Don Quixote
While Fred Thomas was trying to make a shield for Walter Brooklyn’s
guilt by throwing the suspicion upon others whom he himself believed
to be innocent, Joan and Ellery were following up their attempt to
prove her stepfather’s _alibi_. Two points they had already
established, thanks to Ellery’s mingled sagacity and good fortune.
Walter Brooklyn had definitely been in Leicester Square at a quarter
to eleven, and in Piccadilly Circus at about twenty past eleven. So
far his story was confirmed. Moreover, if he had been seen in the
Circus at 11.20, it was difficult to believe that he had rung up his
club from Prinsep’s room at Liskeard House, after making his way
unseen into the building, less than ten minutes later. It was true
that the evidence was not absolutely conclusive, as neither time could
be fixed, quite certainly, to within a few minutes. But at least the
evidence against him was severely shaken, and there seemed to be good
reason for urging that the telephone message, round which the case had
practically been built up, was a fake. Find out who sent it, the
defence could argue, and you would find the real criminal.
Still, even if the telephone message could be discredited—and Ellery
realised that this would take some doing—there remained the
walking-stick, and the undoubted fact that Walter Brooklyn had
expressed the intention of seeing Prinsep that evening. They could not
feel that the evidence which they had so far gathered made his
acquittal even probable, much less secure, especially as there was
still no evidence that seemed to point in any other direction. Joan
and Ellery felt that they must get further confirmation of the
_alibi_. It was a question of accounting, not for a few minutes here
and there, but for every minute of Walter Brooklyn’s time. Clearly,
what now mattered most was where he had been between the time when the
old night-watchman saw him in Piccadilly Circus and his return to his
Club at about midnight. George Brooklyn had been seen alive as late as
11.30, and Prinsep only a few minutes before. If Walter Brooklyn had
murdered either, it must have been done between 11.30 and midnight;
for it seemed clear enough that he had not left his Club again during
the night. Of this the night porter was positive. At the same time, it
was desirable, though less important, to confirm also his story of his
movements during the earlier part of the evening. After they had
talked the situation over, Joan and Ellery determined to pursue the
hunt together, and once more to follow Walter Brooklyn’s route in
search of further confirmation.
For what it was worth, Joan had already been able to confirm her
stepfather’s first statement about his movements. A door porter at the
Piccadilly Theatre had seen him standing for a minute or two outside
the main entrance “a bit before half-past ten,” and had noticed him
walking off along Piccadilly towards the Circus. Thereafter, although
Joan and Ellery hunted high and low, they could get no further trace
of him until his meeting with Kitty Frensham in Leicester Square at a
quarter to eleven. They found and interrogated without success the
policeman who had been on duty in Piccadilly Circus. They even
inquired of the porter outside the Monico and the Criterion and of a
few street sellers who were standing at the corners. There was no
information to be obtained; but they agreed that this did not greatly
matter, if only they could get evidence bearing on Walter Brooklyn’s
movements after half-past eleven, or still better, from 10.45 onwards.
They would begin at the other end, and try to trace his movements
between 11.30 and midnight. Accordingly, they walked down together to
Trafalgar Square. Here there were two possible lines of investigation.
Walter Brooklyn had first leaned for some moments over the parapet
opposite the National Gallery: he had then walked down to the top of
Whitehall, and had there paused to set his watch by a clock standing
out over one of the shops. There was a slender chance that some one
might have noticed him on one or other of these occasions.
“How shall we make a start here?” asked Ellery, rather forlornly, as
they stood at the corner of Cockspur Street, overlooking Trafalgar
Square. At the foot of the Nelson Column stood the usual curious—and
incurious—crowd listening to some orator descanting on the rights—or
wrongs—of labour.
“Follow the old precept, of course,” said Joan promptly. “Ask a
policeman. There seem to be plenty about.”
Ellery went up to the nearest and began to explain his business. He
was speedily referred to the sergeant, who was standing at the edge of
the crowd, eyeing the little knot of speakers on the plinth, as if he
was meditating a possible arrest. “He’ll know who was on duty on
Tuesday night. I wasn’t,” said the constable.
The sergeant was communicative. First, he bade them wait a few minutes
while he listened to what the speaker, then on her feet—for it was a
woman—was saying. What she said appeared to give him satisfaction; for
he smiled happily, as he entered a note in his book. Then the speech
became more commonplace, and the sergeant, bidding a constable take
notes while he was busy, signified his willingness to attend to Joan
and Ellery. But, before they could tell him of their concerns, they
had to listen awhile to his, which related mainly to the iniquity of
allowing seditious meetings to be held openly in Trafalgar Square.
“They tell us to take it all down, they do—every word; and then they
do nothing. They shove it away in some pigeon-hole or other.”
“They” were presumably the powers that ruled, at the Home Office, over
the doings of the Metropolitan Police.
“What I say is, What’s the police for, if it isn’t to stop this kind
of thing?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the plinth.
“But you make an arrest sometimes, don’t you?” Joan asked.
“Once in a blue moon, maybe. But even then, more often than not the
Home Secretary lets ’em go. Disgusting, I call it, and demoralising
for the country. If I had my way . . .”
He had his way for a few minutes, as far as words went, and then, as
the reward of patient listening, he let Ellery have his say. But he
was not helpful.
“Yes, I know who was on duty here that night. There was Bill Adams and
Tom Short down by Whitehall, and there was George Mulligan patrolling
up there by the Gallery. But it’s a hundred to one against any of them
having noticed your man. Adams is on duty here, and the other two will
be along at the station. You can have a word with Adams now, and I’ll
take you along to the station myself in a few minutes. They’re just
finishing up there.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the plinth.
Adams, a tall, fat policeman, who kept patting himself on the stomach
while he talked, had seen nothing of Walter Brooklyn, whose photograph
Ellery showed him. “Lord bless you, if I was to notice everybody I
should have a job on,” was his comment, clearly showing his view of
the hopelessness of their search. Discouraged, they left him, and went
to the station with the sergeant.
Here, the same fate befell them. Neither of the two constables had
noticed Walter Brooklyn; and both of them seemed to think the quest
quite hopeless. Ellery did not give the name of the man he was looking
for, lest the police, intent on building up their own case, might
refuse him information. Only an unrecognisable snapshot had appeared
in the Press.
“Well, sir,” said the sergeant. “I’ve done my best for you, and I’m
sorry it’s no use. But it’s what I told you to expect.” Ellery
distributed suitable rewards in the appropriately furtive manner, and
prepared to take his leave. But Joan stopped him.
“I have an idea,” she said. “It may come to nothing; but it’s worth
trying.” Then she turned to Mulligan, a short, humorous, and very
obviously Irish constable.
“Tell me, is there any tramp, or person of that sort, who is often to
be found at night in Trafalgar Square? I mean some one you’re always
having to move on.”
“Lord, miss, there’s a dozen or so. Move ’em on night after night; but
they come back just the same.”
“Well, I want you to find me a man like that—one who’s always hanging
about the Square, and is likely to know others who do the same. Can
you find me a man of that sort?”
“Certainly, miss, I can. I see what you’re after, and I should say the
chap we call ‘the Spaniard’ is about what you want. He’s a bloke who
goes about in a long cloak and a broad-brimmed felt hat—often not much
else, I should say, barring the remains of a pair of trousers—he’s
pretty nearly always about in the Square, and he’s always talking to
any one he can find to listen.”
Ellery broke in. “Can you find him for us now?”
The constable looked at the sergeant. “If the sergeant here will let
me leave the station for half an hour, I expect I can,” he said.
The sergeant was duly placated, and the two set off with Constable
Mulligan. He led them, not into the Square, but into the little alley
behind St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields. There he pointed to the bar of a
rather disreputable-looking public-house. “You go in there,” he said
to Ellery, “and ask if ‘the Spaniard’ is there. They’d know him. If I
were to go in, they’d shut up like a knife when you aren’t looking.”
Ellery went in and ordered a drink. A glance round the bar showed him
that “the Spaniard” was not in the bar at the moment. He turned to the
woman behind the bar counter and asked her if she knew where to find
“the Spaniard.” The woman looked at him with an air of surprise; but
she made no reply. Then she turned to a curtained door behind her, and
spoke through it. “Alf,” she said, “come here a minute.”
Alf speedily appeared in his shirt-sleeves—a portly, middle-aged man,
rather stolid to look at, but with a pair of cunning little eyes that
looked at you, not steadily, but with a succession of keen, quick
glances. Ellery heard the woman whisper to him, “This gent here’s
asking for ‘the Spaniard.’”
“And what might you be wanting with ‘the Spaniard,’ mister?” asked
Alf, leaning across the bar, and speaking confidentially almost into
Ellery’s ear.
“Certainly nothing to his disadvantage. But I want to know something,
and I think he may be able to tell me.”
The publican looked at him a trifle suspiciously. “Is the gentleman
known to you, maybe?” he asked.
“No; or I could probably find him for myself. I thought you might know
him.”
“Well, he ain’t here,” said Alf, apparently making up his mind to
Ellery’s disadvantage. Ellery began to expostulate; but at that
moment, through the same curtained door through which mine host had
come, walked a quite unmistakable figure—a very tall, thin man, with
perfectly white hair and beard, the latter cut to a fine point. The
new-comer wore a long and very threadbare black cloak, now green with
age, and he seemed just about to place upon his head a very
wide-brimmed black—or rather greenish—felt hat, which Ellery thought
of instinctively as a “sombrero.” In a fine, high-pitched voice,
perfectly cultivated but a good deal affected, and with a curious
intonation that seemed like the affectation of a foreign accent, he
addressed the woman behind the bar. “Did I hear my name spoken among
you?” he asked.
The woman turned to Alf, who shrugged his shoulders.
“Here he is,” he said to Ellery. “I suppose you’d better ask him what
you want.”
Ellery put on his best manners. “Sir,” said he to the man called “the
Spaniard,” “may I have the honour of a few words with you on a matter
which concerns me very deeply, and you, I must admit, scarcely at
all?”
“The Spaniard” bowed low. “The honour, sir,” he replied, “is with me.
For, as the poet says, ‘Honoured is he to whom man speaks the things
of his heart.’”
“We will call the honours easy, if you please. But I shall be very
much obliged for a few words with you.”
“If it please you, then, let us take the air together. I can speak and
listen better under the sky.”
“With pleasure; but just a word before we go. My friend, Miss Cowper,
and the—gentleman who brought me to you are waiting outside. You will
not mind if they accompany us?”
Ellery had some misgiving that, suddenly confronted with a policeman,
the old “Spaniard” might reach the conclusion that he had been led
into a trap, and refuse to speak.
“And to whom do I owe the honour of this introduction?”
“Well, to be frank, he is a policeman; but he is acting quite in a
non-professional capacity.”
The old man hesitated a moment. Then he said only, “Let us go.”
Outside, Ellery’s fears were speedily removed. He saw Joan and the
policeman waiting a few doors off. “The Spaniard” saw them too, and,
at sight of Mulligan, his face lighted up with pleasure. He greeted
Joan with a low bow, and then turned to Mulligan with another.
“Ah, my friend, it is you. As the poet says, ‘Even among the thorns
the rose is sweet.’ You are not, I thank God, as others of your
cloth.” Then he turned to Ellery. “Mr. Mulligan and I are old
friends,” he said: “but it is not always so between me and the
guardians of law and order, as you quaintly term them.”
“Yes,” said Mulligan, smiling. “‘The Spaniard’ and I have had many a
good talk together. But you didn’t know, did you, father, that I’d
tracked you here. I wouldn’t go in because I thought there might be
others who wouldn’t be so pleased to see me.”
“As always, the soul of consideration. The mark, gentlemen, of true
chivalry. I will requite you as best I can by any service that I can
do to your friends.” And again he lifted his hat, and made a sweeping
bow.
When Joan and Ellery talked the thing over afterwards, they remembered
that their eyes had met at this moment, and they had much ado not to
laugh outright. They discovered that the same thought had come into
their heads. This was not merely “The Spaniard”: it was Don Quixote
himself come to life again. But where was Rosinante?
Constable Mulligan excused himself. “I mustn’t be away from the
station any longer. Now you’ve been introduced you can get along
without me. You know where to find me if you want me again.” And,
thanked and rewarded by Ellery, the constable returned to his duty,
after putting a hand affectionately on the old man’s shoulder by way
of farewell.
Joan and Ellery between them told “the Spaniard” the full story of
their quest, first as they walked towards Trafalgar Square, and then
leaning over the very parapet over which Walter Brooklyn had leaned.
“The Spaniard” heard them through, only inclining his head every now
and then to show that he fully appreciated some particular point in
the narrative. Finally, Ellery produced the photograph of Walter
Brooklyn, and asked the old man whether he had seen the original on
Tuesday night.
“A fine figure of a gentleman,” said “the Spaniard,” “and, indeed, I
know him well by sight, though hitherto I have been denied the honour
of knowing his name. Often have I seen him in Pall Mall.”
“Yes, but did you see him on Tuesday?” Joan could not help
interrupting.
“The Spaniard’s” way of continuing was in itself a mild and courteous
reproof. “Often, my friends, have I seen him, little deeming that one
day my memory of him might be of service to others.” And then he
added, “Yes, I saw him here on Tuesday—here, on this very spot to
which I have led you. Here he stopped and lighted a cigar. I noted
that he lighted it from the stump of another.”
“That was because he had no matches,” said Joan excitedly. “That bears
out what he said.”
“Madam, if it would not incommode you, might I crave your permission
to smoke even now?” Joan readily gave it, and the old man deftly
rolled a cigarette with strong black tobacco from a battered metal
case.
“Can you tell us at what time you saw him?” said Ellery.
“Ah, time. Why should I mark the hours? What need have I to know? It
was evening.”
“But what you tell us is of no use unless you can say what time it
was.”
“Alas, if I had but known, my watch should never have gone—the way of
all watches.” A faint flicker of a smile, and an extraordinarily
expressive gesture, accompanied the phrase. It was as if all watches
had a mysterious knack of vanishing into infinite space. “But,
nevertheless, another’s memory may serve where mine fails. For I was
not alone.”
“Who was with you? Can we find him?”
“I will find him for you; but not till evening. And meantime, I will
seek for those who may have seen Mr. Brooklyn in Whitehall. If any can
find such a man, I can find him. There is a fraternity among us who
wander under the sky. We remark what passes around us; for we have no
affairs of our own to disturb our minds.” He turned to Ellery. “It
would be well that you should leave the photograph with me until
evening. Then we will meet again.”
An appointment was made for Trafalgar Square at eleven o’clock that
same night. The old man would not meet them sooner, or elsewhere. Joan
could not leave Sir Vernon at that hour; but Ellery would come. In
parting, she thanked “the Spaniard” for all that he had done.
“What can a man do better than come to the aid of ladies in distress?
Truly, as the poet says, ‘He enlargeth his heart who doeth his
neighbour a kindness.’ The word I have rendered ‘neighbour’ is
feminine in the Spanish,” he added, half to himself.
“What a queer old bird!” said Ellery, as they walked away. “It was
difficult to keep it up while we were talking to him; but it was well
worth while.”
“I think he’s a dear,” said Joan. “A bit queer, of course; but see how
he’s helping us. We could never have done anything without him.”
“He’s quite off his chump, that’s clear. But he seems to be quite all
there when it’s a question of getting something done. We’re meeting
some queer people on this job.”
“Who do you suppose he is?” asked Joan.
“Nothing on earth, if you mean how does he get his living. I should
say he was just what they call a character, picking up somehow barely
enough to exist on, and drifting about with nothing in particular to
do. He probably drinks, or has been in trouble somehow.”
“I don’t care what trouble he’s been in. He fascinates me. And he’s
obviously an educated man.”
“Yes, I dare say he was quite the gentleman—in the orthodox
sense—years ago. Now he is one of the bottom dogs, keeping up his
self-respect by playing the hidalgo.”
“Don’t you suppose he’s really a Spaniard?”
“No more than you or I. He’s probably been in Spain. That’s all. But,
whoever he is, he seems likely to get us just the information we want,
and that’s what we really care about. Only I feel inclined to
introduce him to my night watchman at Piccadilly. They would make a
pretty pair. They are both hero-worshippers.”