“But—but it’s impossible,” blurted Leek. “I’ll swear nobody got away by the window.”
“And I’ll swear nobody got away by the door,” growled the big man. “But Hayles is dead from a blow on the head. There’s no weapon, and he’s clutching a false beard in his hand. If you can explain that, you’re cleverer than I am!”
The sergeant moved forward so that he could get a view of the interior of the room, and gasped.
“Don’t stand gapin’ there!” said his superior. “Go along and wake the rest of the household. Explain what’s happened, and take ’em down to the drawing room. Hold ’em there till I’ve got time to see ’em.”
“But how could it have happened?” muttered the dazed Leek. “It’s not possible—”
“Don’t start an argument!” snarled Mr. Budd. “Just do as I tell you for once without talkin’. The only thing I can think of is that there must be some other exit from this room which we’ve yet to discover. Now, go along and wake those people.”
The sergeant departed, and Mr. Budd once more closed and looked the door. Pulling a chair from the wall, he sat down and tried to concentrate his thoughts on the problem that had been presented to him. And it was the biggest one he had ever come up against.
Somebody had got into the room and somebody had got out, and they hadn’t come either by the door or the window. So there must be another way in. In that case the mystery was less difficult. But if there was such a thing, it was very cleverly concealed. He had found no trace of it, but that didn’t say it wasn’t there. He realised with something of a shock that that was the first thing that had to be proved—how it was possible for the crime to have been committed. After that it would be time to seek for the murderer. But even if they were aware who had killed the old man, the knowledge would be useless until it could be logically shown how the person had entered and left the room, the window and the door of which had been under observation at the time. No jury would convict unless that could be shown.
He heard the sound of knocking, the whispering of voices, the low cry of a woman, and guessed that Leek was carrying out instructions. Presently stumbling footsteps passed the door and faded to silence. There was a tap, and he demanded to know who was there. Murley’s voice answered:
“The police are on their way, sir,” said the butler. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“Wake the servants,” said Mr. Budd curtly. “We shall need to question them, too.”
The man went away, and the superintendent returned to his troubled thoughts. The thunder and lightning were incessant; the rain was falling in sheets. It was, he thought grimly, a fitting accompaniment for the tragedy that had taken place under his very nose.
That’s what rankled. He had come to guard this man against injury, and he had failed. There would be a severe reprimand, apart from any personal feelings he might have in the matter.
His gloomy musings were interrupted presently by the sound of a car coming up the drive, and he roused himself wearily. There was work to be done; the local police had arrived.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE IMPOSSIBLE CRIME
The divisional inspector was a florid-faced, youngish-looking man, with a soft voice that seemed curiously out of place in a policeman. He was accompanied by a portly little man whom he introduced to Mr. Budd as Dr. Scavage.
“This seems to be an extraordinary business, sir,” be said in hushed tones, looking down at the body after Mr. Budd had briefly explained the circumstances. “Sounds impossible to me.”
“Sounds impossible to me, too!” declared the big man. “And it is impossible, the way I’ve described it. And yet, that’s how it happened.”
“Could the murderer have been hiding and slipped out while your attention was distracted?” asked Divisional Inspector Hadlow.
Mr. Budd shook his head.
“No,” he answered. “He had no opportunity. From the moment I made the discovery until now I’ve been careful not to leave the room for a moment. There’s only one sensible explanation, and that is that there’s a concealed entrance somewhere.”
The portly doctor, who had been making a brief examination, rose to his feet.
“He must have died instantly,” he said. “I doubt if he knew what killed him.”
“Can you suggest what did kill him?” asked the superintendent.
Scavage pursed his lips.
“It’s a little difficult,” he answered. “It was something heavy and blunt, and a great amount of force must have been used. You found no weapon in the room?”
“No,” said Mr. Budd. “There was no weapon and no killer, only a body.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” suggested the doctor. “It’s impossible for Hayles to have struck the blow himself, and even if he did, he couldn’t have got rid of the weapon.”
“It is ridiculous,” murmured Mr. Budd. He had recovered from his first shock and was rapidly becoming more like his normal self. “It is ridiculous, and therefore it’s all wrong.”
“What d’you mean?” asked the police surgeon.
“I mean,” explained the stout man carefully, “that if it sounds impossible and ridiculous as it happened, then it didn’t happen like that at all.”
“But,” said the puzzled doctor, “you’ve just told us that it did.”
“I’ve just told you how it appeared to have happened,” answered the big man. “There’s no doubt that poor feller was murdered, or that he died from a violent blow on the head which crushed his skull. Or that he died with a false beard in his hand without anybody bein’ in the room at the time. Now that’s ridiculous! That’s impossible! Therefore there must have been somebody in the room. But they didn’t go out through the door, and they didn’t go out through the window. Therefore they must have gone out somewhere else. I know that sounds a little silly, but it’s logic.”
“The chimney,” put in Hadlow. “Have you—”
“I’ve examined the chimney,” broke in Mr. Budd. “It’s big enough, but it’s got bars across. Nobody could have got in or out that way.”
Dr. Scavage made an impatient gesture.
“The only thing I can suggest,” he said, “is that the person must have concealed himself behind the door, waited until you’d entered the room, and then slipped out.”
“And that he couldn’t have done,” declared Mr. Budd, “because when I opened the door I kept the handle in my hand. There was no chance of anyone slippin’ by without my seein’ them.”
“Then there’s only one explanation left,” said the doctor with conviction. “There must be another entrance.”
Hadlow had brought a sergeant and constable with him. The sergeant was called up. Mr. Budd, the divisional inspector, and this man made a meticulous search of every inch of the apartment, but no trace or sign of any secret door or an opening in the walls or ceiling could they discover. No possible way by which the killer could have entered or left the room. The house was well built, the walls were eighteen inches thick, and the whole room was as solid as a bank vault. The door and window offered the only way of exit or entrance. Yet the murderer could have used neither. His coming and going was an impenetrable mystery.
“Well, that’s that!” said Mr. Budd wearily. “We’ve established one thing, anyway.”
“We’ve established an impossibility, sir,” pointed out Hadlow.
Dr. Scavage, who had been watching with interest, uttered an exclamation.
“Look here,” he said suddenly, “the window was open, wasn’t it, when you made the discovery?”
“It was,” admitted the big man.
“Well, couldn’t something have been catapulted or thrown from outside?”
It was Hadlow who shook his head.
“If that had been the case, doctor,” he said, “the thing would be here.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Scavage disappointedly.
“Apart from which,” remarked Mr. Budd, “it would have taken some force to have thro
wn anything large enough to have inflicted that wound. No, I don’t think that’s how it was done.”
He walked thoughtfully over to the window and looked out. The storm was still raging. At intermittent intervals the park and the surrounding country were lit up by the lightning, and the rolling peals of thunder followed one another in quick succession.
“I’m wondering,” he said, “if that tree could have had anything to do with it?”
Hadlow was an intelligent man and grasped his meaning quickly.
“You mean could the murderer have reached the window from the tree and got back the same way?” he said.
Mr. Budd nodded.
“I don’t see how,” said the divisional inspector. “It’s a good fifteen feet away. I don’t see how anyone could have bridged the gap.”
“Well, then, I give it up,” murmured Mr. Budd despairingly. “This ’ull go down on record as the first crime to have been committed by an invisible man. An invisible man wearin’ a false beard,” he added. “It’s insane!”
CHAPTER FIVE
MR. BUDD MEETS THE PROPHET
The body of the dead man was covered with a sheet but otherwise left exactly as it had been found. It could not be moved until after the police photographs had been taken, and this would have to wait until the morning. The window was closed and latched and the door locked, and when Mr. Budd had put the key in his pocket he went down, accompanied by the divisional inspector, to interview the people of the household, leaving the local sergeant on guard in the corridor.
The storm was still raging with unabated fury. The rain hissed and splashed and the thunder roared and boomed, filling the night with a deafening clamour.
Murley was in the hall talking to a stolid-looking constable when they reached the foot of the stairs, and he came over as soon as he saw the big man.
“The servants are all up, sir,” he said in a low voice. “They’re all in the kitchen, if you want to see them.”
“I’ll see ’em presently,” said Mr. Budd, and went over to the door of the drawing room.
There was no sound from within, and turning the handle he entered. The six occupants were grouped in uneasy silence round the fireplace, and Leek, who was sitting uncomfortably on the edge of a chair near the door, looked up with relief when they came in. Mr. Budd paused for a moment on the threshold, sleepily eyeing the sketchily attired assemblage, before he shut the door behind him and advanced further into the room.
It was Geoffrey Dinwater who was the first to speak.
“Is it true—about Uncle Reuben?” he demanded, blinking nervously.
“I’m afraid it is, sir,” answered the stout superintendent. “Mr. Hayles is dead!”
A variety of expressions crossed the staring faces before him, a whole gamut of emotions ranging from fear to incredulity.
“How—?” The secretary began the question and stopped.
“He was murdered,” said Mr. Budd bluntly.
Kathleen Travers caught her breath with a queer, gasping sound, and her face went white to the lips. Mahmoud Bey remained silent, but his eyes fastened themselves on Mr. Budd in an unwavering and rather disconcerting atare. Glibber clicked his teeth, and his habitually astonished face was so ludicrous that the big man felt an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh. Mrs. Glibber stared at the empty grate, her face devoid of any emotion whatever. The girl cleared her throat huskily.
“I—I can’t believe it,” she muttered unsteadily. “How did it happen? Who killed him?”
“That’s what I’d like to know, miss,” said the fat detective. “I’d very much like to know who killed him—and how!”
“How?” Glibber repeated the word in a questioning tone. “D’you mean that you don’t know the cause of death?”
“No, sir,” answered Mr. Budd. “I don’t mean that at all. I know the cause of death all right—there’s nothin’ mysterious about that.”
“Then what do you mean, Superintendent?” The soft voice of Mahmoud Bey asked the question.
“I’ll tell you what I mean, sir,” said Mr. Budd, and proceeded to do so.
They listened to what he had to say in amazement.
“But—but—” protested Geoffrey Dinwater, when he had finished. “It’s not possible.”
The big man sighed wearily.
“We’ve all said that,” he murmured. “And the answer is, it happened!”
“There are more things in Heaven and earth than the mind of man dreams of,” misquoted Mrs. Glibber suddenly and surprisingly.
“Meanin’, ma’am,” said the superintendent, turning towards her, “that Mr. Hayes was killed by somethin’ supernatural?”
“There is no other explanation,” declared the woman with conviction.
“Nonsense, Annabel!” said her husband severely. “To the scientific mind there is no such thing as the supernatural.”
She shot him an angry glance and shrugged her thin shoulders.
“Perhaps you can offer a better explanation,” she sneered—and there was a meaning in her voice that made the detective open his eyes sharply.
“Well,” remarked the stout man, “I can’t say I know enough about the supernatural to argue, ma’am. But a spook in a false beard doesn’t sound convincin’ to me.”
“The idea,” squeaked Glibber, “is preposterous—completely preposterous!” He waved it out of existence with a gesture. “There must be some practical explanation.”
“If you can think of one, I’d very much like to hear it,” murmured Mr. Budd. “In the meanwhile, I should like to ask one or two questions, if you don’t mind.”
“What kind of questions?” murmured Mahmoud Bey softly.
“All sorts,” answered the stout superintendent. “F’rinstance, did any of you hear anythin’ unusual between half past twelve and one?”
“How could we?” snapped Mrs. Glibber. “We were all in bed and asleep!”
“I wasn’t asleep,” said Dinwater. “The thunder woke me. But I heard nothing—nothing unusual.”
“Nor I,” said Washington Brown.
“And you, Miss Travers?” asked Mr. Budd, and the girl shook her head.
“Nor me,” put in Mahmoud Bey softly.
It was merely a routine question, and the big man had expected a negative result. If he himself and the watchful Leek had heard nothing, it was unlikely that any of these people would. He cleared his throat.
“Now, regardin’ these Prophet letters,” he went on. “Mr. Hayles took them more seriously than they seemed to warrant, and I am under the impression that he had a reason for that which he dídn’t disclose. Can anybody tell me what that reason was?”
There was a silence as he looked from one to the other, and then Washington Brown moved restlessly.
“Yes,” said Mr. Budd inquiringly,“what is it?”
“I don’t know whether I ought to tell you”—the secretary was hesitant—“Mr. Hayles expressly asked me not to mention it in case it should prejudice you. He had a strong suspicion who sent those letters.”
“Oh, he did, eh?” Mr. Budd was interested. “And who did he think sent them?”
“A neighbour—a man who lives in Liddenhurst,” answered the secretary. “He and Mr. Hayles have had several quarrels. He’s a religious fanatic, and he thought that Mr. Hayles’ profession was sacrilegious.”
“Do you mean the queer man?” broke in Inspector Hadlow.
Washington Brown nodded.
“Yes, that’s the fellow.”
Mr. Budd turned quickly.
“Who is this queer man you’re talkin’ about?” he demanded.
“He’s a peculiar chap,” said the divisional inspector. “He lives in a cottage on the outskirts of the village. His name’s Daniel Thane. But everybody calls him the ‘Queer Man’ in the district. He’s a little bit touched, I think.”
“H’m!” commented the stout superintendent. “And Mr. Hayles was under the impression that these anonymous letters came from him, eh?” He ad
dressed the secretary, and Brown nodded. “Why didn’t he say so?” demanded Mr. Budd.
“Well, he wasn’t sure,” replied Washington Brown. “It was only because he’d had trouble with Thane before that he thought they might have come from him. But if his suspicions were wrong, he didn’t want to get the chap into trouble.”
“I’ve seen the man you’re talking about,” put in Geoffrey Dinwater—“tall, lean fellow. Goes about in sandals and a robe.”
“That’s the man, sir,” said Inspector Hadlow. “Eccentric, but I’ve always thought he was harmless.”
“Maybe he is,” remarked Mr. Budd. “On the other hand, maybe he isn’t. Though I don’t see how anyone, harmless or otherwise, got in and out of that room. Still, we ought to see him. How far away is this cottage?”
“About a couple of miles,” said Hadlow.
The superintendent looked at his watch.
“Gettin’ on for three,” he murmured. “I’d like to find out whether this feller’s sleepin’ or what he’s doing.” He came to a sudden decision. “We’ll go along there. You can stay here, Leek. The rest of you can go back to your rooms. I’ll see you in the mornin’. Nobody’s to leave the house—understand that!”
He went out into the hall, followed by Hadlow, and beckoned to Murley, who was still lurking uneasily about.
“You can send the servants to bed,” he said. “I haven’t got time to see ’em now, and they’d better try and get some sleep.”
“Don’t you think,” ventured Hadlow, “we ought to leave seeing Thane until the morning?”
“No, I don’t,” said Mr. Budd. “I want to see him now. I want to know what he was doin’ at the time Hayles was killed.”
He pulled open the massive front door and stared out into the rain-drenched night. The thunder was still muttering and rumbling, and the lightning played fitfully over the neglected grounds. With a resigned shrug of his shoulders the divisional inspector followed him to the waiting car and climbed up behind the wheel. Mr. Budd took his place beside him, and they drove off through the rain.
The Beard of the Prophet Page 3
