by Molly Thynne
“That’s likely enough,” said Arkwright. “My men went over the building pretty thoroughly on Friday morning. I’ll take charge of this. Meanwhile, keep it to yourself, and in future don’t try those sort of games with the police. You can go now.”
“He deserves the sack for this,” said the manager, as the door closed behind him.
Arkwright shook his head.
“Give him another chance,” he advised. “Once a fellow’s got in a bit of a mess he thinks every man’s hand is against him. He’d evidently got the wind up thoroughly over this key, and, after all, he’d some excuse from his point of view.”
“You think he’s speaking the truth?”
“I do. And we’ll catch him out if he isn’t. We’ve looked up his Army record and it’s a good one. And he had a nasty gruelling in the War. My advice is, let him carry on. He’s had his lesson.”
On leaving the cinema he went down the side alley and tried the key in the lock of the stage door. It turned easily and the door swung open. Arkwright hesitated a moment and then passed quietly down the passage, and equally quietly opened the door of the room under the stage. As he did so, two men who had been sitting on the table, smoking, turned and stared at him. With a muttered excuse he withdraw and went out the way he had come, but by the time he had reached the end of the alley leading to the stage door, Binns, majestic in his frogged uniform, was waiting for him.
Arkwright stifled a smile as he saw the man’s truculence subside abruptly at the sight of his face.
“Got a message through from the orchestra that there was someone ’angin’ round the stage door,” Binns explained grudgingly. “We got order to keep an eye on this ’ere ally.”
“Quite right too,” agreed Arkwright cheerfully. “I was only having a look round. Has that order always been in force, or is it only since the murder?”
“Oh no, we’ve always been on the quee-vee like, on account of the boys. The management don’t like anyone ’angin’ round’ ere.”
His voice was venomous, but Arkwright, ignoring the implication, wished him a cheerful “Good evening” and strode off, a broad grin on his face. Walking, though he did not know it, in the footsteps of Constantine, he had established the fact that it would be practically impossible for anyone to have introduced the corpse into the Parthenon during any of the performances.
In the meantime, the attendant on duty in the Insect Department of the Natural History Museum was observing with interest, not unmixed with disapproval, the behaviour of an elderly gentleman who had hurried into the building about an hour before, cast an intelligent but unenthusiastic glance at the House Fly, recoiled before the realistic and greatly magnified reproduction of the Anopheles Maculipennis or Mosquito, and eventually come to rest opposite the Pediculus Corporis or Body Louse.
The gentleman’s absorbed interest in this unmentionable insect had not at first struck the keeper as unusual, but when, after a patrol of about twenty minutes, he returned to find him still riveted in front of the glass case, his eyes fixed in a glassy stare on its revolting occupant, he had begun to observe him more closely. Though quietly, even sombrely, dressed, his clothes, from his well-chosen and obviously expensive tie to his gleaming, rather square-toed shoes, spoke of Bond Street and Savile Row, and were worn in a manner that suggested the services of a valet.
Now it was not unusual for certain eccentrically clothed individuals, both male and female, to linger somewhat shudderingly over the less pleasing contents of certain of the glass cases, and on one occasion he had even surprised a member of the public furtively extracting a small object from an envelope and comparing it with the exhibit; but this old gentleman was not of the type that rents cheap flats in “converted” houses, only to depart hurriedly, leaving a trail of Keatings behind, neither did he bear the remotest resemblance to those erudite specialists to whom the Cimex Lectularius is a beautiful and absorbing manifestation of Nature.
The attendant, mildly perturbed, took another turn, only to find when he came back that the gentleman was still a fixture. He had taken off his hat and revealed a formidable crop of thick white hair. His hands being occupied with a pencil and notebook, he had placed his headgear irreverently on the top of the case, and was occupied in alternately consulting the book and tabulating its contents on the back of an old envelope.
The attendant was just coming reluctantly to the conclusion that he belonged to the noble fraternity of scientists after all, when the object of his attention, with a low exclamation, seemingly of triumph, pocketed his pencil, snapped the rubber band round his book, seized his hat and hurried from the building.
If the attendant could have followed him in his rapid transit across the road to the telephone-box in South Kensington Station and seen the number he dialled, his mystification would have been complete.
It is doubtful whether Constantine was even aware of the character of the highly educational exhibit at which he had been staring for so long. He had gone from New Scotland Yard to call on a friend in Queen’s Gate, and, finding him out, had been on his way to South Kensington Station when a sudden shower of rain drove him into the Museum.
Once inside, his mind had drifted back to the problem of Anthony’s death and certain perplexities that had been troubling him in connection with it. In spite of Arkwright’s assurance, he could not bring himself to believe that the case had solved itself so neatly. The utter meaninglessness of the whole affair bothered him, and there were certain discrepancies that had already cost him more than one sleepless hour and had actuated his strange request to Arkwright for the fingerprints of Anthony and Howells.
He brought out his notebook and studied the timetables it contained in a vain attempt to make them conform with the so far unjustifiable suspicion that had been gnawing persistently at his brain.
It was just at the moment when he had come reluctantly to the conclusion that it had no earthly foundation, that the possible solution of at least one of his difficulties came to him. Five minutes later he was telephoning to New Scotland Yard, and within ten minutes was in a taxi on his way to Westminster Embankment.
Arkwright was not at the Yard, but Constantine was well enough known and liked there to get what he wanted. Five minutes’ conversation with the constable who had seen Anthony on the Wednesday morning was all he asked, and, as it turned out, he had timed his visit to perfection. The man had just come off his beat, and unless he had already gone home, could be sent for immediately.
Constantine’s luck held, and he had hardly time to run through the copy of the constable’s report before he appeared in person.
“I won’t keep you a moment,” said Constantine, “but if you could go through this report with me I should be grateful. How plainly could you really see this man?”
The constable hesitated.
“Not any too well,” he admitted; “the bench on which he was lying was some way from the street lamp and it was a dark night, but he answered to the description all right. He gave his name and address too.”
“I know,” said Constantine. “I’m not questioning your report, but there are one or two details I wanted to verify. I see he was wearing a dark overcoat, broad-brimmed hat, black shoes and socks, with rubber heels to the shoes. In spite of the bad light, you can vouch for these?”
“Yes, sir. I’m certain the hat black, but I’m not so sure about the overcoat. It might have been a very dark blue or even grey.”
“And the socks and shoes?”
“The socks I didn’t see so well. They might have been some very dark colour like the coat, but I can testify as to the shoes. He was lying on the bench when I came up to him, and the soles of the shoes were the first thing I saw. I’d gauged him by them before he spoke, seeing as the soles were almost new. I could tell he wasn’t one of the usual lot.”
“What sort of shoes?” persisted Constantine.
“Narrow and pointed, with thin soles and circular rubber heels attached.”
“You’re sure o
f this?”
“Couldn’t be mistaken, sir. They were the one thing I did see really plain.”
“Now, about his voice. It was that of an old man?”
“Yes, sir. There was no doubt about it. And he was a gentleman.”
“I see he showed you some money. Did you notice his hands at all?”
The constable shook his head.
“I didn’t take any special note of them. There wasn’t anything unusual about them, so far as I can remember.”
“There’s no other little point you can think of, I suppose? Anything that has occurred to you since?”
“Nothing, sir. I included everything in the report at the time. If the light had been better it’d have been fuller, of course.”
“Considering the circumstances it does you credit. I’m sorry to have kept you.”
There was a chink, as coins changed hands.
Constantine’s next request was for permission to use the telephone. He rang up Steynes House and found that luck was still with him. Betty Anthony was in and kept him waiting only a moment.
Constantine read her the constable’s description of her grandfather.
“Is there anything in this that strikes you as unusual or curious?” he concluded. “Will you think carefully, please.”
“Will you read the account of his clothes again?” she said, with an odd note of excitement in her voice.
He did so and waited.
“It is wrong!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “My grandfather’s shoes were broad, with rather square toes. And he’d never worn rubber heels in his life. He hated them!”
CHAPTER XIII
THE proprietor of the coffee-stall in Guelph Street, just off Waterloo Road, had barely got his urn going and pulled up the flap over the counter when his first customer’s head and shoulders materialized out of the damp gloom of the February night.
Casting him an appraising glance, as he turned off the tap of the urn and pushed a steaming cup of coffee across the counter, he perceived a spruce, elderly gentleman regarding him with an unusually bright pair of dark eyes.
“A nasty night,” said his customer, with a singularly charming smile.
“That’s right,” agreed the proprietor. “Not but what it might be worse.”
Mindful of another old gentleman who had involved him in a journey across the river to New Scotland Yard, he proceeded to take more careful stock of this one. That he should be a good deal better dressed than most of his customers did not disturb him; he was accustomed to all sorts of clients at this job, but he was vaguely relieved to see that this one looked uncommonly well able to take care of himself. The other, seemingly had got himself into trouble on that Tuesday night.
Almost as though he had read his thoughts the old gentleman spoke again.
“I’ m afraid you’ve been rather worried with questions about a friend of mine whom you served just over a week ago,” he remarked apologetically. “A very distressing case.”
The proprietor eyed him with added interest.
“Friend of yours, was ’e?” he said. “’E’s caused me more than a bit of thought ’e ’as. Missin’ from ’is ’ome, so they said at the Yard, but, putting two and two together, it’s struck me it wasn’t ’alf likely as ’e was the old gent in the cinema case. Glad to see you. I’ve bin wantin’ to ask that question.”
“Well, the police have their own way of doing things,” answered the elderly gentleman, “and I don’t suppose they want it broadcast, but, as you’ve guessed so much, I don’t see any harm in telling you that you’re right.”
The proprietor propped himself comfortably on his elbows on the counter and settled down to a pleasant chat. Nothing stand-offish about this chap, anyway.
“I thought as much,” he said in a husky undertone. “’Oo done ’im in? Do they know?”
The customer shook his head.
“Not yet, I’m afraid. He seemed all right, I suppose, when you saw him?”
“In the pink. There wasn’t nothin’ wrong with ‘im then. Drunk ’is coffee, took a pinch of that there snuff of ’is, and off ’e went. ’E ’adn’t come to no ’arm then.”
The customer lifted the thick china cup and sipped his own coffee with every symptom of enjoyment. Manners, if he had been present, would have been shocked to the core, but Constantine, alas, was well out of the radius of his watchful solicitude. He pursued his interrogation with the most convincing mendacity.
“There’s some talk of my poor friend having hurt his hand earlier in the evening,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose you didn’t notice anything of the kind?”
“There wasn’t nothin’ wrong with ’is ’ands when ’e come ’ere,” asserted the proprietor with conviction.
“You saw them plainly?”
“As plain as I see yours. I see ’is nails even. Noticed them too. You don’t often see them that long, unless it’s some of them foreigners.”
Constantine smiled.
“Yes, he did wear them long. Funny you should have noticed it, but it is unusual, I suppose. He used to cut them in points.”
“That’s right,” agreed the man. “Long, pointed and polished. There’s no accountin’ for taste.”
“You didn’t happen to notice his left hand, I suppose?” pursued his interlocutor. “That’s the one they think was injured.”
“That I did, seein’ as ’e ’eld that there snuff-box right under my nose. There wasn’t nothing wrong with it.”
“Nothing wrong with the nails?”
“Not a thing. It was that ’and I noticed them on.”
Constantine drew a long breath. The possibility that had seemed so fantastic that afternoon was rapidly becoming solid fact.
His first impulse when he got home was to telephone to the Yard, but Arkwright forestalled him by ringing up before he had had time to get rid of his hat and coat.
“Sorry to disturb you at such an unearthly hour.” he said, “but I thought you’d like to hear the latest development. We’ve caught Carroll with the goods on him. He’s badly frightened, but he won’t say more than that he got the stuff at the Trastevere. We’ve been keeping an eye on the place since you dropped me that hint the other day, and there seems no doubt that the traffic’s been going on there for some time. Whether Civita’s involved or not is an open question, but we’ve managed to collect enough evidence to warrant a search. If we find anything I’m afraid your friend Civita will be for it!”
“If you can get him and hold him for a few hours I shall be delighted,” answered Constantine equably. “I’ll explain why when I see you to-morrow. You may expect me early.”
“We’ve a conference at twelve, and I’m afraid I’ve got my hands full till then,” said Arkwright, his voice sounding harassed.
“Better see me before the conference,” insisted Constantine. “It will save you both time and trouble.”
He heard Arkwright’s familiar low whistle.
“As urgent as that, is it? I say, sir, what’s up?”
“You’ll know when we meet. How early shall I find you?”
Arkwright chuckled.
“If it’s like that, we’ll say nine o’clock,” he said.
“Excellent. Meanwhile, will you have that card that was found in Anthony’s pocket-book tested for fingerprints?”
“What the dickens?” exclaimed Arkwright. “All right, I won’t waste time asking questions. The report shall be waiting for you.”
When Constantine arrived next morning he found him waiting for him, the report in his hand, astonishment on his face.
“Good God, sir, how did you get on to this?” he exclaimed.
Constantine’s eyes narrowed.
“Only one set of prints, eh?”
“A thumb and forefinger. Very clear and both unknown. That’s all! It’s a good surface too. I rang up Howells just now. He declares that neither he nor Anthony were wearing gloves when they handled the card. Do you realize what this means?”
“We
shall know that better when we’ve traced the prints that are on it, but I fancy it’s a foregone conclusion.”
Arkwright nodded.
“Only one person could have had any object in substituting this card for the original one,” he declared, “and that’s the person who identified it as the one he had written. Civita must have known all along that this is not the one he sent to Anthony.”
Constantine confronted him, his hands folder on the handle of his stick, his dark eyes gleaming.
“If I remember rightly,” he said, “the original card was enclosed in an envelope addressed to Anthony, and given by Civita to a waiter, who handed it to a page. The page gave it to Anthony. Is that right?”
“Yes. But I don’t see what you’re driving at.”
“Only this. Unless the page told him the message came from Civita, Anthony would have been unaware of the fact. It’s possible, even, that the page didn’t know who had sent it. We know, now, that this card is not the one that Anthony received. The question is, why was substituted?”
“Because the original card was too incriminating for our eyes. I think we may take it that it bore the message that sent Anthony to his death.”
“And Civita,” pursued Constantine, “deliberately concealed the substitution. There’s very little doubt now in my mind that he wrote the original card and was certainly responsible for the production of this one. My own opinion is that Anthony did not connect the first message with Civita at all.”
Arkwright stared at him, a puzzled frown on his face.
“I don’t quite see what you’re driving at,” he said. “Granted that the message was making an appointment for some place outside the Trastevere, there seems no reason why Civita should conceal his identity. After all, Anthony had come to the Trastevere to see him.”
“My impression is that, while Anthony would have been quite ready to meet Civita at the restaurant, he would have flatly refused to go to his private address. If Civita wished to get him there he would have to employ subterfuge.”
