“Without a struggle,” said the general.
“All right. Now, he tried to make a joke out of the suggestion that he himself might have stolen that manuscript. But when you know Arbor’s character, and Sir William’s, it isn’t quite so fantastic as it sounds. He knew the old man would raise thirty-eight different kinds of hell if he demanded his manuscript. There would be all the red tape, delay, wrangling, and probably publicity, to say nothing of what Sir William’s temper might do to Arbor’s skin. But if the thing were stolen, Sir William could whistle for it. He had no case. Arbor could point all this out to him (by telephone, if necessary) after he’d safely got the manuscript and left the house. And Sir William wouldn’t dare act. Aside from having no case, he’d show himself up in a ridiculous light. Respected ex-Cabinet Ministers can’t stand that.”
“I doubt whether Arbor would actually pinch the manuscript himself,” said the general, shaking his head. “He wouldn’t dare.”
“Wait a minute. Now, he wasn’t worried about that theft. He wasn’t exerting himself, you see. Well, who might have stolen it for him?”
The general whistled. “You mean—”
“It can’t be!” snapped the chief inspector, striking his fist into his palm. “It would be too much. But the possibility stares us right in the face, and we’ve got to think about it.
“Why, I mean this. Arbor said he talked Poe in that house until even the family began to wonder; broader and broader hints. He also said that with the dark and mysterious hints Sir William constantly let fall, everybody must have known about the manuscript. Certainly a clever young fellow like Driscoll couldn’t have failed to know it. And Driscoll was there to dinner when Arbor did much of his talking.”
“Oh, look here!” General Mason protested in a distressed voice. “I mean to say— Well, it isn’t done! An infernal counter-jumper like Arbor might have done it, of course. But if you’re suggesting that young Driscoll— Purf! Burr! Bah! Out of the question. Absolutely.”
“I didn’t say it was true,” Hadley said, patiently. “But consider. Driscoll was discontented. Driscoll was always short of money. Driscoll was invariably in a row with his uncle. Driscoll was a madcap, lunatic kid who might regard that manuscript as simply a foolish piece of paper. I confess I did myself, until I heard how much it’s worth. So suppose Driscoll takes Arbor aside and says, ‘Look here, if you happened to find that manuscript under your pillow one morning, what would it be worth to you?’” Hadley raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps Arbor then explained, as he might, that he was really the owner. Perhaps that didn’t matter to Driscoll. But, since Arbor would have had to pay some sort of price to the old man if he bought it outright—well? It was a good chance for a stroke of business. The old man knew the full value of the manuscript. Driscoll didn’t. And Arbor’s an excellent man of business.”
“No!” boomed a thunderous voice.
Hadley jumped. There had been in that voice not only protest, but a sort of agonized appeal. They all turned to see Dr. Fell lumbering to his feet, his big hands spread out on the table.
“I beg of you,” he said, almost imploring—“I beg and plead with you, whatever else you think of anything in this case, not to get that absurd idea. If you do, Hadley, I warn you, you’ll never see the truth. Say whatever else you like. Say that the thief was Arbor, if you like. Say that it was General Mason or Father Christmas or Mussolini. But don’t, I entreat you, ever for a moment believe it was Driscoll.”
The chief inspector was peevish. “Well, why not? I didn’t say I definitely thought it was Driscoll, you understand. But, since you seem to have such a violent horror of the idea—why not?”
The doctor sat down again.
“Let me explain. By all means let me get that point straight, or you’ll never understand the rest of it. Cast your minds back a couple of hours. Damn it, where’s my pipe? Ah. Well, we were speaking of Driscoll. And Sir William said he wasn’t a coward. And I tried to give you a hint, if you recall. I said, ‘What was he afraid of?’
“Let me repeat that. I agree that Driscoll was far from a coward. I agree with your definition, Hadley, that he was a madcap, lunatic kid. But one thing he most definitely did fear.”
“And that?”
“He feared his uncle,” said Dr. Fell. After a pause, while he spilled a considerable amount of tobacco in filling his pipe, he went on wheezily. “Look here. Driscoll was an improvident sort, with expensive tastes. He lived entirely off his uncle’s bounty. You heard Bitton speak of his ‘allowance.’ He got precious little from what small free-lance newspaper work he did, and Bitton helped him get along even with that.
“But—Bitton wasn’t an indulgent uncle. Quite to the contrary. He was always quarreling with his nephew on some point or other. And why? Because he was so fond of him. He had no son of his own. He had risen from small beginnings, and he wanted to see the boy exhibit some of his own violent energy. And do you think Driscoll didn’t know that? Ha!” said the doctor, snorting. “Of course he did. The old man might squeeze the purse strings tighter than a slipknot. But Driscoll knew he was the old man’s favorite. And when it came to the last, I rather suspect Driscoll figured conspicuously in the old man’s will. Didn’t he, General Mason?”
“I happen to know,” the general said, rather guardedly, “that he wasn’t forgotten.”
“So. Hadley, are you really mad enough to think the boy would have endangered all that? Why, that manuscript was literally Bitton’s most cherished possession. You saw how he gloated. If Driscoll had stolen it, and he ever had the faintest suspicion Driscoll had stolen it, out the boy would have gone for ever. You know Bitton’s temper and, above all, his stubbornness. He wouldn’t have forgiven. There wouldn’t have been a penny more from him, alive or dead. And what had Driscoll to gain? At most a few pounds from Arbor. Why should Arbor, a good man of business, give money to a thief for his own property? He would simply smile in that mincing way of his. ‘A thousand guilders? Come, take fifty! Or I might tell your uncle where you got this manuscript.’—No, Hadley. The last thing in the world Driscoll would have done would have been to dare steal it. The person he feared most, I tell you, was his uncle.”
Hadley nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes. Yes,” he said, “that’s true. And I have no doubt it’s a very interesting lecture you’re giving. But why are you so aggressive on the point? Why is it so important?”
Dr. Fell sighed. He was very much relieved. “Because, if you understand that, you’re halfway along the right track. I—” Wearily he raised his eyes to the door at another of the inevitable knocks. He went on, vigorously. “But I was going to say that I absolutely refuse to listen to another witness this afternoon. It’s past six and the pubs are open. Come in!”
A very tired-looking Sergeant Betts entered.
“I’ve just been talking to the other visitors, sir,” he said to Hadley. “And I’m afraid it’s been a long job. They all wanted to talk, and I had to listen for fear of missing something. But not one of them knew anything whatever. All of them spent nine-tenths of their time in the White Tower. It takes quite a while to explore it thoroughly; and they weren’t anywhere near the Traitors’ Gate between one-thirty and two o’clock. They seemed straight, so I let them go. Was that correct, sir?”
“Yes. But keep those names and addresses in case you need them.” Wearily Hadley passed a hand over his eyes. He hesitated, and then looked at his watch. “H’m. Well, it’s getting late, sergeant, and we’ll run along. I’ll take charge of these articles on the table. In the meantime, I want you to cooperate with Hamper and find out what you can from the warders or anybody else who occurs to you. Use your own judgment. If you find out anything, communicate with the Yard. They’ll know where I am.”
He took down his overcoat and donned it slowly.
“Well, gentlemen,” said General Mason, “that seems to be all for the moment. And I think we could all deal with a large brandy and soda. I can recommend my own, and I hav
e some very passable cigars. If you’ll do me the honor to come up to my rooms?”
Hadley hesitated; but he looked at his watch again, and shook his head.
“Thanks, General. It’s good of you, but I’m afraid I can’t. I have to get back to the Yard; I’ve the devil’s own lot of routine business, you know, and I’ve taken far too much time as it is. I shouldn’t be handling the affair at all.” He frowned. “Besides, I think it’s best that none of us go up. Sir William will be waiting for you, General. You know him best and you had better tell him everything. About Arbor, you see?”
“Hum! I’m bound to admit I don’t like the job,” the other said, uncomfortably. “But I suppose you’re right.”
“Tell him we shall probably pay him a visit in Berkeley Square tonight, and to be sure everybody is at home. Oh yes. And the newspapers. There will be reporters here soon, if they’re not being held outside already. For the Lord’s sake don’t say anything yourself. Just say, ‘I have no statement to make at the present time,’ and refer them to Sergeant Hamper. He’ll tell them what we want given out; he’s an old hand. Let’s see—I want a newspaper myself, at the moment.”
He was already gathering up the objects which had been in Driscoll’s pockets. Rampole handed him an old newspaper from the top of a bookcase; he wrapped the crossbow bolt inside it and stowed it away in the breast pocket of his overcoat.
“Right you are. But at least,” said the general, “let me give you a stirrup cup before you go.” He went to the door and spoke a few words. In a remarkably short time the impassive Parker appeared, bearing a tray with a bottle of whisky, a siphon, and four glasses.
“Well,” he continued, watching the soda foam as Parker mixed the drinks, “this has been an afternoon. If it weren’t for poor Bitton and the damnable closeness of this thing, I should even call it entertaining. But I’m bound to say I can’t make head or tail of it.”
“You wouldn’t call it entertaining,” Hadley asserted, moodily, “if you had my job. And yet—I don’t know.” There was a wry smile under his clipped mustache. He accepted a glass and stared into it. “I’ve been thirty years in this game, General. And yet I can’t help getting something like a quickened pulse when I see ‘Scotland Yard has been called in on the case.’ What’s the magic in the damned name? I don’t know. I’m a part of it. Sometimes I am it. But I’m still as intrigued as a naive old dodderer like Dr. Fell.”
“But I always thought you were dead against amateurs,” said the general. “Thanks, Parker. Of course you can hardly call the doctor an amateur, but—”
Hadley shook his head. “I said once before today that I wasn’t such a fool. Sir Basil Thomson, one of the greatest men the Yard ever had, used to say that a detective had to be a jack of all trades and a master of none. The only thing I regret about the doctor here is the deliberate way he patterns himself after the detectives in sensational fiction; of which, by the way, he’s an omnivorous reader. His silences. His mysterious ‘Aha’s!’ His—”
“Thank you,” grumbled Dr. Fell, satirically. He had put on his cloak and his long shovel hat; he stood, a gigantic and bulky figure, leaning on two canes; and now his face was fiery with controversy. Stumping round near the door, he accepted a glass from Parker. “Hadley,” he continued, “that’s an old charge. An old charge, an outworn maxim, and a baseless slur on a noble branch of literature. Somebody ought to refute it. You say that the detective in fiction is mysterious and slyly secret. All right; but he only reflects real life. What about the genuine detective? He is the one who looks mysterious, says ‘Aha!’ and assures everybody that there will be an arrest within twenty-four hours. But, despite this pose, he doesn’t go so far as the detective in fiction. He doesn’t fix the taxpayer with a somber eye and say, ‘The solution of this murder, sir, depends on a mandolin, a perambulator, and a pair of bed-socks,’ and send the taxpayer away feeling he’s really had the police in after all. He doesn’t, because he can’t. But he would like to be a master mind and say that, if he could. Who wouldn’t? Wouldn’t you? In other words, he has all the pose, whether he has the knowledge or not. But, like the fictional detective, very sensibly he doesn’t tell what he thinks, for the excellent and commonplace reason that he may be wrong.”
“All right,” said Hadley, resignedly. “If you like. Well, good health, gentlemen!” He drained his glass and put it down. “I suppose, Doctor, this is a preamble to some mysterious predictions of yours?”
Dr. Fell was lifting his glass; but he paused and scowled heavily.
“I hadn’t thought of doing so,” he replied. “But as a matter of fact, I will give you three hints about what I think. I won’t elaborate them”—his scowl became ferocious as he saw Hadley’s grin—“because I may be wrong. Ha!”
“I thought so. Well, number one?”
“Number one is this. There was some dispute about the time Driscoll died. The only period in which we seem absolutely to be able to fix it lies between one-thirty when he was seen by Parker fighting a cigarette at the rail in front of Traitors’ Gate, and ten minutes to two, which is the time Doctor Watson said he died. Mr. Arbor, coming into Water Lane at twenty-five minutes to two, was positive there was nobody near that rail.”
“I don’t see any implication there,” General Mason said, after a pause; “unless it’s the implication that Arbor was lying. What’s your second hint?”
Dr. Fell was becoming more amiable. He juggled his glass.
“The second hint,” he answered, “concerns that crossbow bolt. It was, as you saw, filed sharp into a deadly weapon. Now you are assuming, quite naturally, that this filing was done by the murderer. We have also noticed that the same hand had started to file off those words, ‘Souvenir de Carcassonne,’ but had stopped with three letters neatly effaced, and gone no farther. Why weren’t those other letters effaced? When we found the body, we were of course bound to learn of the bolt Mrs. Bitton purchased at Carcassonne, and, since the victim was Driscoll, it would be too monstrous to assume a mere coincidence. I repeat: why weren’t those other letters effaced?”
“Yes,” said Hadley. “I’d thought of that point, too. I hope you’re sure of the answer. I’m not. And the third hint?”
By this time Dr. Fell, and the black ribbon of his eyeglasses, quivered to his chuckle.
“And the third hint,” he said, “is very short. It is a simple query. Why did Sir William’s hat fit him?”
With a capacious tilt of his head he swallowed off his drink, glanced blandly about the group, pushed open the door, and shouldered out into the mist.
X
Eyes in a Mirror
THE GREAT clock in Westminster tower struck eight-thirty.
Dorothy had not been at the hotel when Rampole and the doctor arrived there on their return from the Tower. A note left for Rampole at the desk informed him that Sylvia Somebody, who had been at school with her, was taking her home for a gathering of some of the other old girls. Owing, she said, to previous knowledge of her husband’s passionate aversion to jolly little evenings of this kind, she had informed them that he was in the hospital with a violent attack of delirium tremens. They’ll condole with me so, she explained. D’you mind if I tell them how you throw plates at the cat and come home every night by way of the coal chute? She said he was to give her love to Dr. Fell; and not to forget to pin the name of his hotel to his coat lapel so that the cabman would know where to put him at the end of the evening. Even after more than six months of matrimony, too, she concluded with certain declarations which made Rampole throw out his chest. There, he reflected, was a wife.
He and the doctor dined at a little French restaurant in Wardour Street. Hadley, who had gone to Scotland Yard immediately after leaving the Tower, had promised to meet them there for a visit to the Bitton home that night. Dr. Fell was fond of dining in French restaurants; or, in fact, anywhere else. He dug himself in behind a steaming parapet of dishes and a formidable array of wine bottles; but throughout the meal he steadily ref
used to discuss crime.
Those various adventures he had mentioned that afternoon were a surprise even to the young man who knew him so well. He remembered the cottage in the drowsy Lincolnshire countryside. He remembered Dr. Fell smoking his pipe in a little study where three walls were built of books, or pottering about his garden in a broad-brimmed white hat. The sundial, the bird houses, the lawns starred with white flowers and asleep in afternoon sunlight: this had seemed to be Dr. Fell’s domain. It was incongruous that those words he had used so casually that afternoon, “Cripps, the Notting Hill poisoner,” or “that chap with the mirror in his watch,” or the tales from the far-off days of the heavy guns. But, none the less, Rampole remembered how once a telegram of five words had brought several quiet armed men from Scotland Yard to do his bidding.
And this evening the doctor would not speak of crime. On any other subject, however, it was practically impossible to stop him. He discussed in turn the third Crusade, the origin of the Christmas cracker, Sir Richard Steele, merry-go-rounds—on which he particularly enjoyed riding—Beowulf, Buddhism, Thomas Henry Huxley, and Miss Greta Garbo. It was eight-thirty before they finished dinner. Rampole, comfortably lazy and warmed with wine, had just sat back for the lighting of the cigars when Hadley arrived.
The chief inspector was restless, and he seemed worried. He put his briefcase down on the table and drew up a chair without removing his overcoat.
“I’ll have a sandwich and a whisky with you,” he said, in reply to Dr. Fell’s invitation. “Come to think of it, I forgot to get any dinner. But we mustn’t waste time.”
The doctor peered at him over the flame of the match for his cigar.
“Developments?”
“Serious ones, I’m afraid. At least two unforeseen things have occurred. One of them I can’t make head or tail of.” He began to rummage in his briefcase and draw out papers. “To begin with, somebody broke into Driscoll’s flat about a quarter to five o’clock this afternoon.”
The Mad Hatter Mystery Page 13
