THE CASE OF THE MURDERED FINANCIER
The division of the thousand-pound reward made the three of us
inclined for frivolity and pleasure. I happened to have little to do,
so we made several excursions and visited many theaters. Relaxation is
good, but one may have too much of it; certainly it was not the best
training for the next case I was called upon to investigate.
I remember a man of many convictions once telling me that he rather
enjoyed picking oakum, a proof that one may become used to anything.
In the course of my career I have become accustomed to ghastly sights,
yet when I entered that room in Hampstead a feeling of nausea seized
me which had something of fear in it. Without attempting any close
observation, I went out and sent a line to Christopher Quarles, asking
him to come to me at once.
It was chiefly my desire for companionship in my investigations which
made me do so, I think; still, it may be that subconsciously I
realized that this was a case for the professor. The force of
contrast, too, may have had something to do with my attitude. Two
nights ago, the professor, Zena, and I had been to the opera, mainly
to see a Hungarian dancer who had recently caused a sensation. She was
a very beautiful woman, and her dancing, which was illustrative of
abstract ideas, was impressive, if bizarre. Quarles had pointed out a
man in a box who seemed literally absorbed in the performance, and
said he was a wealthy German named Seligmann, who was financially
interested in the opera season.
This morning Seligmann was dead, lying limply in a deep arm-chair in
the study of his home in Hampstead. Owing to some misunderstanding I
had arrived before the doctor who had been sent for, and, as I have
said, the sight nauseated me. Downward, through his neck, a stiletto
had been driven, a death-dealing blow delivered from behind,
apparently, but besides this his face and throat were torn as though
some great bird had attacked him with powerful talons. The description
is inadequate, perhaps, but it was too terrible a sight to enlarge
upon.
Quarles and the doctor arrived at the same time, and the three of us
entered the room together. After looking at the dead man for a few
moments, Quarles stood apart while the doctor made his examination,
but I noticed that his eyes were particularly alive behind his round
goggles.
The doctor was puzzled.
"The stiletto killed him," he said, slowly, looking at me, "but these
other wounds--the sudden explosion of some vessel might have caused
them, but there are no fragments. It almost looks as if the flesh had
been torn by a rake. He has been dead some hours."
"Yesterday was Sunday," I replied, "and this room was not opened."
"That accounts for the time," he said. "The work of a madman, perhaps.
Murder, undoubtedly."
When the doctor had gone, after he had superintended the removal of
the dead man to a small room off the hall, Quarles moved to the
writing-table.
"Glad you sent for me, Wigan. What has the wife to say? He was
married, I suppose? There is a feminine note about the house."
"Mrs. Seligmann is away," I answered, "and as yet I have only
interviewed the man who found his master. He was inclined to be
hysterical. Two women-servants had a day off yesterday, and are not
expected back until this morning."
"Dead many hours," said Quarles; "was probably lying here yesterday,
and we saw him on Saturday. I don't think he left the house before the
fall of the curtain."
"No, I think not."
"He couldn't have got here before midnight, then," said Quarles. "That
helps us to the time of the murder. It would be a late hour for a
visitor, and I see no card lying about."
"My dear professor, visitors of this sort do not leave their cards."
"Look at this pen on the blotting-pad, Wigan; it might have been just
put down--put down, not dropped from paralyzed fingers, nor from a
hand raised in self-defense. It was used, probably, to make these
meaningless lines and curves upon the pad. A man engaged in a serious
conversation might draw them as he talked. That chair there was pushed
back by the doctor, but it was close to the table, just where a
visitor would sit to talk to a man seated at the table. Now mark, the
dead man is found in an arm-chair removed from the table, yet his
cigar was put carefully into the ash tray, half smoked, you see, and
the ash not knocked off. Oh, yes, Mr. Seligmann had a visitor of whom
he had no fear, and who might reasonably have left a card."
"He would be careful not to leave it lying about after the murder," I
said.
"It wasn't a man, I fancy, but a woman. Had it been a man, the glasses
on the tray yonder would probably have been used. Besides, if
criminals were always as careful as you suggest, there are few
detectives who would be able to hunt them down. The very essence of
your profession is looking for mistakes."
Quarles turned to examine the French window.
"The window was found closed," I said, "but there is little
significance in that. If pulled to from the outside it fastens itself.
"And cannot be opened from the outside, I observe," said Quarles. "How
about the garden door, yonder?"
The house was a corner one. There was a small square of garden, and in
the high wall was a door, an exit into a side road.
"It was locked," I answered.
"So, unless the retreating person had a key, he would have to climb
the wall," the professor remarked. "That would require some agility."
"The person who committed so savage a murder would be likely to have
sufficient strength for that," I said.
"Quite so," Quarles returned thoughtfully, crossing to a
leather-covered sofa and looking at it carefully.
"Shall we interview the servants?" he said, after a pause.
The man who had found his master that morning was calmer now, and told
us a coherent story. Mr. Seligmann had arrived home just before
midnight on Saturday. They had expected him earlier in the evening. As
he entered the study, he said he was returning to Maidenhead as soon
as he had looked through his letters. He had a cottage on the river,
where he and Mrs. Seligmann had been for the past two or three weeks,
and the master had paid these flying visits to Hampstead more than
once. The man had gone to bed after taking in the tray with the
glasses. It was his custom to put two or three glasses on the tray.
There was no one with Mr. Seligmann. The study had not been opened on
Sunday. When he entered it this morning his master was dead in the
chair, and the man had immediately sent for the police. He had also
telegraphed to Mrs. Seligmann.
"Was it usual not to open the room when Mr. Seligmann was away?" I
asked.
"On Sundays, yes. Other days it would be opened."
"It wasn't necessary for you to sit up until your master had gone?"
"No. He constantly left his motor in the side road and went out
through the garden. He had a key of the door."
"Was the electric light on in the hall on Sunday morning?"
"No; but I didn't switch it off on Saturday. I left it because two of
the servants were finishing some work in the kitchen--hat trimming.
They were having the Sunday off. They ought to be back directly."
"You supposed the motor was waiting in the side road ready to take
your master to Maidenhead," said Quarles. "Would it be in charge of a
chauffeur?"
"Yes, sir."
"When your master left by the garden was it not thought advisable to
see that the study window was securely fastened? I see there are
shutters."
"Yes, but I have never seen them closed. The master often sat up late
after we had all gone to bed, and he never shut them. I suppose he
considered the high garden wall sufficient protection."
"Did anyone come to see your master that night?"
"No."
In this particular the man was wrong. When, a few minutes later, the
two women servants returned, one of them--the housemaid--said she had
answered a ring at the bell after the man servant had gone to bed. It
was a young lady. She gave no name, but said that Mr. Seligmann was
expecting her. This was true, for the master had had her shown in at
once.
"He told me not to wait. He would show her out himself."
"What was the lady like?" I asked.
"Rather tall and well dressed. She wore a veil, so I could not see her
face very clearly."
"Was she alone?" asked Quarles.
"Yes."
"Quite alone?" the professor insisted. "She didn't turn to speak to
anyone as she entered the house?"
"No."
"Did you switch off the light in the hall?"
"I may have done. I do not remember."
"So late a visitor surprised you, of course?"
"Only because the master was to be in the house so short a time. He
has a great deal to do with professional people, so we often get late
visitors--after the theaters are over. The mistress----"
She stopped. There was the soft purring of a motor at the front door,
and a moment later the sharp ring of a bell.
"That is the mistress," she said.
The door was opened, and a woman came in swiftly, young, beautiful,
and, even in her agitated movements, full of grace.
"Tell me! Tell me!" she said, turning toward Quarles and myself, as if
a man's strength were necessary to her just then. Quarles told her
with a gentleness which I had not often seen in him.
"I must see him," she said.
We tried to dissuade her, but she insisted, so we went with her. The
dead man lay on a sofa, a handkerchief over his face. His wife lifted
the covering herself and for a moment stood motionless. Then she
swayed and would have fallen had I not caught her. My touch seemed to
strengthen her, and, with a low cry, she rushed out of the room.
From the moment she had entered the house I had been trying to
remember where I had seen her before. Perhaps it was some involuntary
movement as she left the room which made me remember. She was the
famous Hungarian dancer we had seen on Saturday at the opera.
"Did you know she was Seligmann's wife, professor?"
"No," he answered, almost as if his ignorance annoyed him.
"I'm going back to Chelsea. He had a visitor, you see, Wigan, and a
woman. There is nothing more to say at present. I dare say you will be
able to see Mrs. Seligmann presently; ask her two things: Did she
expect her husband to join her at Maidenhead in the small hours of
Sunday morning? Does she know of any woman, a singer possibly, who has
been worrying her husband to get her an engagement?"
The importance of finding the woman who had visited Seligmann was
obvious, but it seemed impossible that a woman could have
accomplished so savage a murder. Seligmann was a powerful man and
would not prove an easy victim. Evidently the professor did not
believe her solely responsible by the precise way in which he had
asked the housemaid whether the woman was alone.
In the afternoon I saw Mrs. Seligmann for a few moments. She told me
that she and her husband had come to town together on Saturday. He had
arranged to go to Hampstead after the opera, not to keep any
particular appointment as far as she knew, and she had expected him to
come on to Maidenhead afterward. She had gone back there after the
opera. People constantly asked him to help them, but she could not
conceive who her husband's visitor that night was.
In answer to my question how her husband intended to get to
Maidenhead, she said by taxi. He often did so after sending her off in
the motor.
When I left her I visited the nearest cab rank, and had confirmation
of her statement. A driver told me he had taken Mr. Seligmann to
Maidenhead once or twice. Seligmann would stop and tell him if he were
on the rank at a certain time there would be a good job for him. He
has also been to the house to call for him sometimes. On Saturday he
had not seen him, nor could I find any other driver who had. Of
course, he might have engaged a taxi elsewhere, but, as it was not his
habit to do so, the presumption was that he had not intended to go to
Maidenhead that night.
Quarles had talked about criminals' mistakes, but I did not expect a
murderer to be so careless as to hire a cab in the immediate
neighborhood. I found, however, that three drivers had been engaged by
solitary women that night. The description of the first woman did not
correspond with the housemaid's, the second was not late enough to be
Seligmann's visitor, but the third seemed worth attention. She had
been driven to Chelsea, to a block of flats called River Mansions,
and, interviewing the hall-porter later in the afternoon, I found that
a Miss Wickham, who shared a flat there with a lady named Ross, had
come home early on Sunday morning. She might be a singer, but the man
thought she was an actress.
"Is she in now?" I asked.
"No; both ladies went away on Sunday morning. They often go either
Saturday or Sunday, and come back some time on Monday. You might find
them later in the evening. There's nothing wrong, is there?" he added,
as though the respectability of the Mansions was a matter of concern
to him.
"Why should you think so?"
"I'm old-fashioned, I suppose, and I expect to hear queer things about
theatrical folk; besides, there's a friend of Miss Wickham's been here
three times to-day, and he seemed worried at not finding her."
"Oh, you mean Mr. Rowton," I said, and the porter fell into the trap.
"No, I don't know him. This was Mr. Marsh--the Honorable Percival
Marsh."
"He's been, has he?" I said, keeping up the deception to allay the
man's suspicions. "I must try and see him."
"He lives in Jermyn Street, you know."
"Yes; I shall go there."
But I did not go to Jermyn Street at once; I went to see Quarles.
"I'm perplexed, Wigan," said the professor before I could utter a
word. "I've seen a man with a stiletto driven into his neck, yet, as
soon as I begin to think of the murderer, something seems to tell me
it wasn't murder."
I smiled at his foolishness and told him what I had done.
"What time to-day did this Mr. Marsh first go to River Mansions?"
Quarles asked when I had finished.
"The porter didn't say."
"They're not expensive flats, are they?"
"No."
"You've got on the trail cleverly, but you haven't proved it murder
yet," he said. "The first question Zena asked me was whether I was
certain the stiletto wasn't a hatpin."
"There might be a pair, and so it would be a clew," explained Zena.
"It was too much of a weapon for a hatpin," I said.
"Exactly my answer," said Quarles, "and Zena went and fetched that
thing lying on the writing-table. That came from Norway and is a
hatpin, though you might not think it."
It was indeed a fearsome looking weapon, and a deadly stroke might be
dealt with it.
"I'm perplexed, Wigan," the professor went on. "I'm a man in a wood
and can't find my way out. That is literal rather than a figure of
speech. In my endeavor to get out and look for a murderer I seem to
keep on hurting myself against the trunks and branches of trees, and
out of the darkness about me wild animals seem to roar with laughter
at my idea of murder. What do you make of it?"
"You have been reading some ancient mythology, dear," said Zena, "and
I expect the great god Pan has got on your nerves. Didn't a solemn
voice from the Ionian Sea proclaim him to be dead? Perhaps he isn't."
Quarles looked at her and nodded.
"Come out of the wood, professor," I said, "and we'll go and interview
Marsh in Jermyn Street."
Knowing him as I did, I had no doubt that he had formed a theory, and,
until he had found whether there were any facts to support it, was
pleased to play the fool. I was rather angry, but showing annoyance
served no useful purpose with him. He was keen enough when we found
Percival Marsh at home.
There are scores like Percival Marsh in London; no great harm in them,
certainly no great good; chiefly idlers, always spendthrifts, who may
end by settling down into decent citizens or may go completely to the
devil. It was quite evident he took us for duns when we entered, but
there was no mistaking his concern when I told him we had come to talk
about Miss Wickham.
"I called upon her this afternoon," I said. "She was not at home. You
will not be surprised, since I hear you have been there several times
to-day."
"Why did you call upon her?"
"To ask why she went to see Mr. Seligmann, of Hampstead, on Saturday
night."
"Did she go there?"
"Your manner tells me that you know she did, and your anxiety about
her to-day convinces me that you have seen some account of the
Hampstead tragedy."
"I do not know that she went there, but she knew Seligmann. I think
that accounts for my anxiety."
"And for some reason you think it within the bounds of possibility
that Miss Wickham may have attacked him. I may tell you that I do not
believe she is responsible for the murder."
He did not answer.
Quarles, who had been gazing round the room, apparently uninterested
in the conversation, turned suddenly.
"Evidently you don't agree with my friend, Mr. Marsh. You are not
quite sure that Miss Wickham is innocent. It is a painful subject. May
I ask if you are engaged to Miss Wickham?"
"Really, you----"
"I quite understand," said Quarles. "I am man of the world enough to
understand the desirability of keeping such things secret. Family
reasons. Her position and yours are so different. It would be awkward
if such an engagement were to mean the stoppage of supplies. The head
of the family has to be thought of. Peers do not always go to the
stage for their wives."
"Sir, you overstep the limits of our short acquaintance," said Marsh
with some dignity.
"Let me tell you, sir, that you treat the affair far too cavalierly.
It looks as if Mr. Seligmann had been killed by a man rather than by a
woman. You couldn't have read of the murder till this afternoon, yet
you went to River Mansions this morning."
"What are you attempting to suggest?" Marsh asked, his face pale,
either with fear or anger.
"I suggest that you know why Miss Wickham went to Mr. Seligmann and
that it was upon some matter which concerned yourself."
"Do you know Seligmann?" Marsh asked.
"I know a great deal about him."
"Then you know that he was a different man, according to his company.
You may only have seen the decent side of him, but he was a
blood-sucker of the worst description."
"So he had you in his money-lending hands, had he?"
"He had. Morally, I had paid my debt, but a legal quibble kept me in
his power, and he refused to give up certain papers of mine."
"Which you had no right to part with, I presume," said Quarles.
"Miss Wickham said she had some influence with Seligmann," Marsh went
on, taking no notice of the professor's remark, "and said she would
try and get the papers back."
"What price was she to pay for them?"
"Price!"
"You didn't expect Seligmann to give them up for nothing?"
"He wanted her to go on tour, I believe, instead of bringing her out
in town, as he had half promised to do."
"It was natural perhaps that your future wife should be willing to
make a sacrifice for your sake."
"It was hardly a sacrifice. She is not good enough for the London
stage. Besides, I am not engaged to her. Friendship is----"
"I warrant she considers herself engaged to you."
"I cannot help that."
"Of course not," said the professor, "but you were glad enough to get
the papers. May I look at the envelope they came in?"
"I destroyed it," Marsh replied to my utter astonishment.
"That is a pity. If Miss Wickham says she did not get those papers,
it will be awkward for you. Could you swear the writing on the
envelope was hers?"
"They could have come from no one else."
"And you think she murdered Seligmann to get them?"
"I am not to be trapped into admitting anything of the sort."
"As you will, Mr. Marsh. For my part, I expect this affair will open
Miss Wickham's eyes to your--your true worth."
And Quarles took up his hat and walked out of the room. I followed
him. In the street he took off his glasses and put them in his pocket.
They were the same he had worn that morning--a pair he did not often
use.
"The Honorable Percival Marsh is a worm," he remarked.
"Now for Miss Wickham," said I.
"There is no necessity to see her," said Quarles. "I dare say it is
true what this worm says. She went to offer her talent cheap to
Seligmann on condition that he would give her the papers. I can guess
what happened. They talked over the bargain, but Seligmann refused to
do what she wanted, and was able, probably, to show her that Marsh was
a worthless scoundrel. Unless something of this sort had happened she
would have written to Marsh to tell him she had been unsuccessful. I
have little doubt Seligmann treated her in a fatherly manner, and then
let her out through the garden, perhaps because he found the light in
the hall was out. He returned to find--I am not sure yet what it was
he found in his study, but nothing to alarm him, I am sure. To-morrow
we will go to Maidenhead, Wigan, and see what servants are at the
cottage."
At noon next day we were in Maidenhead.
There was a yard and coach house somewhat removed from the house, and
a chauffeur was cleaning a car. In the corner of the yard lay a large
dog of the boar-hound type, but I have never seen one quite like it
before.
"Is that dog savage?" Quarles asked.
"He doesn't like strangers, as a rule," said the man, "but he's ill."
"Foreign breed of dog, eh?" said Quarles, entering the yard.
"Came from Russia."
The professor looked puzzled. It was evident that something interfered
with his theory.
"Sorry to disturb you," he went on, "but we've come to ask a few
questions about the awful circumstances of your master's death."
"You're right, it is awful," said the man. "The mistress will go mad,
that's what she'll do. I shouldn't have been surprised if she'd
chucked herself out of the car as we came down this morning."
"She has returned to the cottage, then? I suppose it was you who drove
her up yesterday?"
"Yes, and on Saturday I drove them both up as far as Colnbrook, and
then something went wrong with the car. They had to go on by train."
"How did she arrive home on Sunday morning, then?"
"In a taxi."
"And what did she do on Sunday?"
"Had out the punt and went up to Boulter's, where she would be certain
to meet a lot of friends. I dare say you know the mistress is a famous
dancer. That kind of people are a bit unconventional."
"Do you happen to know the Honorable Percival Marsh?" asked Quarles.
"Yes. He's been here, but not lately. The mistress lunches with him in
town sometimes. She seems to think more of him than I do. There's
nothing in it. I've heard her laugh at him with the master."
"Is that the only dog about the place?" said Quarles.
"Yes. He's a pet; usually goes up to the opera with the mistress. He
went on Saturday, and came back like that on Sunday. He snapped at her
in a frightened way when she came in here in the morning and got a
hiding for it. I was afraid he'd go for her."
Quarles gave a short exclamation underneath his breath, and then he
said in rather an agitated way: "Well go in and see Mrs. Seligmann,
Wigan." And as we left the yard he went on: "You must make the servant
show us in to her mistress without announcing us. We must take Mrs.
Seligmann unawares."
The servant proved difficult to persuade, and I had to explain who I
was before she yielded. Mrs. Seligmann sprang from the sofa as we
entered. She looked wild, almost mad, as the chauffeur had said, but
she recognized us and forced herself to welcome us.
"What are you here for?" she said, and I started. There was the
suggestion of a snarl in her voice.
"We believe your husband was murdered by Percival Marsh," said Quarles
quietly.
"It's a lie!" she shrieked.
"How comes it, then, that he has those papers which were in your
husband's possession?"
In a moment she had hurled herself upon the professor, and had snapped
at the hand which he threw out to protect himself. Her strength was
awful, and all the time we were struggling with her she fought with
her nails and teeth, and growled like an infuriated animal. Her
clothes were partly torn from her in the struggle, and--but it was too
ghastly to enlarge upon. She was an animal in the form of a beautiful
woman. The house was quickly roused, and we had to have the
chauffeur's help before we could bind her securely. Then I telephoned
to Maidenhead for the police.
"I thought a dog had helped, Wigan; that was my theory," said Quarles
as we went back to town. "I noted that a dog had trodden on the
polished skirting near the study sofa. Miss Wickham might have had a
dog, that is why I questioned the housemaid so closely to make sure
she entered the house quite alone. When we were brought in contact
with Marsh I suspected Mrs. Seligmann. Those glasses I wear sometimes
are curious, acting like opera-glasses, and they enabled me to see a
portrait of Mrs. Seligmann standing back on a corner table, and,
moreover, that it was signed. Marsh evidently knew her well; was in
love with her, perhaps, and she with him. My saying that he had first
been to River Mansions in the morning was guesswork, but by his not
denying it, the fact was established that the papers must have come
into his possession, or why should he have gone there? He must have
known that Miss Wickham usually went away on Saturday or Sunday and
did not return till late on Monday. I argued that Mrs. Seligmann might
have sent them, and that Marsh suspected this, hence his visit to Miss
Wickham to make certain. It may be true that he did not know she was
going to Seligmann on Saturday night, and if he heard from the porter
that she had left town on Saturday afternoon he would know that the
papers could not have come from her. He would hear from the porter
that she had returned in the small hours of Sunday morning, and when,
later in the day, he read of the murder he would not know what to
think. It is also possible, Wigan, that Seligmann expected his wife to
call for him that night. That their motor had broken down on the way
up to town makes it even probable. I went to Maidenhead to see if Mrs.
Seligmann had a dog, a savage brute who would attack at her command,
savage but small. The great brute in the yard did not fit my theory.
God knows I didn't suspect the real truth. Strange that I should have
felt that I was in a forest, stranger still that Zena should speak of
Pan. I don't explain, Wigan, I can't, but it has happened--a return of
the human to wild and awful atavism. She meant to kill, to rid herself
of the man who was in her way. The human in her used the stiletto or
hatpin, the animal in her used claws. She will be called mad, and so
she is in one sense, but not in another; nor was it murder in the true
sense of the word. The wild wolf does not murder; he kills because he
must. Even the dog recognized an enemy of whom he was afraid. The
beast was not ill, but cowed, and snapped at her as you heard the
chauffeur say. Had she had her way with me to-day, I should have
looked like poor Seligmann."
Arriving in town I found that Miss Wickham had communicated with the
police and had given an account of her visit to Hampstead, which
closely corresponded with Quarles's idea. She had gone at that hour
because she was anxious on Marsh's account, and it was the only time
Seligmann could see her unless she waited another week. He was very
kind, and had told her that Marsh was a scoundrel. He was attempting
to make love to his wife, he declared, who laughed at him, and was
quite in agreement with her husband when he said he would presently
punish him by using the papers he held. He was expecting his wife to
call for him that night in a taxi. She came, and killed him.
I am thankful to say that a fortnight after her arrest Mrs. Seligmann
died.