The Mad Hatter Mystery dgf-2

by John Dickson Carr

  `I'm hanged if I can see what he could do,' the chief inspector confessed. `Unless he simply sat tight and let his uncle suspect Arbor. But a nervous type like Driscoll would always have the horrible fear that his uncle might, somehow find out. What he'd want most to do would be get the thing out of his hands — quickly.'

  `Precisely! And that,' said Dr Fell, rapping his stick on the floor, `is where, for a second, he completely lost his head. He wanted to get it out of his hands. It was almost literally burning his fingers. He went out, on that misty day, and paced the streets. And with every step he was gravitating towards his uncle's house, with possibilities multiplying and whirling in his brain, until he lost his head altogether.

  `Hadley, do you, remember what time Sir William arrived this afternoon at the bar where he met us? It was close on two o'clock. And when he described the theft of his second hat to us, he said, "It happened an hour and a half ago, and I'm still boiling."' It happened, then, roughly, at about twenty minutes to one. Sir William was ready to make his monthly round of calls, as he told us and, as he also told us, they rarely varied. It was the afternoon for his monthly call on Driscoll, by the way. I believe be pointed that out…. His car was standing in the mist at the kerb. His chauffeur had gone down to buy cigarettes, and Sir William had not yet stepped out of the house. And Driscoll was there at the corner, watching it.'

  `I'm beginning to remember a lot of things Bitton said,' the chief inspector answered grimly. `He told us he saw somebody with his arm through the window of the car,

  fumbling with the side pocket' You mean — `Driscoll couldn't stand it any longer; and he wanted to shove the manuscript into the pocket of the car?'

  `I do. And he was prevented by Sir William's instant arrival on the scene. Sir William thought he was a sneak-thief. He didn't mind chasing sneak-thieves: He yelled, "Hi!" and charged — and Driscoll (probably instinctively) did the only piece of quick thinking I've known him to-do yet. He snatched Sir William's hat and darted away in the mist,

  'You mean…'

  `Instinctive experience, my boy. Because he knew the old man wouldn't chase him.'

  `Good,' said Hadley, in a low voice, after a pause. `Damned good. But you're forgetting one thing. He may really have put that manuscript into the pocket of the car and it may still be there.'

  Dr Fell blinked sadly at the mouse he had resurrected' from the floor:

  `Sorry, I'm afraid you're about eleven hours too late. You see, even in the rush of going to the Tower in Bitton's car, I didn't neglect to examine the pockets this afternoon. It wasn't there. Driscoll never put it in.'

  There was a faint smile on Hadley's face.

  `Now, then, let me reassemble my facts,', he suggested. 'You say Driscoll went out comparatively early this morning and never came back?'

  `Yes.'

  `He took the manuscript. But the stolen top-hat was here?'

  `probably.'

  `Also… the crossbow bolt was here?' `Yes.'.

  `Then,' said Hadley, with sudden grimness, `our case is complete. Lester Bitton came over here to see Driscoll this morning, when Driscoll was out. He let himself in with a key he borrowed from his brother, and returned to his home at noon, where Miss Bitton saw him coming in… what did she say?…. "shaken and laughing".

  `Anybody could have taken that crossbow bolt from the Bitton house. But only Lester Bitton could have stolen it from this flat. Anybody might have stolen Sir William's top hat. But, only Lester Bitton could have taken that top-hat from this flat to put on the head of the man he stabbed at the Tower of London, so that he could give Driscoll the fulfilment of his wish. And Driscoll did die in, a top-hat, with at least one woman to weep at his grave.'

  Dr Fell let his glasses fall on their black ribbon, and,massaged his eyes fiercely. `Yes,' he said from between his hands, in a. muffled voice. `I'd thought of that, too. I'm afraid it rather sews him up. That's why I asked Miss Bitton whether he was carrying anything when he returned.'

  They had not realized, in the slow passing of hours, how imperceptibly the night noises of London had faded. Even the muted roar, always in the background, had died until their voices sounded unnaturally loud. They had not been aware of the creaking of boards, or how sharply rose the singing of tyres when a late car hummed in the square. But even through a closed door they could hear the telephone bell.

  Sheila Bitton's voice could be heard, too, when she answered it. And in a moment she thrust her face round the door.

  `It's for you, Mr Hadley,' she said. `Something about a Mr Arbor. Is that our Mr Arbor?'

  Hadley almost broke into a run.

  16. What Was Left in the Fireplace

  Sheila Bitton jumped in astonishment when she saw the expressions on the faces of those who crowded past her. Her own expression indicated that it was undignified. She had discarded hat and coat, to show fluffy yellow hair tousled about; her head, and a dark frock with the sleeves now rolled up about the wrists.

  Hadley was at the telephone, and Dr Fell bent over him' in the little, study. On the doctor's face was an expression Rampole had never seen before he ' could not decide whether it was nervousness, or fear, or hope. But Dr Fell was certainly nervous. Rampole never forgot the weird picture they presented in that time…. Hadley listening intently to a buzz where words were almost distinguishable in the silent room; Dr Fell bent forward against the line of the bookshelves; the black ribbon on his glasses dangling, his shovel-hat on the back of his head.

  Silence, except for the faint, rapid voice in the telephone. Hadley spoke only twice, in monosyllables. Then, without hanging up the receiver, he turned.

  'Well?' demanded Dr Fell.

  `It worked. Arbor, left his friends, the Spenglers, early in the evening, and Spengler walked with him to his cottage. Our plain-clothes man was watching from the garden; he'd got his instructions already, and he seems to have played up to them. First Arbor went through the cottage, switching on all the lights, but he immediately closed the shutters after he'd done it. There are diamond-shaped holes in the bottoms of the shutters, though, and the constable worked close enough so that he could look in through the holes.

  `Arbor and his friend were in one of the front rooms, where the covers hadn't been taken off the furniture. They were sitting in front of the fire, playing chess, with a bottle of whisky beween them, and Arbor looked nervous. This, I judge, was about two hours ago. Then the constable got busy. He walked up and down loudly on the gravel, and then dodged round the side of the house. In a moment Arbor's friend, Spengler, opened the shutters and looked out then he closed them again. That sort of game went on for some time. They phoned for a policeman and the policeman flashed his bull's-eye all round the garden, but of course he didn't find our man. When it had all quieted down again, and our man was back at the window, he decided to rush matters. Arbor seemed to be trying to persuade Spengler of something, and Spengler wouldn't listen. Then our man went back and rattled the knob of the scullery door. The next minute he was around the side of the concrete garage, and it's a good thing he was. Somebody opened the scullery door and stuck out a revolver and began firing shots blindly all over the, garden. That brought down all the policemen within half a mile; there was a devil of a row and Spengler had to show his pistol permit. When the row quieted down, Arbor insisted on going to the station with them and getting in touch with me. And he insists on speaking to me personally.'

  Dr Fell did, not look as pleased as circumstances seemed to warrant.,

  `What are you going to do?''

  Hadley glanced at his watch and scowled. `It's almost ten minutes past twelve…. H'm. But I'm afraid to put it off until morning. He'll get a return of cheerfulness with daylight, and he may decide not to talk. We've got to catch him while he's in a funk.'

  `Why not bring him here?'

  `I don't suppose there would be any objection…?' Hadley looked at Sheila Bitton. `That's best. Dalrye can take Miss Bitton home. Yes, that's it. I'll have him brought in a police car.'r />
  `Wouldn't he talk over the telephone?'

  `No. For some reason, the man seems to have developed an unholy horror of telephones…. Well? Hadley gave brief instructions to the other end of the wire, and hung up. `Fell, what do you think he knows?'

  `I'm afraid to tell you what I think. I’m literally afraid. Remember, I asked you the same question when we decided Driscoll was stabbed in the tunnel of the Bloody Tower, with Mrs Bitton at one end and Arbor at the other.. ' He had, been mumbling, and now he stopped short, altogether as he remembered Sheila's presence. The girl was behind Dalrye in the passage, and apparently had not caught words which might have caused unnecessary questions. The doctor peered towards the passage, and chewed the end of his moustache. `Never mind. We shall know soon enough.'

  Hadley was examining the study. Sheila Bitton had added to its disorder. In the centre of the floor she had been piling all sorts of mementoes: a couple of silver cups, framed photographs of sport groups, a cricket bat, a runner's jersey, a china mug.

  `I wish you men would, get out!' the girl's voice complained fretfully. She pushed her way past Dalrye with dolllike aggressiveness. `Everything is in such a mess! Phil would never keep tidy. And I'm sure I don't know what to do with his clothes. There's one brand-new nice grey hat I know belongs to Daddy, because it's got that gold lettering he uses on the inside, and how it came to be here I can't think.'

  `Eh?' demanded Hadley. His. eyes narrowed and he looked at the doctor. `Do you think he came back here after he'd… I mean, just before he went to the Tower?'

  'I'm fairly certain he did,' Dr Fell answered. `After he'd done what you're thinking about, he still had over twenty minutes to get to the Tower in time for his appointment, you remember. But he was twenty minutes late for it… It's all right, Miss Bitton. Just put the hat aside with the other things.'

  `Anyhow, I hope you'll get out,' she said, practically. 'Bob, you might call Marks and have him take an armload of those things out to the car. I'm filthy, absolutely filthy.

  And he's got oil spilled all over the desk where the typewriter is, and a piece of sharp stone I almost cut my finger on:

  Hadley turned round slowly to inspect the desk. Rampole had an image of Driscoll sitting under the green-shaded lamp in this cluttered room, patiently sharpening the crossbow bolt which was to be driven into his own heart….

  `Whetstone,' murmured the chief inspector. 'And the typewriter…. By the way, Doctor, you found the tool you wanted, right enough; but I remember you said you were looking for something in his typewriter. What was it?'

  "I was looking for the beginning of a certain news-story which gave an account of something before it occurred: I mean that little business at No.10. I wasn't sure he'd started it, but I thought I'd better have a look in case you didn't believe me. It wasn't in his typewriter, but it was on the desk I have it in my pocket. If he intended to scoop Fleet Street, you see, he wanted time to prepare a corking good story before the other reporters even heard of it. But there was such a litter of manuscript I almost overlooked it. He's been doing a bit of dabbling with fiction, too, I see'

  Sheila Bitton stamped her foot. `Oh, good gracious, will you get out? I think it's mean of you, when poor Phil's dead, to sit here in his room like this, just talking. And if you want any of that writing, or all those papers, or anything, you'd better tell me, because I'm just going to put it all in a suit-box and take it home for Daddy; he'll want to keep it. Besides, some of it's burnt in the fireplace and you can't have it, and I looked in there because it was written in longhand and it might be a letter. She paused and flushed suddenly: `Anyway, it was just an old story. '

  `Oh my God!' said Dr Fell.

  His great bulk lunged across the room to the toy fireplace with its bright-red bricks round the grate. He added, `Get your, flashlight, Hadley,' and bent to his knees, pushing away the iron fender. There was a startled expression on the chief inspector's own face as he yanked out his flashlight.

  The fireplace was full of charred and feathered paper. As the bright beam played inside, they saw that the edging of some of the paper not wholly burned was of a dull mauve colour, blackened by smoke.

  `The "Mary” letters,' Hadley said, as Dr Fell tried lightly to lift the mass. `All that's left of them.'

  Dr Fell grunted wheezily. `Yes. And here underneath them…'

  He tried to draw it out gently, but it was only a delicate black shell, and it crumpled to ash. All that remained were a few smoke-fouled inches at the top. It had been a very thin sheaf of damp-stained sheets, folded three times lengthwise, and now open. Holding it gently, in his open palms, Dr Fell put it close to, Hadley's light. There had been a title, but the smoke had, yellowed and obliterated it; likewise it had obliterated all the letters in the corner except; an ornate 'E.' But, in brown and curly script, they, could faintly see a number of lines which the fire had not destroyed:

  'Of the singular gifts of my friend the Chevalier Auguste Dupin, I may, one day speak. Upon my lips; he has placed a seal of silence which, for fear of displeasing the eccentricities of his somewhat outre humour, I dare not at present violate. I can, therefore, only record that it was after dark one gusty evening in the year 18- that a knock sounded at the door of my chambers in a dim, decaying pile of buildings of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and…'

  'There it is,' the doctor growled in a low voice, after a pause. `All of him, in the start of one paragraph. The finger on the lip. The suavity, the hint of deadly secrets. The night, the night wind, the distant city, the date mysteriously left blank, the old and crumbling house in a remote quarter… H'm. Gentlemen, you are looking at all that is left of the first detective story ever written by Edgar Allan Poe.'

  Hadley arose and switched off his light. 'Well,' he said, gloomily, `there goes ten thousand pounds. It's a good job Arbor doesn't have to pay the rest of his agreement to that fellow in Philadelphia.'

  'I hate having to tell this to Sir William,' muttered Dalrye. 'Good God he'll be a maniac. It's a pity Phil couldn't at least have kept the thing….'

  `No!' said Dr Fell, violently. `You don't see the point. You don't grasp, it at all, and I'm ashamed of you…. What happened?'

  `He burnt it,' Hadley returned. 'He was so terrified at nearly being caught when he tried to return, it, that lie came home and, chucked it in the fire.'

  Dr Fell pushed himself to his feet with the aid of his cane. He was fiery with earnestness.

  `You still don't understand. What happened? Who knocked at the door of this man's house in the Faubourg SaintGermain? What terrible adventure was on the way? That's what you should think of, Hadley…. I say to, you, to hell with whether this manuscript is preserved for some smug collector to prattle learnedly about and exhibit to his friends like a new gold tooth. To hell whether: it cost ten thousand pounds or a halfpenny. What I'm interested in is what magnificent dream of blood and violence began with that knock at the door.'

  `All right, to hell with it,' the chief inspector agreed mildly. `If you're really so curious, you can ask Bitton about the next instalment. He's read it'

  Dr Fell shook his head. `No,' he said. `No, I'm never going to ask. That last line will be a deathless "to be continued in our next" for me to weave answers about it all the rest of my life.!

  'Well, let's' get out,' the chief inspector suggested. 'Whatever you want to dream about, that fireplace has at least one thing to tell us. The manuscript was lying under those burnt "Mary" letters. Driscoll burnt the manuscript before he left here on his way to the Tower. Mrs Bitton broke in at five o'clock, and destroyed the evidence against her.'

  `That's right, I know,' the doctor said, wearily. `Look here. I've been several hours without a drink.; If we could find one hereabouts.?'

  `Sound enough,' said the chief inspector. `Then I'll outline my case to you.'

  He led the way out of the little room and down to the forlorn dining-room, where he snapped on the lights of the mosaic dome over the table. Undoubtedly, Rampole thought, that d
ome had come with the flat; it was of ornate ugliness, with golds and reds and blues jumbled together; and it threw a harsh, weird light on their faces. Curiously enough, the impalpable presence of the dead man was stronger here than anywhere else. It was growing on Rampole with a ghostly and horrible reality. On the mantelpiece of this dusty dining-room, a marble clock with gilt facings had stopped; stopped many days ago, for the glass face was thick with dust. But it had stopped at a quarter to two. Rampole noted the coincidence with a vivid memory of Driscoll lying white-faced and sightless on the steps of Traitors' Gate. He stared at the pieces of orange peel on the spotted cloth of the table, and shuddered.

  `Sorry' he observed, with a sort of jerk and without conscious volition. `I can't drink his whisky. It doesn't seem right, somehow!

  'Neither can I,' said Dalrye, quietly.

  He sat down at the table and shaded his eyes with his hand.

  Dr Fell turned from rummaging at the back of the sideboard, where he had found some clean glasses.

  'So you feel it too, do you?' he demanded.

  'Feel what?' asked the chief inspector. `Here's a bottle nearly full. Make mine strong. ' Feel what?'

  `That he's here,' said Dr Fell. 'Driscoll.'

  Hadley set down the bottle. 'Don't talk rot,' he said, irritably. `What are you trying to do throw a scare into us? You look as though you were beginning to tell a ghost story.'

  `Listen, Hadley. I'm not talking about ghost stories. I' won't even say premonitions. But I'm talking about a wild surmise I had earlier in the evening, when we were talking to Lester Bitton. There was a tiny germ of reason in it, and it frightened me. Possibly it's stronger now because the hour's so late and we're none of us at our brightest…. By God! I'm going to take this drink and several others, because I genuinely need 'em. I advise the rest of you to do the same.'