Walter Brooklyn’s Explanation
Inspector Blaikie made a hasty meal, and then set off for Walter
Brooklyn’s club. He found Mr. Brooklyn there, and was soon alone with
him in a private room. Before the inspector could even introduce
himself and state his business, he found the offensive turned against
himself. He had thought over the interview carefully beforehand, and
had made up his mind that, whatever his private opinion might be, it
was his duty to hear, without prejudice, whatever Walter Brooklyn had
to say, and to put aside for the moment all suspicions, resting only
on the undoubted fact that the man had been present in the house that
night. He might be able to explain his presence, or he might not. The
interview would show. Till the chance had been given, the inspector
was determined to keep an open mind.
But the conversation did not begin at all as he had anticipated. As he
got out the first few words about the purpose for which he had asked
for an interview, Walter Brooklyn struck in abruptly.
“See here, inspector, I fail to see that it is any of your business to
come nosing about in my affairs. I find you have been asking the
porter downstairs a whole lot of questions. From your manner, the
fellow has jumped to the conclusion that you suspect me of having had
a hand in these murders. You’ve set all the servants simmering, and by
now it’s all round the club that I murdered my nephew or something
like it. I tell you I’m damned if I’ll stand it. Blast your impudence.
Since you have come here, I think you owe me an explanation.”
Walter Brooklyn’s manner seemed to the inspector quite extraordinarily
violent. But he noticed something else while Brooklyn was speaking—the
man’s amazing physical strength. He could not be less than sixty; but
as he stood there, in a half-threatening attitude—with difficulty, it
seemed, holding himself in—Inspector Blaikie could not help thinking
that here was the very figure of a man to have struck the blows on
both the dead men’s skulls. Here, moreover, was a man, obviously
passionate and lacking in self-control—just the sort of person to
resort to violence if his will were crossed. The inspector’s open mind
was rapidly closing up before Brooklyn had finished his first speech.
Nevertheless, he answered quietly enough,—
“I am sorry, Mr. Brooklyn, if any of my inquiries have caused you
inconvenience. But you must understand that it is my duty to
investigate these murders, and to ask any questions that may be
necessary for that purpose. You apparently know——”
But here again Walter Brooklyn struck in.
“Necessary inquiries, of course,” he said. “But what I want to know is
what you mean by coming round here and practically telling my club
servants that I have committed murder. Necessary inquiries, indeed!”
“If you know, Mr. Brooklyn, what was the matter of my conversation
with the club servants, you can hardly fail to realise why the
inquiries were necessary.”
“Most certainly I fail to see it. These murders have nothing to do
with me.”
“That may be; but even so it is necessary to establish that fact. You
know, I suppose, that your walking-stick was found in Mr. Prinsep’s
room the morning after the murder. I want you to tell me how it got
there.”
“I dare say you say you found it there. I know that, if it was there,
it was not I who put it there. I don’t believe it was there at all. I
lost it last Tuesday afternoon.”
“And where did you lose it, may I ask?”
“If I knew that, my man, I should have been after it soon enough. I
must have left it somewhere. Not that it’s any business of yours what
I did with it.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Brooklyn. You will admit that the fact that it was
found in Mr. Prinsep’s room calls for some explanation. If you do not
know where you left it, I shall have to do my best to find out. May I
ask where you went last Tuesday afternoon?”
“I don’t see why I should tell you.”
“I think, Mr. Brooklyn, that, unless you wish to find yourself in the
dock on a criminal charge, you had far better do so.”
For a moment it seemed as if Walter Brooklyn would make a personal
attack on the detective, or at least turn him then and there out of
the room. But he seemed to think better of it. “Ask your questions,”
he said.
“First, then, where did you call when you were out on Tuesday
afternoon?”
“I went first to see Mr. Carter Woodman—I presume you know who he
is—at his office in Lincoln’s Inn. Then I took a taxi to the
Piccadilly Theatre, where I saw that young hound, Prinsep, and one or
two others.”
“Who were the others?”
“An actress-girl there—a Miss Lang. She was the only one.”
“Did you see them separately or together?”
“Separately.”
“And then where did you go?”
“Back to Mr. Woodman’s office. I told him I had lost the stick, and
thought I must have left it there. He had a look, but it wasn’t there.
He said I must have left it in the taxi, and I supposed I had.”
“When did you notice the loss?”
“On leaving the theatre.”
“So you might have left the stick there, or in the taxi, or at Mr.
Woodman’s?”
“Yes. If you found it in Prinsep’s room, I suppose he must have found
it in the theatre, and taken it up to his room.”
“Why didn’t he give it back to you when he saw you later in the
evening?”
“Saw me later in the evening! He didn’t see me later in the evening.”
“But you were at Liskeard House on Tuesday evening.”
“Look here, young man. I don’t know what you’re driving at. I tell you
I did not see Prinsep except in the afternoon.”
“But you were at Liskeard House in the evening.”
“I tell you I was not. Yes, by Jove, though, I was—in a sense. I went
to the door and asked for Sir Vernon, but he was not at home.”
“When was that?”
“About ten o’clock, I suppose.”
“And you did not go into the house _then_?”
“No, only into the outer hall.”
“That, Mr. Brooklyn, is not the occasion to which I was referring. You
came back to Liskeard House still later on Tuesday evening.”
Walter Brooklyn glared at the inspector. “Young man,” he said, “I will
thank you not to tell me where I was. I know that for myself.”
“You admit, then, that you came back to the house.”
“I admit nothing of the sort. I was not in the house at all. I’ve told
you already that I did not go there.”
The inspector discharged his bombshell. “Then how did it occur that
you rang up the Sanctum Club from Liskeard House at 11.30 on Tuesday
evening?”
This was too much for Walter Brooklyn. “Infernal impudence,” he said.
“I don’t know where you picked up these cock-and-bull stories. I did
not ring up the Sanctum from Liskeard House, because I was not there.
And now I’ve had enough of your questions, and you can go.” And he
strode to the door and held it open. “Get out,” he said.
The inspector picked up his hat. “I had some further questions to ask
you,” he said. “Perhaps another time I shall find you in a better
mood. Good evening.” And he left the room as hastily as he could
without compromising his dignity, not quite certain whether Walter
Brooklyn would complete the performance by throwing him downstairs.
Brooklyn, however, merely relieved his feelings by slamming the door.
In the hall the inspector found the porter. “Had a pleasant
interview?” asked the latter, familiar with Walter Brooklyn’s ways.
“Not exactly pleasant, but decidedly illuminating,” said the
inspector, as he went upon his way.