'I suppose not,' agreed Mr Egg sadly. 'But'--his face brightened--'how about this?'
From the sieve in which the constable was sifting the ashes he picked out a thin piece of warped and twisted metal, to which a lump of charred bone still clung.
'What on earth's that?'
'It doesn't look like much, but I think it might once have been a corkscrew,' suggested Mr Egg mildly. 'There's something homely and familiar about it. And, if you'll look here, I think you'll see that the metal part of it is hollow. And I shouldn't be surprised if the thick bone handle was hollow, too. It's very badly charred, of course, but if you were to split it open, and if you were to find a hollow inside it, and possibly a little melted rubber--well, that might explain a lot.'
The inspector smacked his thigh.
'By Jove, Mr Egg!' he exclaimed, 'I believe I see what you're getting at. You mean that if this corkscrew had been made hollow, and contained a rubber reservoir, inside, like a fountain-pen, filled with poison, the poison might be made to flow down the hollow shaft by pressure on some sort of plunger arrangement.'
'That's it,' said Mr Egg. 'It would have to be screwed into the cork very carefully, of course, so as not to damage the tube, and it would have to be made long enough to project beyond the bottom of the cork, but still, it might be done. What's more, it has been done, or why should there be this little hole in the metal, about a quarter of an inch from the tip? Ordinary corkscrews never have holes in them--not in my experience, and I've been, as you might say, brought up on corkscrews.'
'But who, in that case--?'
'Well, the man who drew the cork, don't you think? The man whose fingerprints were on the bottle.'
'Craven? But where's his motive?'
'I don't know,' said Mr Egg, 'but Lord Borrodale was a judge, and a hard judge too. If you were to have Craven's fingerprints sent up to Scotland Yard, they might recognise them. I don't know. It's possible, isn't it? Or maybe Miss Waynfleet might know something about him. Or he might just possibly be mentioned in Lord Borrodale's memoirs that he was writing.'
The inspector lost no time in following up this suggestion. Neither Scotland Yard nor Miss Waynfleet had anything to say against the butler, who had been two years in his situation and had always been quite satisfactory, but a reference to the records of Lord Borrodale's judicial career showed that, a good many years before, he had inflicted a savage sentence of penal servitude on a young man named Craven, who was by trade a skilled metal-worker and had apparently been involved in a fraud upon his employer. A little further investigation showed that this young man had been released from prison six months previously.
'Craven's son, of course,' said the inspector. 'And he had the manual skill to make the corkscrew in exact imitation of the one ordinarily used in the household. Wonder where they got the nicotine from? Well, we shall soon be able to check that up. I believe it's not difficult to obtain it for use in the garden. I'm very much obliged to you for your expert assistance, Mr Egg. It would have taken us a long time to get to the rights and wrongs of those bottles. I suppose, when you found that Craven had given you the wrong one, you began to suspect him?'
'Oh, no,' said Mr Egg, with modest pride, 'I knew it was Craven the minute he came into the room.'
'No, did you? You're a regular Sherlock, aren't you? But why?'
'He called me "sir",' explained Mr Egg, coughing delicately. 'Last time I called he addressed me as "young fellow" and told me that tradesmen must go round to the back door. A bad error of policy. "Whether you're wrong or whether you're right, it's always better to be polite," as it says in the Salesman's Handbook.'
SLEUTHS ON THE SCENT
A Montague Egg Story
............
The commercial room at the Pig and Pewter presented to Mr Montague Egg the aspect of a dim cavern in which some primeval inhabitant had been cooking his mammoth-meat over a fire of damp seaweed. In other words, it was ill lit, cold, smoky and permeated with an odour of stale food.
'Oh dear, oh dear!' muttered Mr Egg. He poked at the sullen coals, releasing a volume of pea-coloured smoke which made him cough.
Mr Egg rang the bell.
'Oh, if you please, sir,' said the maid who answered the summons, 'I'm sure I'm very sorry, but it's always this way when the wind's in the east, sir, and we've tried ever so many sorts of cowls and chimney-pots, you'd be surprised. The man was here today a-working in it, which is why the fire wasn't lit till just now, sir, but they don't seem able to do nothink with it. But there's a beautiful fire in the bar-parlour, sir, if you cared to step along. There's a very pleasant party in there, sir. I'm sure you would be comfortable. There's another commercial gentleman like yourself, sir, and old Mr Faggott and Sergeant Jukes over from Drabblesford. Oh, and there's two parties of motorists, but they're all quite nice and quiet, sir.'
'That'll suit me all right,' said Mr Egg amiably. But he made a mental note, nevertheless, that he would warn his fellow-commercials against the Pig and Pewter at Mugbury, for an inn is judged by its commercial room. Moreover, the dinner had been bad, with a badness not to be explained by his own rather late arrival.
In the bar-parlour, however, things were better. At one side of the cheerful hearth sat old Mr Faggott, an aged countryman, beneath whose scanty white beard dangled a long, scarlet comforter. In his hand was a tankard of ale. Opposite to him, also with a tankard, was a large man, obviously a policeman in mufti. At a table in front of the fireplace sat an alert-looking, darkish, youngish man whom Mr Egg instantly identified as the commercial gentleman by the stout leather bag at his side. He was drinking sherry. A young man and a girl in motor-cycling kit were whispering together at another table, over a whisky-and-polly and a glass of port. Another man, with his hat and burberry on, was ordering Guinness at the little serving-hatch which communicated with the bar, while, in a far corner, an indeterminate male figure sat silent and half concealed by a slouch hat and a newspaper. Mr Egg saluted the company with respect and observed that it was a nasty night.
The commercial gentleman uttered an emphatic agreement.
'I ought to have got on to Drabblesford tonight,' he added, 'but with this frost and drizzle and frost again the roads are in such a state, I think I'd better stay where I am.'
'Same here,' said Mr Egg, approaching the hatch. 'Half of mild-and-bitter, please. Cold, too, isn't it?'
'Very cold,' said the policeman.
'Ar,' said old Mr Faggott.
'Foul,' said the man in the burberry, returning from the hatch and seating himself near the commercial gentleman. 'I've reason to know it. Skidded into a telegraph-pole two miles out. You should see my bumpers. Well! I suppose it's only to be expected this time of year.'
'Ar!' said old Mr Faggott. There was a pause.
'Well,' said Mr Egg, politely raising his tankard, 'here's luck!' The company acknowledged the courtesy in a suitable manner, and another pause followed. It was broken by the traveller.
'Acquainted with this part of the country, sir?'
'Why, no,' said Monty Egg. 'It's not my usual beat. Bastable covers it as a rule--Henry Bastable--perhaps you know him? He and I travel for Plummet & Rose, wines and spirits.'
'Tall, red-haired fellow?'
'That's him. Laid up with rheumatic fever, poor chap, so I'm taking over temporarily. My name's Egg--Montague Egg.'
'Oh, yes, I think I've heard of you from Taylor of Harrogate Bros. Redwood is my name. Fragonard & Co., perfumes and toilet accessories.'
Mr Egg bowed and inquired, in a discreet and general way, how Mr Redwood was finding things.
'Not too bad. Of course, money's a bit tight; that's only to be expected. But, considering everything, not too bad. I've got a line here, by the way, which is doing pretty well and may give you something to think about.' He bent over, unstrapped his bag and produced a tall flask, its glass stopper neatly secured with a twist of fine string. 'Tell me what you think of that.' He removed the string and handed the sample to Monty.
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'Parma violet?' said that gentleman, with a glance at the label. 'The young lady should be the best judge of this. Allow me, miss. Sweets to the sweet,' he added gallantly. 'You'll excuse me, I'm sure.'
The girl giggled.
'Go on, Gert,' said her companion. 'Never refuse a good offer.' He removed the stopper and sniffed heartily at the perfume. 'This is high-class stuff, this is. Put a drop on your handkerchief. Here--I'll do it for you!'
'Oh! it's lovely!' said the girl. 'Refined, I call it. Get along, Arthur, do! Leave my handkerchief alone--what they'll all think of you! I'm sure this gentleman won't mind you having a drop for yourself if you want it.'
Arthur favoured the company with a large wink, and sprinkled his handkerchief liberally. Monty rescued the flask and passed it to the man in the burberry.
'Excuse me, sir,' said Mr Redwood, 'but if I might point it out, it's not everybody knows the right way to test perfume. Just dab a little on the hand, wait while the liquid evaporates, and then raise the hand to the nostrils.'
'Like this?' said the man in the Burberry, dexterously hitching the stopper out with his little finger, pouring a drop of perfume into his left palm and re-stoppering the bottle, all in one movement. 'Yes, I see what you mean.'
'That's very interesting,' said Monty, much impressed and following the example set him. 'Same as when you put old brandy in a thin glass and cradle it in the hollow of the palm to bring out the aroma. The warmth of the hand makes the ethers expand. I'm very glad to know from you, Mr Redwood, what is the correct method with perfumes. Ready to learn means ready to earn--that's Monty Egg, every time. A very fine perfume indeed. Would you like to try it, sir?'
He offered the bottle first to the aged countryman (who shook his head, remarking acidly that he 'couldn't abide smells and sich nastiness') and then to the policeman, who, disdaining refinements, took a strong sniff at the bottle and pronounced the scent 'good, but a bit powerful for his liking.'
'Well, well, tastes differ,' said Monty. He glanced round, and, observing the silent man in the far corner, approached him confidently with a request for his opinion.
'What the devil's the matter with you?' growled this person, emerging reluctantly from behind his barricade of newspaper, and displaying a bristling and bellicose fair moustache and a pair of sulky blue eyes. 'There seems to be no peace in this bar. Scent? Can't abide the stuff.' He snatched the perfume impatiently from Mr Egg's hand, sniffed and thrust the stopper back with such blind and fumbling haste that it missed the neck of the flask altogether and rolled away under the table. 'Well, it's scent. What else do you want me to say about it? I'm not going to buy it, if that's what you're after.'
'Certainly not, sir,' said Mr Redwood, hurt, and hastening to retrieve his scattered property. 'Wonder what's bitten him,' he continued, in a confidential undertone. 'Nasty glitter in his eye. Hands all of a tremble. Better look out for him, sergeant. We don't want murder done. Well, anyhow, madam and gentlemen, what should you say if I was to tell you that we're able to retail that large bottle, as it stands--retail it, mind you--at three shillings and sixpence?'
'Three-and-six?' said Mr Egg, surprised. 'Why, I should have thought that wouldn't so much as pay the duty on the spirit.'
'Nor it would,' triumphed Mr Redwood, 'if it was spirit. But it isn't, and that's the whole point. It's a trade secret and I can't say more, but if you were to be asked whether that was or was not the finest Parma violet, equal to the most expensive marks, I don't mind betting you'd never know the difference.'
'No, indeed,' said Mr Egg. 'Wonderful, I call it. Pity they can't discover something similar to help the wine and spirit business, though I needn't say it wouldn't altogether do, or what would the Chancellor of the Exchequer have to say about it? Talking of that, what are you drinking? And you, miss? I hope you'll allow me, gentlemen. Same again all round, please.'
The landlord hastened to fulfil the order and, as he passed through the bar-parlour, switched on the wireless, which instantly responded with the 9 o'clock time-signal, followed clearly by the voice of the announcer.
'This is the National Programme from London. Before I read the weather report, here is a police message. In connection with the murder of Alice Steward, at Nottingham, we are asked by the Commissioner of Police to broadcast the following. The police are anxious to get in touch with a young man named Gerald Beeton, who is known to have visited the deceased on the afternoon preceding her death. This man is aged thirty-five, medium height, medium build, fair hair, small moustache, grey or blue eyes, full face, fresh colour. When last seen was wearing a grey lounge suit, soft grey hat and fawn overcoat, and is thought to be now travelling the country in a Morris car, number unknown. Will this man, or anyone able to throw light on his whereabouts, please communicate at once with the Superintendent of Police, Nottingham, or with any police-station? Here is the weather report. A deep depression . . .'
'Oh, switch it off, George,' urged Mr Redwood. 'We don't want to hear about depressions.'
'That's right,' agreed the landlord, switching off. 'What gets me is these police descriptions. How'd they think anyone's going to recognise a man from the sort of stuff they give you? Medium this and medium the other, and ordinary face and fair complexion and a soft hat--might be anybody.'
'So it might,' said Monty. 'It might be me.'
'Well, that's true, it might,' said Mr Redwood. 'Or it might be this gentleman.'
'That's a fact,' admitted the man in the burberry. 'Or it might be fifty men out of every hundred.'
'Yes, or'--Monty jerked his head cautiously towards the newspaper in the corner--'him!'
'Well, so you say,' said Redwood, 'but nobody else has seen him to look at. Unless it's George.'
'I wouldn't care to swear to him,' said the landlord, with a smile. 'He come straight in here and ordered a drink and paid for it without so much as looking at me, but from what I did see of him the description would fit him as well as anybody. And what's more, he's got a Morris car--it's in the garage now.'
'That's nothing against him,' said Monty. 'So've I.'
'And I,' said the man in the burberry.
'And I,' chimed in Redwood. 'Encourage home industries, I say. But it's no help to identifying a man. Beg your pardon, sergeant, and all that, but why don't the police make it a bit easier for the public?'
'Why,' said the sergeant, 'because they 'as to rely on the damn-fool descriptions given to them by the public. That's why.'
'One up to you,' said Redwood pleasantly. 'Tell me, sergeant, all this stuff about wanting to interview the fellow is all eyewash, isn't it? I mean, what they really want to do is to arrest him.'
'That ain't for me to say,' replied the sergeant ponderously. 'You must use your own judgement about that. What they're asking for is an interview, him being known to have been one of the last people to see her before she was done in. If he's sensible, he'll turn up. If he don't answer to the summons--well, you can think what you like.'
'Who is he, anyway?' asked Monty.
'Now you want to know something. Ain't you seen the evening papers?'
'No; I've been on the road since five o'clock.'
'Well, it's like this here. This old lady, Miss Alice Steward, lived all alone with a maid in a little 'ouse on the outskirts of Nottingham. Yesterday afternoon was the maid's afternoon out, and just as she was stepping out of the door, a bloke drives up in a Morris--or so she says, though you can't trust these girls, and if you ask me, it may just as well have been an Austin or Wolseley, or anything else, for that matter. He asks to see Miss Steward and the girl shows him into the sitting-room, and as she does so she hears the old girl say, "Why, Gerald!"--like that. Well, she goes off to the pictures and leaves 'em to it, and when she gets back at 10 o'clock, she finds the old lady lying with 'er 'ead bashed in.'
Mr Redwood leaned across and nudged Mr Egg. The stranger in the far corner had ceased to read his paper, and was peering stealthily round the edge of it.
'That's
brought him to life, anyway,' muttered Mr Redwood. 'Well, sergeant, but how did the girl know the fellow's surname and who he was?'
'Why,' replied the sergeant, 'she remembered once 'earing the old lady speak of a man called Gerald Beeton--a good many years ago, or so she said, and she couldn't tell us much about it. Only she remembered the name, because it was the same as the one on her cookery-book.'
'Was that at Lewes?' demanded the young man called Arthur, suddenly.
'Might have been,' admitted the sergeant, glancing rather sharply at him. 'The old lady came from Lewes. Why?'
'I remember, when I was a kid at school, hearing my mother mention an old Miss Steward at Lewes, who was very rich and had adopted a young fellow out of a chemist's shop. I think he ran away, and turned out badly, or something. Anyway, the old lady left the town. She was supposed to be very rich and to keep all her money in a tin box, or something. My mother's cousin knew an old girl who was Miss Steward's housekeeper--but I daresay it was all rot. Anyhow, that was about six or seven years ago, and I believe my mother's cousin is dead now and the housekeeper too. My mother,' went on the young man called Arthur, anticipating the next question, 'died two years ago.'
'That's very interesting, all the same,' said Mr Egg encouragingly. 'You ought to tell the police about it.'
'Well, I have, haven't I? said Arthur, with a grin, indicating the sergeant. 'Though I expect they know it already. Or do I have to go to the police-station?'
'For the present purpose,' replied the sergeant, 'I am a police-station. But you might give me your name and address.'
The young man gave his name as Arthur Bunce, with an address in London. At this point the girl Gertrude was struck with an idea.
'But what about the tin box? D'you think he killed her to get it?'
'There's nothing in the papers about the tin box,' put in the man in the burberry.
'They don't let everything get into the papers,' said the sergeant.
'It doesn't seem to be in the paper our disagreeable friend is reading,' murmured Mr Redwood, and as he spoke, that person rose from his seat and came over to the serving-hatch, ostensibly to order more beer, but with the evident intention of overhearing more of the conversation.
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