at your lack of imagination,” said Mr. Clemens. “You haven’t even begun to look at all the perfectly natural explanations for what happened there tonight. Why, there must be dozens of ways it could have been done.”
“Name one,” said Villiers, with a smile that conveyed no warmth at all. “Will you be so kind as to elucidate the matter with one of your perfectly natural explanations, Mr. Clemens?”
“That’s the police’s job, not mine,” said Mr. Clemens. “If you’re promoting the theory that Dr. Parkhurst was murdered by a spook, go right ahead. There’s no law I know against spreading damn-fool ideas. But don’t waste your breath on me—tell it to that Detective Coleman, when it’s your turn to talk. I guess he’ll give it all the consideration it deserves.”
“There, so much for his natural explanations. He as much as admits that he doesn’t have one,” said Villiers, turning to the rest of the room with a superior smirk.
“Now, I wouldn’t sell ol’ Sam short—” McPhee began, but he was interrupted by the door opening to admit Chief Inspector Lestrade, followed by Constable Wilkins.
“Where’s the fellow who says he was in the other room when the shot was fired?” said Lestrade, looking at the group.
“That’s me, sure enough,” said McPhee. “But I didn’t hear no shot, no more than any of the others.”
“And I suppose you knew nothing about the peephole in the wall, did you now?” Lestrade shook his finger under McPhee’s nose.
“Peephole? Why, no, nothing at all about it,” said McPhee, doing a creditable job of appearing surprised.
“How long have you occupied this flat?” Lestrade continued. His gaze was fixed intently on McPhee’s face.
“Five or six weeks, I reckon,” said McPhee, shrugging. “Something just over a month.”
“And you’ve been giving these spiritualist parties the whole time, have you not?”
“Well, off and on, you know. A nonstop party would get pretty tiresome, with all the goings-on—”
“Yes, the goings on must have been quite impressive,” said Lestrade. “Did you install the apparatus, or was it all here already?”
“Apparatus? What in the world do you mean?” said McPhee, his face all innocence. I’d seen exactly the same expression when he’d claimed to have cheated me in order to teach me a lesson.
“I thought it was rather peculiar to find three bellpulls in the foyer of a little flat like this, and none anywhere else,” said the chief inspector, a feral grin on his face. “What do you think happens when you pull them? Or perhaps you already know, don’t you, Mr. McPhee?”
“I reckon a bell rings somewhere, is all,” said McPhee, shrugging. “We’re just regular folks, can’t afford no servants, so we hardly even gave ’em a look, did we, Martha?”
“Why, no, we’re not at all used to that sort of luxury,” said Martha McPhee. “What exactly are you intimating, sir?”
“Why don’t I just show you?” Lestrade said. “These people ought to know exactly what kind of chicanery you were up to so they can make up their own minds about your spiritualist rubbish.”
“Inspector Lestrade, I am sorry to learn that you are so closed-minded,” said Hannah Boulton, disapproval plain on her face. “I would have hoped that the police might have some concern for things beyond this earth.”
“Rubbish I said, and rubbish I meant,” said Lestrade. “Come into the next room, the lot of you, and I’ll show you something to open your eyes.”
The Guilty Abroad Page 7
