Not knowing quite what to expect, I looked at Mr. Clemens, who shrugged. He took his wife on one arm and his daughter Susy on the other, and followed the chief inspector, who had spun on his heel and marched out into the main room. Along with the rest of those in the bedroom, I went with him, curious to see what the detective had discovered. I noticed, though, that McPhee and his wife exchanged a glance that to my eyes suggested quiet resignation to whatever the search had turned up.
Coming into the main room, I found it impossible not to glance at the couch where Dr. Parkhurst’s body lay. To my relief, someone had found a large bedspread and draped it over the body. Even so, I found a macabre urge to peek at the huddled mass under the covering, imagining its posture and terrible expression . . .
“Now, the lot of you stand here while I go into that outer room for a moment,” said Chief Inspector Lestrade, once we were all there in the main room. “Only this time, you’ll have the lights on and the door open.”
He strode through the door, and a moment later we heard a distinct rap from the vicinity of the table. “How’s that?” crowed Lestrade. “Here’s another!” And sure enough, there came another rap, just as predicted, from a different corner of the room.
Mr. Clemens strolled over to the doorway and looked through at the policeman. Behind him, I could see the faces of Detective Coleman and Mrs. Parkhurst, looking out at us. “Do that again, if you don’t mind,” my employer said. A pair of loud raps followed. Mr. Clemens turned and looked back at us, a mischievous smile on his face. “Well, Ed, I think I know why you had to leave the room after the lights went out,” he said.
“Let’s see what this one does,” came Lestrade’s voice, followed by the muffled ringing of a bell. “Oho, a regular orchestra we have here. But that’s not even the best part of it. Watch here, ladies and gentlemen.”
I was not quite certain where he meant, but it quickly became evident as a small oval picture on the wall swung quietly to one side, and Lestrade’s face could be plainly seen peering out the opening. “Here’s where your shot was fired from,” said Lestrade. “You’ll notice it’s in a direct line with the chair the victim sat in. An easy shot, especially if you’ve lined it up in advance.”
“That’s all well and good,” said Slippery Ed, who stepped forward, ignoring Martha McPhee’s hand on his elbow. “But I was in that room the whole time, and didn’t nobody come in and shoot that fellow. I’d have seen him, sure as you’re born.”
“Perhaps you should look in a mirror,” said Lestrade. “By your own admission, you were in this room when the shots had to have been fired. What’s more, you were in a perfect position to make loud noises just at the right time to prevent the shot’s being heard.”
“Hey, I didn’t shoot nobody,” said McPhee, a hurt expression on his face. “I never even seen the poor man before this very evening, ain’t that right, Martha?”
“What I’d like to know is, where did he put the gun?” demanded Cedric Villiers, strutting over to Lestrade. “There lies Dr. Parkhurst with a bullet through his head, so there must have been a gun. And yet, after searching the place from top to bottom, you’ve found no murder weapon. You haven’t a notion where it is, do you?”
“Not yet,” Lestrade admitted. “That’s a detail, but we’re good at piecing together details. This scoundrel may have had time to take the gun outside for disposal. Or—”
Whatever he was going to propose, he was interrupted by the opening of the outer door to admit a man I recognized as the one who’d been with McPhee on the doorstep when we’d arrived. “Hello, where’s Mr. McPhee?” he asked, his voice somewhat slurred. Then his eyes took in the constable’s uniform, and they opened wide for a brief moment before he turned and we heard his boots pounding as he beat a hasty retreat down the stairway. Constable Wilkins was after him in a flash, and I heard the constable’s whistle blow as he thundered down the stairs.
“There’s your answer, Villiers,” crowed Lestrade, turning to the astonished dandy. “McPhee’s accomplice took his gun away right after the shooting—by now, he’s pitched it in the Thames, or stowed it somewhere for future devilment, just as like.”
“A smashing bit of luck, what?” said Sir Denis DeCoursey, rubbing his hands. “You practically called your shot!”
“There’s still something I don’t understand,” said Mr. Clemens. “Why the hell would that man come back here, if he’d just taken away the murder weapon?”
“Your common criminal is a pitiful sort, at best,” said Lestrade, with an air of confidence. “Low mentality—you could see it written all over that man’s face. That’s why the criminal always returns to the scene of his crime, like a moth to a burning candle.”
“Maybe so, but you’ve missed the point,” said Mr. Clemens. “If he’s the one that ditched the gun, he knew what it was used for, and he’d make himself scarce around here. If he absolutely had to come back afterwards, he’d have been ready for the cops to be here. He’d have had a bulletproof alibi all ready, and a face as innocent as any choirboy. But the way he bolted just now, he didn’t have the faintest glimmer that he’d be walking into a roomful of constables and detectives—if he did, I’ll buy every man in Scotland Yard a drink.”
The chief inspector grimaced. “You’d lose that bet, or my name’s not Lestrade,” he said. “We’ll learn the whole story when Wilkins fetches him back for questioning. But I don’t think there’s any more reason to detain you all—Coleman will note down your names and addresses, and we can come by tomorrow or next day to record your statements. It’s as plain as the nose on your face, this fellow here pulled the trigger.” He pointed triumphantly at Slippery Ed McPhee.
There was a stunned silence. Every eye in the room turned toward McPhee, and those nearest him took a step back—so that where we had all been bunched together, there was now an open circle around Mr. and Mrs. McPhee.
“You wait a cotton-pickin’ minute, Mr. Scotland Yard,” said McPhee. He took a step toward Lestrade, his fist raised. Then Martha, her face grim, touched her husband on the arm, and he regained his composure. “I ain’t never pulled the trigger on a living soul,” he said firmly, “and you can take that to the bank. You ask Sam here—killin’ ain’t Ed McPhee’s style, no sir, and any man who says different is a bald-faced liar.”
Mr. Clemens rubbed his chin, then nodded. “I’ll grant him that much, Lestrade. Don’t get me wrong, now—I wouldn’t lend Ed two cents if he gave me the keys to the mint for collateral. But I don’t believe he’s got it in him to shoot a man.”
“If you’d spent as many years as I have at the Yard, you’d not be so quick to think you know what a man’s got in him,” said Lestrade, shaking his head.
“That may be true,” said McPhee, “but I never laid eyes on that poor doctor before this very night. I swear, I never shot him.” Suddenly I realized that as he spoke he had been edging closer to the half-open door out of the apartment.
Lestrade stepped forward and laid a hand on McPhee’s shoulder. “You’ll need to do better than that, Mr. McPhee. You had the means and the opportunity, and if you didn’t pull the trigger yourself, I wager you know the man who did.”
McPhee shook off the hand and turned suddenly toward the exit, but Sergeant Coleman had taken up a position between him and the door, and he seized McPhee unceremoniously by the arm, twisting it behind his back. “Be still now,” he said. “I must advise you that anything you say may be taken down and used against you in court.”
“You go ahead and do that, see if I care,” said McPhee, struggling. “You won’t find a single thing that’ll stick to me. As for Terry, he was just out having a couple of drinks, is all. He’s no more the accomplice than I am the killer.”
“His running away would seem to argue otherwise,” said Cedric Villiers. “Why flee so precipitously if he had nothing to worry about?”
“Well, from what I hear tell, over in this country an Irishman starts off with one foot in the hole,” said McPhee, starin
g Villiers in the eye. “Same as the colored back home. I guess Terry figured it was smarter to find out what the cops were after before he let ’em get their paws on him. I might have done the same, in his shoes.” McPhee sounded defiant, but it was easy to see that he was shaken.
“A lot of good it’ll do him,” said Lestrade. “Wilkins will fetch him back forthwith, and he’ll have the worse time of it for his efforts. Aha, I’ll wager that’s them now.”
Sure enough, the sound of footsteps came from the stairway. We all turned to look, but even before they reached the landing, we could tell that only one person was climbing the stairs. “I’m right sorry, sir. The rogue gave me the slip in the fog,” said a sour-faced Constable Wilkins, coming through the door. “I went over to the station to start the hue and cry, and then came back to lend an ’and ’ere.”
“I knew Terry was a spry one,” said McPhee, with something like pride in his voice. “Much as I wish he was here to back me up, I’m glad he’s still free. He’ll have a chance to get his wits about him before he tells his tale.”
“We’ll have the hue and cry on him before he’s gone a mile,” said Lestrade, his jaw jutting out. “Meanwhile, Constable, I’ll ask you to place Mr. McPhee under guard. We’ll take the names and addresses of these other ladies and gentlemen, and then we can let them go to their homes. We’ve got our murderer, or his right-hand man. We’ll know which it is once we’ve had a little talk down at the station.”
“You ain’t got nobody!” bawled McPhee. “I’m an innocent man, for once!”
“So say you,” said the chief inspector, with a superior smile. “So say they all. But the Detective Branch will learn the truth, or my name’s not Lestrade!”
8
Once McPhee had been arrested, the rest of us gave our names and local addresses and made our way back home. The whole affair had taken a surprisingly short time, considering how much had occurred—the séance, the murder, the police investigation, and the arrest—the clock on the mantelpiece was pointing to just a quarter past midnight as Mr. Clemens and I led his wife and daughters downstairs to the carriage.
I noticed as I left that Martha McPhee had, for the first time in my memory, lost her composure. She sat, disconsolate looking, on the sofa in the little foyer, watching the sitters at her séance bundle up for departure. Nobody seemed to be paying her any mind. I took a moment to step over to her and offer a mild word of encouragement. “Be brave,” I said. “If Mr. McPhee is innocent, the police will have to release him. I hope it won’t be long.”
She looked up at me with an anxious expression. “I hope you’re right,” she said. “He didn’t do it, Mr. Cabot. I won’t deny that Edward has been in trouble before, but he’s never really hurt anyone. Even Mr. Clemens will tell you that.”
“I’m sure everything will come out all right,” I said. I would have said more, but Mr. Clemens nudged my elbow, and so I tipped my hat to Martha and we hurried downstairs.
When we were all seated in the carriage, Mr. Clemens said, “Well, I reckon we got more of a show than we bargained for.”
“Rather more than I hope to see again,” said Mrs. Clemens. She and her daughter Susy sat next to each other, huddling close in the chilly night air. “Dear Lord, if I’d known ahead of time what sort of dreadful business was about to happen, I’d never have set foot in that house. But who could have known that Mr. McPhee was inviting us to a murder?”
“I don’t think he knew there was going to be a murder, Mama,” said Susy. “It would be a very stupid man who would plan a murder and then invite a dozen witnesses.”
“Slippery Ed ain’t as smart as he thinks,” said Mr. Clemens. “And he’s got enough brass to start his own Marine Band and still have change left over. If anybody ever thought he could get away with it, it would’ve been Ed.”
“If it wasn’t he, who could it have been?” asked Susy. “It must have been someone in the room, mustn’t it?” Her voice was surprisingly animated. I thought she sounded far less horrified than I at the bloody affair we’d just witnessed.
“That’s the way to bet,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I tell you right now, I’ve seen enough murder to last me the rest of my life. Somebody must have put out the word that Sam Clemens doesn’t have enough to keep him busy, and whoever arranges these things decided to throw a few cadavers in my way. Well, I’ve hit my limit. It was bad enough finding that fellow dead on the riverboat, but having somebody shot right in front of me is more than I bargained for. I’m swearing off the detective business. Let that Scotland Yard man do his job, and leave me out of it.” In the dim illumination from the street lamps outside, I could see him lift his eyes upward, as if addressing his words to a higher power.
“A wise decision,” said Mrs. Clemens, reaching over to touch his shoulder. “Leave crime to the criminals, and rely on the police to bring them to justice. I shudder to think what might have happened had that bullet gone astray tonight. Terrible as it was to see that poor man lying there so grievously wounded, it would have been far worse had it been one of us. What if it had been you, Youth?”
“Don’t you worry, Livy,” said my employer. “Writing’s my main line of business, and I mean to stick to it. I’ve dabbled a little at detecting, and I can’t deny there were a couple of times I thought I was pretty good at it. But enough is enough.”
I thought very much the same as we trundled along the streets of Chelsea, on our way to a long-overdue sleep that I fervently hoped would not be disturbed by images of poor Dr. Parkhurst with a bullet in his head. Surprisingly, I slept like a baby.
The next morning, Mr. Clemens was all business. If he had any further thoughts on the events of the previous evening, he kept them resolutely to himself. And apparently Mrs. Clemens had taken her daughters aside and forbade any discussion of those events at the breakfast table—although I had no doubt that Susy had regaled her sisters with the full story out of their parents’ hearing. Little Jean squirmed, full of curiosity, but one stem look from her mother was evidently enough to convince her that silence was the wiser course this morning.
After breakfast, my employer and I went into his office, and we began to work on the manuscript he’d brought to England for publication. Mrs. Clemens had read it over and made several suggestions, my employer had given it a final polishing, and now all that remained was the proofreading before we took it into the publisher’s offices.
We had gone through about a quarter of the manuscript, and all of a pot of coffee, when Mrs. Clemens entered, closing the door behind her. I could tell by her expression that she was not happy. “We have a visitor,” she said.
“Send ’em away,” said Mr. Clemens, gruffly. Then, catching something in the tone of his wife’s voice, he looked up and saw her face. “Oh, damnation. Is it that detective again? I guess he’s got some more fool questions.”
“No, it’s not the detective. I’d almost be happier if it were.”
“Who, then?” said Mr. Clemens. He put down the pages he’d been working on and rose to his feet.
“It is Mrs. McPhee,” said his wife. “I have already told her you would see her.”
My employer’s eyebrows moved upward half an inch. “I’d just as soon wash my hands of the whole swindling bunch of ’em. Be a blessing to humanity if the English just went ahead and hanged Slippery Ed, even if he didn’t shoot that man. But if you think I should see her . . .”
Mrs. Clemens nodded. “I do, Youth. Of course you must make your own decision whether to do anything once you have heard her story.”
“I can tell you right now what my decision’s going to be,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ll sit back down and finish reading this damned manuscript. But if you say I should talk to her, I will. Show her in here. Wentworth, why don’t you stay and listen? You know her better than I do.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and waited with heightened curiosity as Mrs. Clemens ushered Mrs. McPhee into the little office. I stood and let her take my chair, moving to an unobtrusive
position near the fireplace.
As always, Martha McPhee was attractively dressed, and her face betrayed no outward distress; but it was obvious to anyone who had been with her the previous evening that she must have spent a harrowing few hours since then. She held her back straight as she took her seat, declined the offer of something to drink, and came straight to the point.
“Mr. Clemens,” she said, “I am here in hopes of enlisting your help in clearing my husband of the allegations against him.”
Mr. Clemens raised his hand to halt her. “Young lady, I hate to disappoint you, but you’re talking to the wrong man. It don’t agree with my health to go chasing people with guns. That Scotland Yard detective is the one you need to talk to.”
“He’s ready to send Edward straight to the gallows,” said Martha McPhee. “I know very well that you believe you have reason to think ill of my husband, and perhaps he has in some ways deserved your opinion. But even you cannot suppose that he is a murderer.”
Mr. Clemens wrinkled his brow. “Ed’s a fraud and a swindler, even if he’s not a killer. Why should anybody with the tiniest regard for the public welfare want to turn him loose to prey on unsuspecting innocents again?”
Martha bowed her head. After a moment, she said, “For simple justice, Mr. Clemens. I will not pretend that Edward has led a blameless life—nor have I, to tell the truth. But whatever my husband may have done in the past, surely you cannot want to see him punished for something he has not done.”
“Hmm. What about imposing on respectable people with the idea of getting their money? I saw all those peepholes and bell ropes, and all that paraphernalia set up to make us think we were talking to spooks. Maybe there’s no law against it in this country, but that don’t mean it’s right.” My employer glared at Martha McPhee. “Come to think of it, you were up to your ears in that same business, weren’t you?”
Martha McPhee blushed. “Mr. Clemens, I fear you have found the chink in our armor. Yes, Edward set up those bells and that gramophone and those other effects. He persuaded me that they were necessary to put on a good show, as he described it. But whether you believe me or not, I tell you that every voice you heard, every word they spoke, was true and authentic.” I was almost ready to believe her, even knowing what I did of her.
The Guilty Abroad Page 8
