The Hanover Galleries Murder
Just inside the room he was stopped. Two six-feet members of the
Metropolitan Police barred his further entrance.
“Sorry, sir,” said one of them, “but our orders are to admit nobody.”
Linnell paused—then under the influence of a sudden idea—he produced
his card.
“Give that to the Inspector who has the case in hand, will you?” he
said; “it’s just possible I may be able to help him.” He looked
straight at the officer.
“Very well, sir,” rejoined the latter. “I’ll see what I can do for
you.” He spoke to his colleague. “You stay here—I’ll go and have a
word with the Chief about this gentleman.”
He was soon back. “Detective-Inspector Goodall will see you, sir! This
way, if you please!”
He piloted Linnell down the lengthy room. A group of men were standing
at the far end. Goodall was in the center of the group. Linnell saw a
clean-shaven man of medium height and stoutish build—dressed in a
double-breasted blue serge suit. He awaited Linnell’s approach with
uplifted eyebrows.
“Mr. Linnell?” he interrogated—quickly and decisively. “Of——?”
“Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry—Cornhill,” replied Linnell—to the
point as always. “I am the senior partner of the firm.”
“You have important information for me, I understand,” cut in Goodall.
“Information,” corrected Linnell. “You must be the judge of its
importance.”
“Well, I’m listening, Mr. Linnell. Go ahead!”
“Before I tell you what I know—would you, in your turn, be good enough
to tell me if the rumors that are traveling round outside—are correct?
Are you investigating a case of murder and robbery?”
“I am! A robbery has taken place here since shutting-up hours last
evening—and a poor devil of a watchman been bashed on the head—he’s as
dead as mutton. Where do you come in?”
“Maybe not at all, Inspector. But my firm had a rather peculiar
commission entrusted to it yesterday in relation to the sale that was
to have taken place here to-morrow. And it struck me when I heard——”
“Aren’t you a bit imaginative, Mr. Linnell?” demanded Goodall. “How
could anything you—still—let’s hear all about it.”
“I was going to,” remonstrated Linnell mildly. “We were commissioned
to buy three articles that were advertised as having belonged to Mary,
Queen of——”
“What?” blazed Goodall. “The devil you were. They’re the only three
articles we can trace to have been stolen. Who commissioned you?”
Although Linnell was really surprised at this announcement—yet in one
way he was not. His mind seemed prepared for it—some sixth and subtle
sense had been pounding at his brain ever since his arrival at this
place that Stewart’s instructions and the tragedy that confronted him
were in some manner connected with each other. It was the shadowy
belief in this that had prompted him to try to interview the
Inspector.
“Mr. Laurence P. Stewart of Assynton, Berkshire,” he replied quietly.
“The millionaire?” exclaimed a tall man from the group.
“Yes,” said Linnell.
“You know this man Stewart, Mr. Day?” asked Goodall, turning to the
speaker.
“Only by reputation,” rejoined Day. “It’s the American millionaire—you
must have heard of him, Inspector! Forshaw here, met him once or twice
over in the States—I never have.”
“That’s so,” intervened Forshaw with a positive movement of the head.
“I met him in New York a year or two after the War.”
“Go on, Mr. Linnell,” said the Inspector. “You said his instructions
to your firm were ‘peculiar’—that was the adjective you used. I reckon
you’ve some more to tell us.”
Here young Forshaw broke in. “The gentleman who called here
yesterday—a Mr. Daventry—he was a representative of your firm, I
think?”
“Quite correct,” affirmed Linnell. “My partner! My only partner, I
should have said.”
Goodall swung round on to Forshaw Junior. “Called here yesterday? What
about?” he grumbled in his deep voice.
“The Mary, Queen of Scots’ stuff.” Goodall looked a trifle annoyed.
“You didn’t tell me,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you?”
“I simply haven’t had a chance yet,” came the reply with just a hint
of rebellious obstinacy, “you’ve been doing best part of the talking.
I should have told you though before you’d finished.” Forshaw shrugged
his shoulders.
Goodall glared—then reverted to Linnell. “Fire away, Mr. Linnell. What
exactly were your instructions?”
“Yesterday morning I received a letter from the gentleman I just
mentioned—Laurence P. Stewart—authorizing me to buy the three articles
that you have just informed me have been stolen—er—numbers 37, 38 and
39 in the sale catalogue.”
“Well?” rapped Goodall—“I can’t see anything . . .”
Linnell went on. “The whole thing was peculiar in this respect. I was
entirely unacquainted with the gentleman—the commission was right out
of our usual type of business—no price was mentioned—I was given
_carte blanche_—I know absolutely nothing about this particular
species of—er—antiques—and what is more”—here he paused and looked
Goodall straight in the eyes—“I had no absolute proof that the affair
was genuine.”
Goodall nodded approvingly. “You took steps, of course, to——”
“I wired to Berkshire and the reply was satisfactory—at all events——”
“What reply did you get?” Goodall was showing signs of impatience.
“It came by telegram—you shall see it. It’s at my office.”
“You were satisfied?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“One little point, Mr. Linnell, before you proceed any farther. Why
did Mr. Stewart select your firm to carry out this commission? Any
idea?”
“He explained that in his letter. He said he had been told of us by a
very respected and esteemed client of ours—a Colonel Leach-Fletcher.”
“Was that true?” demanded Goodall.
“Colonel Leach-Fletcher is a client of ours—certainly—I can say
nothing as to the alleged recommendation. You can see the letter with
the telegram.”
“I will. Anything else?”
“Not very much. The telegram reassured me—Mr. Daventry, my partner,
came and had a look over here yesterday—and I had come with similar
purpose this morning—only to find this trouble.”
“How did you know, Mr. Linnell?”—Goodall’s voice sounded very
distinctly, almost as though he were launching an accusation—“that
these three particular objects had been stolen? It seems to me——”
“I didn’t,” replied Linnell in an almost aggrieved manner. “I thought
you understood that when I entered. I had no knowledge of it whatever.
I only obeyed my instincts.”
“H’m,” grunted the Inspector. “Yes, Doctor?” This last remark was
addressed to a gentleman who had come authoritatively down the room.
“The poor fellow’s quite dead, of course. Been dead, I should say,
about eight hours when I examined him. Four particularly savage blows
on the skull I think—part of the brain actually protruding—whoever did
it—meant doing it.”
“Struck from behind, do you think, Doctor?” queried Goodall.
“Very probably—the parietal bone is badly smashed.”
Goodall turned to Day. “What time did this night-watchman come on
duty, Mr. Day?”
“At midnight, Inspector! The first watchman is on duty from six
o’clock—when we close—till twelve, when poor Mason relieved him. I’ve
sent for Druce—that’s the other watchman—he should be along here in a
few moments.”
“Well, this poor fellow in the other room can’t tell us anything—so we
shall have to rely on Druce. I hope he will be of some help.”
“Was he found dead in this room, Inspector?” asked Linnell—“or——”
“Just over there”—pointed Goodall to a spot about a dozen yards
away—“right in front of the handrail. Doctor Archer examined him first
down there—then we had him taken into Mr. Day’s private office.”
“Where the rug is?” interrogated Linnell. He looked at the rug on the
floor.
“That’s it,” answered Goodall. “There’s a nasty mess underneath—that’s
why the rug’s there!”
“How did they get in and out?”
“Well, Mr. Linnell—as to that—they got out with the night-watchman’s
keys—we can’t find them anywhere—how they got in is a matter of
conjecture—that’s what I want to see this other watchman, Druce,
about.”
“But I presume you’ve formed some conclusions? There must be some——”
“There’s very little,” replied Goodall. “Very little indeed. No forced
entrance at all. Not even a foot mark or finger-print. Three articles
stolen—a night-watchman dead on the floor. Motive—burglary! Which
makes the murder a subordinate factor in the crime. Which makes the
murdered man almost impersonal! And I’m supposed to put my hands on
this murderer in less than twenty-four hours—and that out of a little
matter of six millions of people.”
“You’re supposed——”
Goodall shrugged his shoulders. “If I don’t—my wife or some other
damned good-natured friend will confront me with an article in the
London press shrieking ‘the decadence of Scotland Yard.’”
Linnell looked at him curiously. To say the least he was impressed.
That this sturdy and efficient police-representative would prove no
mean antagonist he felt sure.
Mr. Day came bustling forward. “Druce is here, Inspector,” he
announced.
“Bring him along here, Mr. Day.” Goodall’s eyes brightened
perceptibly.
Druce came slowly forward—nervously plucking with his fingers at the
cap he held in his hand. He was a wizened-faced man—of about sixty
years of age. He had had no encounters with the Police before—all his
life he had “kept honest”—and this new experience, therefore, had had
a somewhat unsettling effect upon him.
“You are Edward Druce—one of the night-watchmen here?” commenced
Goodall.
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have you worked here?”
Druce hesitated and half-turned towards Mr. Day. “Is it five or——?”
“Six years, Druce, you’ve been with us,” supplemented his employer,
“six years last Easter.”
Druce nodded. “That’s it, sir. And I hope I’ve always given
satisfaction.”
A glint of humor shot through Goodall’s eyes.
“What time were you relieved last night?” he asked.
“About five to twelve, sir, or thereabouts.”
“Mason came on then? Was that about his usual time?”
“It were, sir,” replied Druce. “He never varied much, sir, did
Mason—steady and reliable he were—always. What’s come to him, sir?”
“He’s dead, Druce,” came the relentless reply, “murdered in the
night.”
Druce went ashen pale. He licked his lips as the horror of the news
struck home to him. “Murdered?” he managed to gasp.
“Now tell me, Druce,” proceeded Goodall, “did anything about Mason
last night strike you as peculiar or—extraordinary?”
Druce shook his head. “No, sir—nothing.” This decisively! “He ’ad a
joke on his lips, sir, when he came up the stairs with me—just as he
usually had. Told me I could go ’ome and do some gardenin’—before I
went to ‘Kip.’ Twelve o’clock at night, sir, that was.”
“You went downstairs to open the doors to let him in?”
“Yes, sir. He always give three loud sharp knocks.”
“And you noticed nothing then—or at any other time during the evening
that you regarded as unusual or abnormal? Think carefully!”
Druce pondered over the question. “No—I can’t say as how”—then a
sudden reminiscence seemed to awake in him—“well, sir—now you mention
it, there was an incident, so to speak, when Jim Mason come to
the—nothing at all important, sir——” he spoke deprecatingly.
“Let’s hear it,” rapped Goodall. “Every word of it!”
Every vestige of blood went from the night-watchman’s face. “I’m sorry
I didn’t think of it before, sir,” he muttered, “I hope there’s no
harm done——”
“Let’s have it,” bellowed Goodall, “every second’s of importance!”
“Well, sir,” said Druce—“it was like this. When I ’eard Jim Mason
knock—he give his three knocks just as usual—I went downstairs to let
’im in. When I opened the door he was standin’ there just in the
ordinary way—when a female comes up to us. Wanted to know what time
the Galleries opened the next morning—that was all she enquired, sir!
I told her ‘ten o’clock.’ Then she pointed down the street and asked
if that way was the right direction for the Marble Arch.”
“And was it?” snapped Goodall eagerly.
“Yes,” said Druce with some surprise. “That’s so, sir!”
“What did Mason do while this conversation was taking place?”
“Mason, sir? He showed ’er the way the same as wot I did.”
“Of course he did,” cut in Goodall with decision. “And I expect she
wanted a deal of showing, didn’t she?”
“She did seem a bit mazed-like,” murmured Druce.
“I’ll warrant she did,” said the Inspector. “Just long enough for the
murderer to slip in behind your backs and up the stairs in front of
Mason.”
Druce went goggle-eyed. “Gosh! Who’d ’ave thought of that?”
“Not you, evidently,” returned Goodall. “If you had have done, your
mate might still be alive. It’s no use, though, wasting time on
regrets or recriminations.”
He stepped into the private room used by Day as his office.
“Is this door locked of an evening when the place closes?” he asked.
“Always,” responded Day. “Or, at least, it should be!”
“Who was in charge here yesterday evening?” queried the Inspector
swiftly.
“I was.” Young Forshaw stepped forward.
“Did you lock this door when you left?”
“To the best of my memory—yes. But it’s a mechanical sort of job—you
know, Inspector—the kind of thing you do so often from mere force of
habit—that the doing it leaves no very clear impression on your mind.”
Goodall nodded in acceptance. He knew exactly what the speaker meant.
“Still,” went on Forshaw, “I’m fairly certain I did it.” He thought it
over carefully.
“How many keys are there?” broke in the Inspector.
Day took it upon himself to answer. “Four. Each of the partners has
one—and Ronald Forshaw here also. He’s more often in charge here of an
evening than anybody—he has to have a key.”
“Now tell me again,” interjected Goodall, “who gave the alarm? The
cleaner, you said, didn’t you?”
“That’s so,” replied Day. “The watchman on duty between twelve
midnight and seven a. m. is always relieved by a Mrs. Turner—she
sweeps and cleans the place up generally. When she arrived she got no
answer, of course. Couldn’t get in! So she got into touch with the
people next door, who ’phoned me. I came down post-haste. I guessed
there was trouble because I knew we had some valuable things here.”
Goodall pursed his lips. “The door of your office was locked when you
arrived?”
Day knitted his brows. Then a sudden flush of color welled and broke
into the ordinary paleness of his face. “Inspector,” he said, “write
me down a dunderhead. The door of my office was closed but not locked.
I remember it distinctly now. I brought the keys of the front door
along—my own keys—we all came in together—my partners and I—we found
poor Mason on the floor there and I rushed to the ’phone for you and
Doctor Archer. I never gave a thought to the fact that the door of my
office wasn’t locked. The idea of the murder drove it completely from
my mind.”
He paused—a little crestfallen and apologetic.
Goodall turned to the group of listeners somewhat dramatically.
“That’s how the murderer got in and managed the job,” he declared.
“Got in while the attention of the two watchmen was being distracted
by the woman ‘decoy’—made his way quickly up here—picked the lock of
that door”—he pointed to the door of the private office—“hid in the
office till the time came for action—then pounced on Mason from
behind.”
Linnell interposed. “Would he have sufficient time, do you think,
Inspector, to pick the lock before Mason and Druce could get up here?”
“Depends on Mason and Druce and the time they spent downstairs,”
replied Goodall. He swung round like lightning on the man concerned.
Druce reddened. “How long were you before you and Mason came
upstairs?”
Druce shifted his feet uneasily. “Not more than a matter of a few
minutes, sir. Say five minutes!”
Goodall flashed a look of understanding at him. “I suppose you stayed
at the foot of the staircase for a ‘few draws,’ eh?” He turned on his
heel to Mr. Day. “Smoking forbidden here during the watchmen’s shifts,
Mr. Day?”
Day inclined his head in assent.
“Thought so. Well, Druce, am I right?”
“Well, sir, Mason certainly did have a puff or two—only for a few
minutes though.”
“Why did you come back with him—upstairs again—when you were going
home?”
“For my things, sir. I never collected ’em together when I ’eard ’im
knock. I always went straight down to ’im.”
Goodall nodded. “You and Mason were certainly long enough absent from
the room to give this fellow his chance and Mason paid for his mistake
with his life, poor chap. Now—about this woman, Druce—what was she
like? Describe her!”
Druce shook his head with evident misgiving. “I’m afraid I can’t ’elp
you much there, sir. I ain’t much of a ’and at descriptions—my
daughter Poppy now—if she were ’ere she’d be able to——”
“Describe a woman she’d never seen, I suppose,” snapped Goodall. “Come
now.”
Druce pulled up with a jerk. “Well, she ’ad on dark clothes and some
sort of an ’at—and was about middle height.” He concluded hopefully.
Goodall turned away with a gesture of dismay.
“And yet we’re informed that all undiscovered crimes are the fault of
the Police,” he said bitterly. “When we get civilian help like this.”
“What age would you say the woman was, Druce?” asked Mr. Day.
Druce hesitated. He seemed to find this another poser. Then he
committed himself.
“Well, I ain’t certain, sir, not by no manner of means, but I should
say somewhere between thirty and forty.”
“Dark or fair?”
“I couldn’t see, sir. Honest, I couldn’t—so it’s no use askin’ me,
sir.”
Day turned in Goodall’s direction. “I’m afraid that’s about all we
shall get, Inspector,” he declared semi-humorously. “Do you want to
ask him any more?”
“I’m thirsting to,” drawled Goodall. “He’s such a mine of information.
Let him go,” he muttered with a tinge of disgust.
Druce turned with relief written on every line of his face. “Thank
you, sir. Thank you, gentlemen. I’m glad to ’ave been of assistance to
you.” He made his way to the door. Then he turned to the group again.
“I’ll tell you what I _did_ notice about that woman, now I come to
think of it,” he announced with an air of extreme wisdom.
“You don’t say!” declared Goodall. “Don’t tell me she walked with one
shoulder lower than the other—all suspected persons do.”
“No!” replied Druce with disappointment in his tone. “Nothink so
important as that, sir. But when she walked away up the street, sir,
she sneezed several times. That’s what I’ve just thought of, sir.”
Goodall threw his head up hopelessly. “Can you beat that?” he said
plaintively. “The stiff!” He heard Druce slowly descending the stairs,
proudly aware no doubt of a very perfect piece of Pelmanism.
“There you are,” asserted Goodall, “there you have——”
His remarks were interrupted by a ring of the telephone from the
private office. Mr. Day went into his room and picked up the receiver.
The others outside heard him say, “Yes! He’s here now. I’ll bring him
to the ’phone.”
He came out. “Mr. Linnell,” he announced, “Mr. Daventry, your partner,
would like to speak to you on the telephone.”
“Thank you,” said Linnell. He entered and took the message.
“What?” he said. “Good God, Peter—you can’t mean it. It’s impossible.”
He stayed a minute or two longer—then replaced the receiver with
trembling finger. For the moment he had a hard task to control
himself. Then he pulled himself together and reëntered the Gallery.
“Gentlemen,” he said very gravely, “Mr. Laurence P. Stewart was
murdered last night in his library at Assynton. He was found with his
skull battered in!”