by Molly Thynne
He led the way into Civita’s bedroom and pointed to a framed photograph that hung over the mantelpiece.
Arkwright examined it in silence. Then he turned to Constantine, amusement struggling with annoyance, and spoke.
“Except that it shows our friend Civita in a new light, I fail to see its significance. He looks a hefty chap enough, but I shouldn’t have put him down as an athlete.”
The photograph showed Civita standing in the front line of a group of men dressed, apparently, in running kit. That it had been taken some years ago was evident. Civita was noticeably younger and a good deal thinner, but the likeness was unmistakable.
“The interesting point about the group, to me, is the nationality of most of the members,” said Constantine.
Arkwright nodded.
“They’re Japs, most of them. I’m only a wretched policeman, I know, but I’m not blind!” he said plaintively. “Looks like one of those ju-jitsu conventions. You don’t want to take this, too, do you? It’s about the first thing Civita would miss when he came back to the flat, but don’t let that deter you!”
Constantine gave vent to a low chuckle. Arkwright, looking at him, realized that he was in one of his most impish moods, his dark eyes alight with a secret glee that, while it spurred Arkwright’s curiosity almost to frenzy, warned him that any questions were fruitless at this juncture. He had worked often enough with Constantine by now to recognize these manifestations and to know that, tantalizing though they were, they invariably meant that the old man had stumbled on something of real importance. Even so, he was hardly prepared for his final pronouncement, delivered casually as they tied up the parcel of curtains in the hall.
“You’ll never get Civita for the Anthony murder,” he said, “though I’m absolutely convinced in my own mind that he’s guilty. You can prove that he’s Bianchi. I don’t think Howells will disappoint us there. And you can prove that he lied about the cards and deliberately misled you, but he’s a clever devil, and his explanation, when he does give it, will be a good one. With Meger dead it will be difficult to pin him, even as an accessory. And a term of imprisonment for drug traffic seems sinfully inadequate for the murderer of a decent, harmless old fellow like Anthony. All the same, whenever you drag me into one of your unsavoury messes there comes a moment when I realize that the problem is not a chess problem after all, and that the pieces are not chessmen, but human beings. I wish, then, that I’d stuck to my own game and left you to play yours.”
Arkwright tied the last knot and tucked the parcel under his arm. He was puzzled. Constantine’s elation seemed to have left him, and he sounded tired and disheartened.
“If you played my game a bit oftener,” he said, “you’d soon learn to take set-backs of this sort philosophically. If the public knew of the times we have to hold our hands through lack of sufficient evidence when we’re morally certain that we’ve got our man, perhaps they wouldn’t blame us so much. But you’re right. Civita will get away with this, though we’ll do our best to get him a stiff sentence for the drug racket. All the same, I’m disappointed. I thought, when you were so devilish mysterious over those curtains, that you were going to deliver him into our hands.”
“I’m afraid I am,” admitted Constantine, with a regret that the astonished Arkwright realized was perfectly genuine. “But not for the murder of Anthony. If you’ll come to my flat to-morrow I think it’ll be worth your while, but, extraordinary as it may seem, having reached the point towards which I’ve been working, I’m conscious only of hating the whole business so much that, if it wasn’t for the thought of old Anthony and that girl, I should step out altogether and leave things to take their course. I’ve drunk Civita’s wine and spent more than one pleasant hour in his company.”
“I’ll come to you any hour you like to name,” said Arkwright, watching him closely.
He recognized Constantine’s mood now. The pursuit of the criminal would always be a game to the old man, in the excitement of which he was apt to forget the inevitable end should he be successful, and it was only when within sight of his goal that the reaction would set in and he would swear never again to get involved in one of Arkwright’s cases. He looked old now and tired, and Arkwright made up his mind to get him home and deliver him into the capable hands of Manners as soon as possible. Not for worlds would he have put his thoughts into words, though. Instead, he said:
“Unless you’d rather I came along to-night, sir?”
But Constantine shook his head.
“I’m not ready for you yet,” he said. “In fact, unless I can get hold of the person I have in mind, I may have to ask you to wait, after all. If you drop me and my parcel at the flat on your way, I’ll see what I can do.”
Constantine’s first act on reaching home was to write a note. This he handed to Manners when he called him next morning.
“Get off with this as soon as you can,” he said. “If the gentleman has moved from this address, find out where he’s gone, and, if possible, get hold of him. If he’s left England, ring me up here from the nearest call-box. It’s urgent.”
But the call did not come. Instead, less than an hour later Manners arrived, accompanied by a small, squat, sallow personage, with polished black hair, who greeted Constantine with many bows and frequent dazzling displays of white teeth, and who departed half an hour later still smiling and genuflecting.
Early in the afternoon he returned, bringing with him a companion, slightly taller but in every other respect so like him as to be almost indistinguishable.
When Arkwright arrived he found Constantine in close conversation with the two little men, who had taken off their coats and revealed immaculate, sleeveless white sweaters. Civita’s black curtains lay on the table beside them.
“May I introduce Mr. O. Nakano and Mr. Naito,” said Constantine. “Mr. Nakano, whom you no doubt recognize, is one of the finest exponents of ju-jitsu in England to-day.”
Arkwright, who, far from recognizing Mr. Nakano, felt convinced that, should he ever meet him again in the company of any of his compatriots, he would be totally unable to distinguish him, took warning from the twinkle in Constantine’s eye and contented himself with polite but inaudible mumblings.
Bows ensued, in which he manfully did his part, then the party reseated itself. Constantine came to the point at once.
“We agreed yesterday,” he said, “that we should never succeed in bringing a certain friend of ours to justice for a crime we are morally certain he has committed. Unfortunately, or, I suppose, fortunately for us, one murder is apt to lead to another, if the murderer is to keep his secret intact. I am convinced that that is what happened in this case, and I think I can prove it to you.”
Arkwright glanced from the pile of velvet on the table of Constantine.
“Meger?” he queried, his voice frankly incredulous.
“Meger knew too much and he paid the penalty,” agreed Constantine. “As regards the exact details of his murder we shall remain in ignorance, I suppose, but I can tell you more or less how it was engineered. I think we may take it that he was almost helplessly drunk at the time. We know that that was his failing, and he had probably been plied purposely with drink all day. When he was picked up, after his fall, he was so badly injured that it would be difficult to say precisely what had been the exact cause of his death. But one of those injuries, at least, had been inflicted before the accident, and the man Carroll saw pitch out of the window was already dead.”
Arkwright opened his mouth to speak, but Constantine stopped him with a gesture.
“Wait till I’ve finished, then put any questions you like. I believe I can answer them satisfactorily. Briefly, what happened would seem to be this: the murderer, who was alone in the flat with his victim, first of all broke his neck. No, don’t interrupt; given a man helpless with drink, it’s not so fantastic an assumption as you may suppose. He then set his scene. Exactly how he went to work I don’t know, but I should imagine it was something like this:
he went up to his sitting-room, which, as you know, is immediately above the murdered man’s room, knotted together the four velvet curtains on the table there, making an enormous loop. The two ends of the loop he tied to the rail of the balcony outside the sitting-room window, arranging them so that the bottom of the noose hung just outside the window of the room below. Then he went downstairs, arranged the dead man, half in, half out of the window, with the loop of the curtains round his body, just under the armpits, being careful to adjust the body so that the greater part of the weight was outside the window. Then he left the room, turning out the light. This is an important point to remember, and was essential to the success of his scheme. It was a dark night, and, with the lights out, anyone entering the room would see merely the dark figure of Meger, apparently leaning far out of the window.
“At the precise moment that the witness switched on the light, Meger fell. The chances were a thousand to one against his seeing the black velvet as it was drawn swiftly upwards, the man upstairs having cut one end of the improvised rope at the point at which it was attached to the balcony, thus freeing the noose and releasing the body, which would pitch forward of its own accord into the well below, the light from the window below giving him the signal to act. After that, he would simply leave the curtains on the balcony until he had an opportunity to retrieve them.
“Carroll, as we know, collapsed completely as the result of what he had seen, and there would have been plenty of opportunity to get rid of the curtains before the police came on the scene, though, again, the chances were a thousand to one against their going out on to the balcony of the sitting-room. Certainly we didn’t do so, though, of course, we can’t answer for the local people when they first arrived. In any case, it’s immaterial whether the curtains were on the balcony then or already in the cupboard in which we found them. The point is that they had been used, and, if you look at them carefully, you will see the marks made by the knots, and the jagged edge where the piece is missing that was cut to release them. Added to that, I found these, caught in the ornamental ironwork of the balcony.”
He took an envelope from his pocket and shook three tiny fragments of velvet fringe on to the palm of his hand.
“I think,” he said, “if you compare these with that bit of fringe that was entangled in Meger’s coat-button you will find they match. It seemed insignificant when I found it, but, the moment I saw the curtains and noticed their condition, it took on a new aspect. I’m afraid I bundled them up rather hastily! I wasn’t anxious, then, for you to examine them more closely. If you had, you’d have realized, as I did, that the rings on them showed no sign of dirt or rust—in fact, they were practically new. It seemed incredible that anyone would have put new rings on curtains in that state, and I was forced to the conclusion that they’d been reduced to that condition since the rings were put on. Remembering the piece of fringe we found on Meger’s body, I began to ask myself how.”
Arkwright was already examining the curtains. The fringe undoubtedly tallied with the fragments Constantine had found on the balcony.
“It’s a brilliant piece of reconstruction, sir,” he said reluctantly, “but the idea’s so fantastic that I can’t bring myself to accept it yet. If it’s true, Civita took a colossal risk in carrying it out.”
Constantine turned on him impatiently.
“Risk? Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “That unfortunate creature, Carroll, was in no condition to observe details at the best of times, and I assure you that black velvet is practically invisible on a dark ground. And you must remember that Carroll’s attention was focused on the man the moment he saw him beginning to fall.”
The two Japanese had been sitting motionless and impassive as a couple of idols while their host had been engaged in his little dissertation. With the natural courtesy of their race they had given their attention to what he was saying, but had shown no emotion save that of polite interest until now. At Constantine’s last words, however, the smaller of the two rose to his feet and approached the table.
“You excuse me, yess?” he enquired blandly, as he swept one of the curtains over his arm.
Motioning to his companion to help him, he picked up a chair and carried it to the window, which he opened wide. Before the two men realized what he was doing he was outside, standing precariously on the ledge. He moved sideways, still carrying the curtain. There was a moment’s pause, then:
“He says, can you see anything?” volunteered the other Japanese, turning to Arkwright with a flashing smile.
Slipping a hand into his pocket he produced an automatic lighter, snapped it into flame and held it to the window.
The light flickered and wavered in the draught, but it revealed, swaying gently in the breeze, the velvet curtain that his companion was holding suspended at arm’s length outside the window.
“By Jove, it could be done!” exclaimed Arkwright.
He made for the window.
“For goodness’ sake come in!” he called out. “One smash up of that sort’s enough for one week!”
There was a low laugh, and the figure of the little Japanese slithered through the opening, trailing the curtain after him.
“I thought I show you,” he smiled, “but that is not what I come for.”
He turned to Constantine.
“Shall we begin, yess?”
“If you please,” answered Constantine.
With the help of the two Japanese he cleared a space in the middle of the floor.
“Watch this,” he said to Arkwright in a low voice. “I’ve a very shrewd suspicion that this is how Civita worked the thing.”
The taller of the Japanese took up his position near the door, then lurched into the middle of the cleared space in a grotesque imitation of a drunken man. His companion approached him, slipped an arm through his as though in support.
Then, with a movement swift and smooth as running water, he swung the other man behind him till he had him with his chest pressed against his back between the shoulders. In the course of the movement he had brought his victim’s arms over his shoulders from behind, and was supporting him by holding his wrists together with his left hand on a level with his chest, the recognized position for carrying a wounded or otherwise helpless man.
Thus burdened, he advanced a few steps, then, with a lightning movement, bent suddenly from the waist, holding the man’s wrists in a firm grip as he did so. The taller Japanese shot over his head, turned a complete somersault, and landed neatly on his feet.
Both men stood beaming at their audience.
“But I did not hold his head,” remarked the smaller of the two. “Oh no!”
“That’s a recognized way of disposing of an assailant who comes on you from behind and gets his arms round your neck,” explained Constantine. “I don’t know whether your men are taught ju-jitsu, but, if they are, you’ll recognize the throw. The interesting point, to us, about it is that, if you catch the back of your man’s head as he comes over and hold it, you cannot fail to break his neck. When I saw that photograph I recognized Mr. Nakano, whom I have known ever since he first came to England and whose performances I’ve often watched with interest. I got in touch with him this morning, and discovered not only that he knew Civita but that he had been one of Mr. Nakano’s star pupils. Isn’t that so?” he concluded, turning to the Japanese.
Mr. Nakano executed a series of little bows.
“Very fine performer, Mr. Civita,” he agreed. “He knows all the holds. Fine, big man, very strong. That throw we show you, he can do that any time.”
“There’s no doubt about it’s being possible to kill a man that way, I suppose?” demanded Arkwright.
The little man’s eyes shone with gleeful mirth.
“Not possible, easy,” he assured him. “With that throw you must be very, very careful. If you touch your man’s head, he die, like that—crack!”
He snapped his fingers joyfully.
Arkwright’s lips twitched.
“T
here seem possibilities about this game that I’ve never realized,” he remarked. “Don’t you find chess rather tame in comparison, sir?”
“If I were ten years younger I might,” agreed Constantine. “It would be a pleasant experience, for instance, to feel you as wax in my hands.”
Mr. Nakano ran an appraising eye over Arkwright’s huge form.
“Very great, strong man,” he said, “but Doctor Constantine he would throw you if he had the training. I am a little man, smaller than Doctor Constantine, but I will demonstrate, if you like, yess?”
Arkwright, with surprising lightness and agility, placed the table between him and the Japanese.
“No, thank you,” he assured him. “But I’m very grateful to you for your exhibition. You’re positive that Mr. Civita is capable of executing that throw?”
The Japanese bowed.
“I taught him to do it,” he said simply, “and I have watched him, not once, but many times.”
“Good enough,” agreed Arkwright.
He picked up the curtains.
“I’ll take these exhibits,” he said, “and see what the Assistant Commissioner has got to say about them, but I think we’ve got a case. Civita came out on bail this morning, by the way.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t miss his property,” remarked Constantine with a smile as he turned to accompany his two other guests to the door.
“We’ll have to gamble on that,” said Arkwright. “I’ve put the fear of God into that porter, and I think he’ll keep his mouth shut about our visit to the flat. In any case, if, as I hope, I get the warrant this afternoon, we should have him under lock and key before he has a chance to smell a rat.”
“A very clever man, Mr. Civita,” came in the silky voice of Nakano. “It is possible he may come for his curtains. You will put a policeman here, yess?”
