The Mad Hatter Mystery dgf-2

by John Dickson Carr

  Suddenly Sir William put down his glass and stared at Dr Fell with narrowed eyes. `Excuse me, he said, in his jerky but wonderfully clear fashion, `I didn't catch your name at first. Dr Gideon Fell? — Ah, I thought so. I have been wanting to meet you, I have your work on the history of the supernatural in English fiction. But this damned business about hats…'

  Hadley said, brusquely `I think we've heard quite enough about hats, for the, moment. You understand that according to the story you told me we can't take official cognizance of it at the Yard. That's why I've summoned Dr Fell. There's no time to go into it now, but he has helped us before. I am not one of those fools who distrust amateurs. And it is particularly in his line. All the same… '

  The chief inspector was troubled. Suddenly he drew a long breath. Evenly he continued:

  `Gentlemen, neither am I one of those fools who call themselves thoroughly practical men. A moment ago I said we had heard quite enough about hats; and before I saw Sir William I thought so. But this second theft of his hat has it occurred to you that in some fashion (I do not pretend to understand it) this may relate to the theft of the manuscript?'

  `It had occurred to me, of course,' Dr Fell rumbled, beckoning the waiter and pointing to his empty glass, `that the theft of the hats was more than an undergraduate prank. It's quite possible that some scatter-brained chap might want to collect stolen hats a policeman's helmet, a barristers wig, any sort of picturesque headgear he could proudly display to his friends. I noticed the same habit when I was teaching in America, among the students. There it ran to signs and signboards of all kinds to decorate the walls of their rooms.

  `But this is a different thing, you see. This chap isn't a lunatic collector. He steals the hat and props it up somewhere else, like a symbol, for everybody to see. There's one other explanation, nonetheless..'

  Sir William's thin lips wore a wintry smile as he glanced from Rampole to the absorbed face of the doctor; but shrewd calculation moved his eyes.

  `You're a quaint parcel of detectives,' he said. `Are you seriously suggesting that a thief begins pinching hats all over London so that he can pinch a manuscript from me? Do you think I'm in the habit of carrying valuable manuscripts around in my hat? Besides, I might point out that it was stolen several days before either one of my hats.'

  Dr Fell ruffled his big dark mane with a thoughtful hand. `The repetition of that word "hat",' he observed, `has rather a confusing effect. I'm afraid I shall say "hat" when I mean almost anything else…: Suppose you tell us about the manuscript first — what was it, and how did you get it, and when was it stolen?'

  `I'll tell you what it was,' Sir William answered, in a low voice, `because Hadley vouches for you. Only one collector in the world — no, say two — know that I found it. One of them had to know; I had to show it to him to make sure it was genuine. The other I'll speak of presently. But I found it.

  `It is the manuscript of a completely unknown story by Edgar Allan Poe. Myself and one other person excepted, nobody except Poe has ever seen or heard of it…. Find that hard to believe, do you?'

  There was a frosty pleasure in his look, and he chuckled without opening his mouth.

  `I've never collected Poe manuscripts. But I have a first edition of the Al Araaf collection, published by subscription while he was at West Point, and a few copies of the Southern Literary Messenger he edited in Baltimore. Well! — I was poking about for odds and ends in the States last September, and I happened to be visiting Dr Masters, the Philadelphia collector. He suggested that I have a look at the house where Poe lived there, at the corner of Seventh and Spring Garden Streets. I did. I went alone. And a jolly good thing I did.'

  `It was a mean neighbourhood, dull brick fronts and washing hung in gritty backyards. The house was at the corner of an alley, and I could hear a man in a garage swearing at a back-firing motor. Very little about the house had been changed.

  `From the alley I went through a gate in a high board fence, and into a paved yard with a crooked tree growing through the bricks. In a little brick kitchen a glum-looking workman was making some notations on an envelope; there was a noise of hammering from the front room. I excused myself; I said that the house used to be occupied by a writer I had heard of, and I was looking round. He growled

  to go ahead, and went on ciphering. So I went to the other room. You know the type; small and low-ceilinged; cupboards set flush with the wall, and papered over, on either side of a low black mantelpiece.'

  Sir William Bitton obviously saw that he had caught his audience, and it was clear from his mannerisms and pauses that he enjoyed telling a story.

  `They were altering the cupboards. The cupboards, mind you.' He bent forward suddenly. `And again — a jolly good thing they took out the inner framework instead of just putting up plaster-board and papering them out. There was a cloud of dust and mortar in the place. Two workmen were just bumping down the framework, and I saw…’

  `Gentlemen, I went cold and shaky all over. It had been shoved down between the edges of the framework: thin sheets of paper, spotted with damp, and folded twice lengthwise. It was like a revelation, for when I had pushed open — the gate, and first saw those workmen altering the house, I thought: Suppose I were to find… Well, I confess I almost lunged past those men. One of them said, "What the hell!" and almost dropped the frame. One glance at the handwriting, what I could make out of it, was enough; you know that distinctive curly line beneath the title in Poe's MSS., and the fashioning of the E. A. Poe?

  `But I had to be careful. I didn't know the owner of the house; and he might know the value of this. If I offered the workmen money to let me have it, I must be careful not to offer too much, or they would grow suspicious and insist on more….'

  Sir William smiled tightly. `I explained it was something of sentimental interest to a man who had lived here before. And I said, "Look here, I'll give you ten dollars for this." Even at that, they were suspicious; I think they had some idea of buried — treasure, or directions for finding it, or something. The ghost of Poe, would have enjoyed that.’ Again that chuckle behind the closed teeth. Sir William swept out his arm.

  'But they looked over it, and saw that it was only — "a kind of a story, or some silly damn thing, with long words at the beginning." Finally they compromised at twenty dollars, and I took the manuscript away

  `As you may know, the leading authorities on Poe are Professor Hervey. Allen of New York and Dr Robertson of Baltimore. I knew Robertson, and took my find to him. First I made him promise that, no, matter what I showed him, he would never mention it to anybody.’

  Rampole was watching the chief inspector. During the recital Hadley had become — not precisely bored, but restive and impatient.

  `But why, keep it a secret?' he demanded. `If there, was any trouble about your right, you were at least first claimant; you could have; bought it. And you'd made what you say, is a great discovery.'

  Sir William stared at him, and then shook his head. `You don't understand,' he replied at length. `And I can't: explain. I wanted no trouble. I wanted this great thing, a secret between Poe and myself, for myself. For nobody else to see unless I chose.'

  A sort of pale fierceness was in his face; the orator was at a loss for words to explain something powerful and intangible.

  `At any rate, Robertson is a man of honour. He promised, and he will keep; his, promise, even though he urged me to do as you say, Hadley. But, naturally, 'I refused… Gentlemen, the manuscript was what I thought; it was even better.!

  'And what was it?' Dr Fell asked, rather sharply.

  Sir William opened his lips, and then hesitated.

  `One moment, gentlemen. It is not that I do not — ah — trust you. Of course not. Ha! But so much I have told openly, to strangers. Excuse me. I prefer to keep my secret a bit longer. Well enough to tell you what it was when you have heard my story of the theft, and decide whether you can help me.'

  There was a curious expression on Dr Fell's face; not conte
mptuous, not humorous, not bored, but a mixture of the three.

  `Suppose, you tell us,' he suggested, `the facts of the theft, and whom you suspect!

  'It was taken from my house in Berkeley Square at sometime between Saturday afternoon and Sunday — morning. Adjoining my bedroom upstairs I have a dressing-room which I use a good deal as a study. The greater part of my collection is, of course, downstairs in the library and my study there. I had been examining the manuscript in my upstairs study on Saturday afternoon.. '

  `Was it locked up?' Hadley inquired.

  `No. Nobody — at least, so I thought — knew of it, and I saw no reason for unusual precautions. It was merely in a drawer of my desk.'

  `What about the members of your household? Did they know of it?'

  Sir William jerked his head down in a sort of bow. 'I'm glad you asked that, Hadley. Don't think 'I shall take um brage at the suggestion; but I couldn't make it myself. At least — not immediately. Naturally I don't suspect them; ha!'

  'Naturally,' said the inspector, placidly. `Well?'

  'At the present, my household consists of my daughter Sheila, my brother Lester, and his wife. My nephew by marriage, Philip, has a flat of his own, but he generally eats Sunday dinner with us. That is all — with the exception of one guest, Mr Julius Arbor, the American collector.'

  Sir William examined his finger nails. There was a pause.

  `As to who knew about it,' he resumed, waving a careless hand; `my family knew that I had brought back a valuable manuscript with me, of course. But none of them is in the least interested in such matters, and the mere words, "another manuscript," was sufficient explanation.!

  'And Mr Arbor?'

  Sir William said, evenly: `I had intended to show it to him. He has a fine collection of Poe first editions. But I had not mentioned it.!

  'Go on,' said Hadley, stolidly.

  `As I have said, I was examining the manuscript on Saturday afternoon; fairly early. Later I went to the Tower of London…'

  `To the Tower of London?'

  `A very old friend of mine, General Mason, is deputy governor there. He and his secretary have done some very fine research into the Tower records. They wanted me to see a recently discovered record dealing with Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex. I returned home, dined alone, and afterwards went to the theatre. I did not go into my study then, and after the theatre it was rather late; so I turned in immediately. I discovered the theft on Sunday morning. There was no attempt at burglarious entry at any time; all the windows were locked, and nothing else in the house had been touched.'

  'Was the drawer locked?' Hadley asked. `No.'

  `I see. What did you do then?'

  `I summoned my valet,' Sir William's bony fingers rapped flatly on the table; he twisted his long neck, and several times started to speak before he resumed. `And I must confess, Hadley, that I was at first suspicious of him. He was a new man; he had been in my employ only a few months. He had the closest access to my rooms and could prowl as he liked without suspicion. But — well, he seemed too earnest, too dog-like, too thoroughly stupid at anything beyond his immediate duties. He was obviously upset and tongue-tied when I questioned him later, but that was a product of his natural dullness.!

  'And his story?'

  `He had no story,' Sir William said, irritably. `He had noticed nothing suspicious, seen nothing whatever. I had difficulty getting it through his head how important the thing was; even what I was looking for. It was the same thing with the rest of the servants. They had noticed nothing.'

  `What about the members of the — household?'

  `My daughter Sheila had been out all Saturday afternoon. When she returned, she was in the house only a short time, and then she went out to dinner with the chap she's engaged to.. General Mason's secretary, by the way. My brother Lester and his wife were visiting friends in the west of England; they only returned on Sunday evening. Philip -

  Philip Driscoll, my nephew — comes to see us only on Sundays. Consequently, nobody noticed anything suspicious at the time the manuscript could have been stolen.'

  `And this — Mr Arbor?' The other reflected, rubbing his dry hands together.

  `A very fine chap,' he answered. `Reserved, scholarly, a trifle sardonic at times. Quite a young man, I should say scarcely more than forty — Ah, what were you asking? Mr Arbor, yes. Unfortunately, he was not in a position to observe. An American friend of his had invited him to the country for the week-end. He left on Saturday, and did not return until this morning… That's true, by the way,' he added, dropping into normal speech and almost leering across the table; `I phoned up about it.'

  Hadley nodded. He seemed to be debating something.

  `I've brought you in a consulting expert,' he said slowly; nodding towards the doctor. `Dr Fell has come some little distance as a favour to me. Hence I shall wash my hand: of the business, unless you should find the thief and want to prosecute. But I should like to ask a favour it return.'

  `A favour?' Sir William repeated. `Good God! yes, of course! Anything, in reason, I mean.'

  `You spoke of your nephew, Mr Driscoll. `Philip? Yes. What about him?'

  `- who writes for the newspapers.. ‘

  `Oh, ah. Yes. At least, he tries to. I’ve exerted considerable influence to get him a real position on a newspaper. Bah! Between ourselves, the editors tell me he can turn out a good story, but he hasn't any news sense. Harbottle says he would walk through rice an inch deep in front of St Margaret's and never guess there'd been a wedding. So he's freelancing'

  Hadley turned an expressionless face and picked up the newspaper on the table. He was just about to speak when a waiter, hurried to his side, glanced at him nervously, and whispered.

  `Eh?' said the chief inspector. `Speak louder, man!… Yes, that's my name.. Right. Thanks.' He drained his glass and looked sharply at his companions. `That's damned funny.I told them not to get in touch with me unless. Excuse me for a moment.'

  What's the matter?' inquired Dr Fell. `Phone. Back in a moment'

  They were silent as Hadley followed the waiter. In Hadley's look there had been a startled uneasiness which gave Rampole a shock….

  He returned in less than two minutes, and Rampole felt something tighten in his throat. The chief inspector did not hurry he was as quiet and deliberate as ever; but his footfalls sounded louder on the tiled floor, and under the bright lights his face was pale.

  Stopping a moment at the bar, he spoke a few words and then returned to the table.

  `I've ordered you all a drink,' he said slowly. `A whisky. It's just three minutes until closing time, and then we shall have to go.'

  `Go?' repeated Sir William. `Go where?'

  Hadley did not speak until the waiter had brought the drinks and left the table. Then he said, `Good luck!' hastily drank a little whisky, and set the glass down with care. Again Rampole was conscious of that tightening sense of terror….

  'Sir William,' Hadley, went on, looking at the other levelly, `I hope you will prepare yourself for a shock:

  'Yes?' said the knight.

  `We were speaking a moment ago of your nephew.'

  `Yes? Well, good God! What about him?'

  'I'm afraid I must tell you that he is dead. He has just been found at the Tower of London. There is reason to believe that he was murdered.'

  The foot of Sir William's glass rattled on the polished table-top. He did not move; his eyes were fixed steadily and rather glassily on Hadley, and he seemed to have stopped breathing. At last he said, with an effort.

  `I–I have my, car here…. ‘

  `There is also reason to believe,' Hadley went on, `that what we thought a practical joke has turned into murder.

  Sir William, your nephew is wearing a golf suit. And on the head of his dead body, somebody has put your stolen top hat.'

  3. The Body at Traitors' Gate

  The Tower of London….

  Over the White Tower flew the banner of the three Norman lions, when William th
e Conqueror reigned, and above the Thames its ramparts gleamed white with stone quarried at Caen. And on this spot, a thousand years before the Domesday Book, Roman sentinels cried the hours of the night from Divine Julius's Tower.'

  Richard of the Lion's Heart widened the moat about a squat grey fortress, fourteen acres ringed with the strength of inner and outer ballium walls. Here rode the kings, stiff-kneed in iron and scarlet; amiable Henry, and Edward, Hammer of the Scots; and the cross went before them to Westminster, and the third Edward bent to pick up a lady's garter, and Becket's lonely ghost prowled through St Thomas's Tower.

  A palace, a fortress, a prison. Until Charles Stuart came back from exile it was the home of the kings, and it remains a royal palace to-day. Bugles sound before Waterloo Barracks, where once the tournaments were held, and you will hear the wheel and stamp of the Guards.

  On certain dull and chilly days there creeps from the Thames a smoky- vapour which is not light enough to be called mist nor thick enough to be called fog. The rumble of traffic is muffled on Tower Hill. In the uncertain light, battlements stand up ghostly above the brutish curve of the round-towers; boat whistles hoot and echo mournfully from the river; and the rails of the iron fence round the dry moat become the teeth of a prison….

  Rampole had visited the Tower before. He had seen it in the grace of summer, when grass and trees mellow the aisles between the walls. But he could visualize what it would be like now. The imaginings grew on him during that interminable ride in Sir William's car between Piccadilly Circus and the Tower.