BREAKING COVER
Winter drew the local Inspector aside. "This inquiry rests with you in
the first instance," he said. "Mr. Furneaux and I are here only to
assist. Mr. Fenley telephoned to the Commissioner, mainly because
Scotland Yard was called in to investigate a bond robbery which took
place in the Fenley Bank some two months ago. Probably you never heard
of it. Will you kindly explain our position to your Chief Constable?
Of course, we shall work with you and through you, but my colleague
has reason to believe that the theft of the bonds may have some
bearing on this murder, and, as the securities were disposed of in
Paris, it is more than likely that the Yard may be helpful."
"I fully understand, sir," said the Inspector, secretly delighted at
the prospect of joining in the hunt with two such renowned detectives.
The combined parishes of Easton and Roxton seldom produced a crime of
greater magnitude than the theft of a duck. The arrest of a burglar
who broke into a villa, found a decanter of whisky, and got so
hopelessly drunk that he woke up in a cell at the police station, was
an event of such magnitude that its memory was still lively, though
the leading personage was now out on ticket of leave after serving
five years in various penal settlements.
"You will prepare and give the formal evidence at the inquest, which
will be opened tomorrow," went on Winter. "All that is really
necessary is identification and a brief statement by the doctor. Then
the coroner will issue the burial certificate, and the inquiry should
be adjourned for a fortnight. I would recommend discretion in choosing
a jury. Avoid busybodies like the plague. Summons only sensible men,
who will do as they are told and ask no questions."
"Exactly," said the Inspector; he found Machiavellian art in these
simple instructions. How it broadened the horizon to be brought in
touch with London!
Winter turned to look for Furneaux. The little man was standing where
Mortimer Fenley had stood in the last moment of his life. His eyes
were fixed on the wood. He seemed to be dreaming, but his friend well
knew how much clarity and almost supernatural vision was associated
with Furneaux's dreams.
"Charles!" said the Superintendent softly.
Furneaux awoke, and ran down the steps. In his straw hat and light
Summer suit he looked absurdly boyish, but the Inspector, who had
formed an erroneous first impression, was positively startled when he
met those blazing black eyes.
"Mr. Fenley should warn all his servants to speak fully and candidly,"
said Winter. "Then we shall question the witnesses separately. What do
you think? Shall we start now?"
"First, the boots," cried Furneaux, seemingly voicing a thought. "We
want a worn pair of boots belonging to each person in the house and
employed on the estate, men and women, no exceptions, including the
dead man's. Then we'll visit that wood. After that, the inquiry."
Winter nodded. When Furneaux and he were in pursuit of a criminal they
dropped all nice distinctions of rank. If one made a suggestion the
other adopted it without comment unless he could urge some convincing
argument against it.
"Mr. Fenley should give his orders now," added Furneaux.
Winter explained his wishes to the nominal head of the household, and
Fenley's compliance was ready and explicit.
"These gentlemen from Scotland Yard are acting in behalf of Mrs.
Fenley, my brother and myself," he said to the assembled servants.
"You must obey them as you would obey me. I place matters unreservedly
in their hands."
"And our questions should be answered without reserve," put in Winter.
"Yes, of course. I implied that. At any rate, it is clear now."
"Brodie," said Furneaux, seeming to pounce on the chauffeur, "you were
seated at the wheel when the shot was fired?"
"Ye--yes, sir," stuttered Brodie, rather taken aback by the little
man's suddenness.
"Were you looking at the wood?"
"In a sort of a way, sir."
"Did you see any one among the trees?"
"No, sir, that I didn't." This more confidently.
"Place your car where it was stationed then. Take your seat, and try
to imagine that you are waiting for your master. Start the engine, and
behave exactly as though you expected him to enter the car. Don't
watch the wood. I mean that you are not to avoid looking at it, but
just throw yourself back to the condition of mind you were in at nine
twenty-five this morning. Can you manage that?"
"I think so, sir."
"No chatting with others, you know. Fancy you are about to take Mr.
Fenley to the station. If you should happen to see me, wave your hand.
Then you can get down and stop the engine. You understand you are not
to keep a sharp lookout for me?"
"Yes, sir."
The butler thought it would take a quarter of an hour to collect
sample pairs of boots from the house and outlying cottages. Police
Constable Farrow was instructed to bring the butler and the array of
boots to the place where the footprints were found, and Bates led the
detectives and the Inspector thither at once.
Soon the four men were gazing at the telltale marks, and the
Inspector, of course, was ready with a shrewd comment.
"Whoever it was that came this way, he didn't take much trouble to
hide his tracks," he said.
The Scotland Yard experts were so obviously impressed that the
Inspector tried a higher flight.
"They're a man's boots," he continued. "We needn't have worried
Tomlinson to gather the maids' footgear."
Furneaux left two neat imprints in the damp soil.
"Bet you a penny whistle there are at least two women in The Towers
who will make bigger blobs than these," he said.
A penny whistle, as a wager, is what Police Constable Farrow would
term "unusual."
"Quite so," said the Inspector thoughtfully.
Winter caught Furneaux's eye, and frowned. There was nothing to be
gained by taking a rise out of the local constabulary. Still, he gave
one sharp glance at both sets of footprints. Then he looked at
Furneaux again, this time with a smile.
The party passed on to the rock on the higher ground. Bates pointed
out the old scratches, and those made by Farrow and himself.
"Me first!" cried Furneaux, darting nimbly to the summit. He was not
there a second before he signaled to some one invisible from beneath.
Winter joined him, and the east front of the house burst into view.
Brodie was in the act of descending from the car. The doctor had gone.
A small group of men were gazing at the wood, but Hilton Fenley and
Sylvia Manning were not to be seen.
Neither man uttered a word. They looked at the rock under their feet,
at the surrounding trees, oak and ash, elm and larch, all of mature
growth, and towering thirty to forty feet above their heads, while the
rock itself rose some twelve feet from the general level of the
sloping ground.
Bates was watching them.
"The fact is, gentlemen, that if an oak an' a couple o' spruce first
hadn't been cut down you wouldn't see the house even from where you
are," he said. "Mr. Fenley had an idee of buildin' a shelter on this
rock, but he let it alone 'coss o' the birds. Ladies would be comin'
here, an' a-disturbin' of 'em."
The detectives came down. Furneaux, meaning to put the Inspector in
the right frame of mind, said confidentially--
"Brodie saw me instantly."
"Did he, now? It follows that he would have seen any one who fired at
Mr. Fenley from that spot."
"It almost follows. We must guard against assuming a chance as a
certainty."
"Oh, yes."
"And we must also try to avoid fitting facts into preconceived
notions. Now, while the butler is gathering old boots, let us spend a
few profitable minutes in this locality."
After that, any trace of soreness in the inspectorial breast was
completely obliterated.
Both Winter and Furneaux produced strong magnifying-glasses, and
scrutinized the scratches and impressions on the bare rock and moss.
Bates, skilled in wood lore, was quick to note what they had discerned
at a glance.
"Beg pardon, gentlemen both, but may I put in a word?" he muttered
awkwardly.
"As many as you like," Winter assured him.
"Well, these here marks was made by Farrow an' meself, say about ten
forty, or a trifle over an hour after the murder; an' I have no sort
o' doubt as these other marks are a day or two days older."
"You might even put it at three days," agreed Winter.
"Then it follows----" began the Inspector, but checked himself. He was
becoming slightly mixed as to the exact sequence of events.
"Come, now, Bates," said Furneaux, "you can tell us the day Mr. Robert
Fenley left home recently? There is no harm in mentioning his name. It
can't help being in our thoughts, since it was discovered that his gun
was missing."
"He went off on a motor bicycle last Saturday mornin', sir."
"Can you fix the hour?"
"About half past ten."
"You have not seen him since?"
"No, sir."
"You would be likely to know if he had returned?"
"Certain, sir, unless he kem by the Roxton gate."
"Oh, is there another entrance?"
"Yes, but it can't be used, 'cept by people on foot. The big gates are
always locked, and the road has been grassed over, an' not so many
folk know of a right of way. Of course, Mr. Robert knows."
Bates was disturbed. He expected to be cross-examined farther, but, to
his manifest relief, the ordeal was postponed. Winter and Furneaux
commenced a careful scrutiny of the ground behind the rock. They
struck off on different paths, but came together at a little distance.
"The trees," murmured Winter.
"Yes, when we are alone."
"Have you noticed----"
"These curious pads. They mean a lot. It's not so easy, James."
"I'm growing interested, I admit."
They rejoined the others.
"Did you tell me that only you and Police Constable Farrow visited
this part of the wood?" said Furneaux to Bates.
"I don't remember tellin' you, sir, but that's the fact," said the
keeper.
"Well, warn all the estate hands to keep away from this section during
the next few days. You will give orders to Farrow to that effect,
Inspector?"
"Yes. If they go trampling all over, you won't know where you are when
it comes to a close search," was the cheerful answer. "Now, about that
gun--it must be hidden somewhere in the undergrowth. The man who fired
it would never dare to carry it along an open road on a fine morning
like this, when everybody is astir."
"You're undoubtedly right," said Winter. "But here come assorted
boots. They may help us a bit."
Tomlinson was a man of method. He and Farrow had brought two wicker
baskets, such as are used in laundry work. He was rather breathless.
"House--and estate," he wheezed, pointing to each basket in turn.
"Go ahead, Furneaux," said Winter. "Because I ought to stoop, I
don't."
The little man choked back some gibe; the presence of strangers
enforced respect to his chief. He took a thin folding rule of aluminum
from a waistcoat pocket, and applied it to the most clearly defined of
the three footprints. Then beginning at the "house" basket, he ran
over the contents rapidly. One pair of boots he set aside. After
testing the "estate" basket without success, he seized one of the
selected pair, and pressed it into the earth close to an original
print. He looked up at Tomlinson, who was in a violent perspiration.
"Whose boot is this?" he asked.
"God help us, sir, it's Mr. Robert's!" said Tomlinson in an agonized
tone.
The Inspector, Farrow and Bates were visibly thrilled; but Furneaux
only sank back on his heels, and peered at the boot.
"I don't understand why any one should feel upset because these
footprints (which, by the way, were not made by this pair of boots)
happen to resemble marks which may have been made by Mr. Robert
Fenley," he said, apparently talking to himself. "These marks are
three or four days old. Mr. Robert Fenley went away on Saturday. Today
is Wednesday. He may have been here on Saturday morning. What does it
matter if he was? The man who murdered his father must have been here
two hours ago."
Sensation! Tomlinson mopped his forehead with a handkerchief already a
wet rag; Farrow, not daring to interfere, nibbled his chin strap;
Bates scowled with relief. But the Inspector, after a husky cough,
spoke.
"Would you mind telling me, Mr. Furneaux, why you are so sure?" he
said.
"Now, Professor Bates, you tell him," cackled Furneaux.
The keeper dropped on his knees by the side of the detective, and
gazed critically at the marks.
"At this time o' year, gentlemen, things do grow wonderful," he said
slowly. "In this sort o' ground, where there's wet an' shade, there's
a kind o' constant movement. This here new print is clean, an' the
broken grass an' crushed leaves haven't had time to straighten
themselves, as one might say. But, in this other lot, the shoots are
commencin' to perk up, an' insec's have stirred the mold. It's just
the difference atween a new run for rabbits and an old 'un."
"Thank you, Bates," broke in Winter sharply. "Now, we must not waste
any more time in demonstrations. Mr. Furneaux explained this thing
purposely, to show the folly of jumping at conclusions. Innocent men
have been hanged before today on just such evidence as this. We
should deem ourselves lucky that these footprints were found so soon
after the crime was committed. Tomorrow, or next day, there might have
been a doubt in our minds. Luckily there is none. The man who shot Mr.
Fenley this morning--" he paused; Furneaux alone appreciated his
difficulty--"could not possibly have left those marks today."
It was a lame ending, but it sufficed. Four of his hearers took him to
mean that the unknown, whose feet had left their impress in the soil
could not have been the murderer; but Furneaux growled in French--
"You tripped badly that time, my friend. You need another cigar!"
Seemingly, he was soliloquizing, and none understood except the one
person for whose benefit the sarcasm was intended.
Winter felt the spur, but because he was a really great detective it
only stimulated him. Nothing more was said until the little procession
reached the avenue. During their brief disappearance in the leafy
depths two cars and three motor cycles had arrived at The Towers. A
glance sufficed. The newspapers had heard of the murder; this was the
advance guard of an army of reporters and photographers. Winter
buttonholed the Inspector.
"I'll tell you the most valuable service you can render at this
moment," he said. "Arrange that a constable shall mount guard at the
rock till nightfall. Then place two on duty. With four men you can
provide the necessary reliefs, but I want that place watched
continuously, and intruders warned off till further notice. This man
who happens to be here might go on duty immediately. Then you can make
your plans at leisure."
Thus, by the quaint contriving of chance, Police Constable Farrow,
whose stalwart form and stubborn zeal had blocked the path to the
Quarry Wood since a few minutes after ten o'clock, was deputed to
continue that particular duty till a comrade took his place.
His face fell when he heard that he was condemned to solitude, shut
out from all the excitement of the hour, debarred even, as he
imagined, from standing on the rock and watching the comings and
goings at the mansion. But Winter was a kindly if far-seeing student
of human nature.
"It will be a bit slow for you," he said, when the Inspector had given
Farrow his orders. "But you can amuse yourself by an occasional peep
at the landscape, and there is no reason why you shouldn't smoke."
Farrow saluted.
"Do you mean, sir, that I can show myself?"
"Why not? The mere fact that your presence is known will warn off
priers. Remember--no one, absolutely no one except the police, is to
be allowed to pass the quarry, or approach from any side within
hailing distance."
"Not even from the house, sir?"
"Exactly. Mr. Fenley and Miss Manning may be told, if necessary, why
you are there, and I am sure they will respect my wishes."
Farrow turned back. It was not so bad, then. These Scotland Yard
fellows had chosen him for an important post, and that hint about a
pipe was distinctly human. Odd thing, too, that Mr. Robert Fenley was
not expected to put in an appearance, or the Superintendent would have
mentioned him with the others.
On reaching the house there were evidences of disturbance. Hilton
Fenley stood in the doorway, and was haranguing the newspaper men in a
voice harsh with anger. This intrusion was unwarranted, illegal,
impudent. He would have them expelled by force. When he caught sight
of the Inspector he demanded fiercely that names and addresses should
be taken, so that his solicitors might issue summonses for trespass.
All this, of course, made excellent copy, and Winter put an end to the
scene by drawing the reporters aside and giving them a fairly complete
account of the murder. Incidentally, he sent off the Inspector post
haste on his bicycle to station a constable at each gate, and stop the
coming invasion. The house telephone, too, closed the main gate
effectually, so when the earliest scouts had rushed away to connect
with Fleet Street order was restored.
Winter was puzzled by Fenley's display of passion. It was only to be
expected that the newspapers would break out in a rash of black
headlines over the murder of a prominent London financier. By hook or
by crook, journalism would triumph. He had often been amazed at the
extent and accuracy of news items concerning the most secret
inquiries. Of course the reporters sometimes missed the heart of an
intricate case. In this instance, they had never heard of the bond
robbery, though the numbers of the stolen securities had been
advertised widely. Moreover, he was free to admit that if every fact
known to the police were published broadcast, no one would be a penny
the worse; for thus far the crime was singularly lacking in motive.
Meanwhile Furneaux had fastened on to Brodie again.
"You saw me at once?" he began.
"I couldn't miss you, sir," said the chauffeur, a solid, stolid
mechanic, who understood his engine and a road map thoroughly, and
left the rest to Providence. "I wasn't payin' particular attention,
yet I twigged you the minute you popped up."
"So it is reasonable to suppose that if any one had appeared in that
same place this morning and taken steady aim at Mr. Fenley, you would
have twigged him, too."
"It strikes me that way, sir."
"Did you see nothing--not even a puff of smoke? You must certainly
have looked at the wood when you heard the shot."
"I did, sir. Not a leaf moved. Just a couple of pheasants flew out,
and the rooks around the house kicked up such a row that I didn't know
the Guv'nor was down till Harris shouted."
"Where did the pheasants fly from?"
"They kem out a bit below the rock; but they were risin' birds, an'
may have started from the ground higher up."
"No birds were startled before the shot was fired?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir. But June pheasants are very tame, and they
lie marvelous close. A pheasant would just as soon run as fly."
The detectives began a detailed inquiry almost at once. It covered the
ground already traversed, and the only new incident happened when
Hilton Fenley, at the moment repeating his evidence, was called to the
telephone.
"If either of you cares to smoke there are cigars and Virginia
cigarettes on the sideboard," he said. "Or, if you prefer Turkish,
here are some," and he laid a gold case on the table. Furneaux grabbed
it when the door had closed.
"All neurotics use Turkish cigarettes," he said solemnly. "Ah, I
guessed it! A strong, vile, scented brand!"
"Sometimes, my dear Charles, you talk rubbish," sighed Winter.
"Maybe. I never think or smoke it. 'Language was given us to conceal
our thoughts,' said Talleyrand. I have always admired Talleyrand,
'that rather middling bishop but very eminent knave,' as de Quincey
called him. '_Cre nom!_ I wonder what de Quincey meant by 'middling.'
A man who could keep in the front rank under the Bourbons, during the
Revolution, with Napoleon, and back again under the Bourbons, and yet
die in bed, must have been superhuman. St. Peter, in his stead, would
have lost his napper at least four times."
Winter stirred uneasily, and gazed out across the Italian garden and
park, for the detectives were again installed in the dining-room.
"What about that artist, Trenholme?" he said after a pause.
"We'll look him up. Before leaving this house I want to peep into
various rooms. And there's Tomlinson. Tomlinson is a rich mine. Do
leave him to me. I'll dig into him deep, and extract ore of high
percentage--see if I don't."
"Do you know, Charles, I've a notion that we shall get closer to
bed-rock in London than here."
Furneaux pretended to look for an invisible halo surrounding his
chief's close-cropped bullet head.
"Sometimes," he said reverently, "you frighten me when you bring off a
brilliant remark like that. I seem to see lightning zigzagging round
Jove's dome."
Fenley returned.
"It was a call from the bank," he announced. "They have just seen the
newspapers. I told them I would run up to town this afternoon."
"Then you did not telephone Bishopsgate Street earlier?" inquired
Winter, permitting himself to be surprised.
"No. I had other things to bother me."
"Now, Mr. Fenley, can you tell me where your brother is?"
"I can not."
He placed a rather unnecessary emphasis on the negative. The question
seemed to disturb him. Evidently, if he could consult his own wishes,
he would prefer not to discuss his brother.
"I take it he has not been home since leaving here on Saturday?"
persisted Winter.
"That is so."
"Had he quarreled with your father?"
"There was a dispute. Really, Mr. Winter, I must decline to go into
family affairs."
"But the probability is that the more we know the less our knowledge
will affect your brother."
The door opened again. Mr. Winter was wanted on the telephone. Then
there happened one of those strange coincidences which Furneaux's
caustic wit had christened "Winter's Yorkers," being a quaint play on
the lines:
Now is the Winter of our discontent
Made glorious Summer by this sun of York.
For the Superintendent had scarcely squeezed his big body into the
telephone box when he became aware of a mixup on the line; a querulous
voice was saying:
"I insist on being put through. I am speaking from Mr. Fenley's bank,
and it is monstrous that I should be kept waiting. I've been trying
for twenty minutes----"
Buzz. The protest was squelched.
"Are you there?" came the calm accents of the Assistant Commissioner.
"Yes, sir," said Winter.
"Any progress?"
"A little. Oddly enough, you are in the nick of time to help
materially. Will you ring off, and find out from the exchange who
'phoned here two minutes ago? I don't mean Fenley's Bank, which is
just trying to get through. I want to know who made the preceding
call, which was effective."
"I understand. Good-by."
Winter explained in the dining-room that the Assistant Commissioner
was anxious for news. He had hardly finished when the footman
reappeared. A call for Mr. Hilton Fenley.
"Confound the telephone," snapped Fenley. "We won't have a moment's
peace all day, I suppose."
Winter winked heavily at Furneaux. He waited until Fenley's hurried
footsteps across a creaking parquet floor had died away.
"This is the bank's call," he murmured. "The other was from the Lord
knows who. I've put the Yard on the track. I wonder why he lied about
it."
"He's a queer sort of brother, too," said Furneaux. "It strikes me he
wants to put Robert in the cart."