A Button in a Bag
As soon as Ellery had gone, Joan put on her things and walked across
to the Cunningham Hotel, where she went straight upstairs to the rooms
occupied by Carter Woodman and his wife. As she expected, there was no
one at home. Woodman was at his office, and Marian Brooklyn and Mrs.
Woodman were, she knew, away for the day. Joan locked the two doors
opening on the corridor, and had the suite safely to herself.
It would have been awkward if any one had interrupted her, for what
she did was to make a thorough search of the rooms, looking
particularly at all the articles of male clothing and going very
carefully through Carter Woodman’s own belongings. Her search was
entirely unsuccessful, and, having replaced everything neatly so that
no one would notice that it had been disturbed, she unlocked the doors
and gave it up as a bad job.
“So much for that little idea,” she said to herself. “I could never
really have hoped to find it there.”
But was that the end of her idea? As Joan finished her tidying up she
began to hope that it was not. Carter Woodman had not been foolish
enough to leave what she was looking for in his own rooms; but he
must, she said to herself, have left it somewhere. Where then would he
have left it? Where would she, if she wanted to get safely rid of a
rather bulky object, so as never to hear of it again, be likely to
leave it?
A station cloak-room at once occurred to her as a likely place; but
the prospect of searching all the cloak-rooms of London was not
alluring. Moreover, there were a dozen other places in which he might
have disposed of a compromising object with almost equal safety. At
the bottom of the river—a stone was all that was needed. In a
pawnshop—of course after removing all marks that would serve to
identify the article. In a cab, or any of a hundred other places,
merely by leaving them behind. The cabman would hardly ask questions,
if he found something of obvious value. To hunt for what Woodman had
hidden seemed far more hopeless, far worse than looking for a needle
in a haystack. It would need an army of men to do the searching. The
police might be able to do that sort of thing. She and Ellery
certainly could not.
Yet, if their theory was right, Woodman had almost certainly returned
to the hotel after murdering George and Prinsep, bearing with him at
least one very comprising piece of property. He could hardly have got
rid of it—or them—safely the same evening. Most likely he would have
done them up in a bag or parcel and gone out to dispose of them the
next morning, on his way to his office. A bag was the more likely,
for, as Woodman habitually carried one, it would attract less notice
than a parcel. Assume that he had gone out with the things in a bag.
Had he taken them to his office, or had he got rid of them on the way?
Either might be the case, and it would not be easy to follow up the
clue.
Then Joan had a sudden thought; swiftly she got up and again locked
the doors. Among the things she had searched there had been a large
hand-bag. She had looked into it, and found it empty. As the objects
she was seeking were bulky she had not studied it very carefully; but
it was Just possible that it might repay further inspection.
But, before Joan could make her search she heard steps coming along
the corridor. Hastily she unlocked the sitting-room door and hurried
into the bedroom. Hardly had she done so when she saw Carter Woodman
come into the room. Fortunately, the bedroom communicated directly
with the corridor; and Joan, without pausing to make any further
examination or to watch Woodman’s movements, let herself out
noiselessly into the corridor and sped down the stairs unobserved. A
narrow shave, and all, it seemed, for nothing.
Then Woodman’s presence in the hotel gave Joan another idea. If he was
there, he was not at his office. Why should she not complete the task
she had set herself by having a look round there as well? She took a
taxi, and, in less than a quarter of an hour, she was in Woodman’s
outer office, and in talk with his confidential clerk. She was told
that Woodman was not in, and would not be back until after lunch. She
told Moorman that she could not wait, but that she would like to go
into the inner office and write a note. Moorman at once showed her in,
and withdrew to the outer room.
Joan saw that whatever she did she would have to do quickly. First,
she scribbled a hasty note stating that she had come to see Woodman to
inquire about her stepfather’s affairs. As he was out, however, her
business would keep. Having done this, she cast her eyes quickly round
the room. In one corner was a hat and coat cupboard, and in it was
hanging a coat of Woodman’s. Very quickly she went through the
pockets. The only papers were a number of restaurant bills, evidently
stuffed in hastily and forgotten. Joan confiscated them, without much
hope that they would be of use. Then, in the bottom of the cupboard,
she noticed a hand-bag, twin brother of the one she had been on the
point of examining at the hotel. Hastily she opened it. Apparently it
was empty; but, feeling round the corners, Joan found a hard object—a
coat button—which she quickly transferred to her purse. Then, putting
back the bag and closing the cupboard, she returned to the outer room.
A talk with the clerk might have its uses.
“Mr. Woodman has been looking rather ill just lately,” Joan began. “Do
you think he is really unwell?”
“I must say, miss, he’s not well. Between you and me, miss, he’s been
badly worried.”
“About these terrible murders, you mean?”
“About them, miss, and about other things. Mr. Woodman wouldn’t like
my saying so, but he has had terrible worries.”
“Oh, dear, I hope nothing serious.”
“Oh, probably not, miss, and you mustn’t say a word about it to any
one. I ought not to have said what I did say. But I’m worried too.
You’ll be sure not to mention it, miss, won’t you?”
“All right, Moorman, don’t you worry.”
“But, miss, Mr. Woodman is such a short-tempered gentleman. And you
don’t know how angry he’d be if he knew what I have been saying to
you.”
“You’ll have to look after him, Moorman. See that he doesn’t worry too
much. By the way, I suppose I couldn’t catch him now at lunch. Where
does he usually lunch?”
“Generally at the Blue Boar up Holborn, miss. He generally goes to the
Blue Boar every day when he’s in this part.”
“If I try there, and don’t find him, where else could I try? Does he
ever go to any other restaurant?”
“I don’t quite know where he’d be, miss. One day last week he went to
the Avenue by Hatton Garden. But I don’t think he’s been there since.
He’s never been there but the once to my knowledge.”
“When was that, Moorman?”
“As it happens, miss, I can tell you. It was the day we heard of those
terrible murders. Last Wednesday, miss.”
“Thank you, Moorman. I’ll see if he’s at either of those places. If
not, I may come back.”
But Joan did not go to either of the places of which Moorman had told
her. Instead, she went to the nearest telephone box, and ’phoned to
Ellery, who was lunching at his club, to come at once and meet her
outside Chancery Lane Station. Meanwhile, she went into an A. B. C.
and ordered a cup of coffee. As she waited she took out the
coat-button and had a good look at it.
She was not in much doubt. The button was of a quite peculiar kind—a
bright brass button identical with those which George Brooklyn always
wore on his summer evening coat. Here was luck indeed. According to
her theory Carter Woodman had been mistaken for George Brooklyn
because he had deliberately come out of Liskeard House wearing
George’s coat and opera hat. George was very particular with his
dress, and the coat was quite unmistakable. With these, if not in
them, he must have returned to the Cunningham Hotel, where he would
have stowed them away somewhere safely for the night. But the next
morning his first object would be to get rid of their incriminating
presence. She had guessed that he would pack them away in the bag
which he usually carried, and so leave for the office bearing them
away without any risk of arousing suspicion. Then her first thought
had been that he would leave them in some railway cloak-room, or drop
them quietly into the river. But this would involve the risk that the
bag might turn up, and be identified as his. What would be the safest
way of disposing of the hat and coat without leaving the bag, or
running any risk of identification? She thought she had guessed at
least one way in which it might have been done, and it was to follow
this up that she wanted Ellery’s help. She had now proved definitely
to her own satisfaction that the coat had been in Woodman’s bag; but
she was not sure whether the police would be willing to accept the
evidence of a solitary coat-button.
They must find the coat, unless it had been put beyond reach of
recovery. When Ellery arrived Joan told him that they were going to
lunch together at the Avenue Restaurant opposite Hatton Garden. In a
few words she told him what he was to do.
At the Avenue Joan remained at the table they had chosen, while Ellery
went to the gentlemen’s cloak room. There was no attendant in the room
at the time, and Ellery made a quick survey of the two or three dozen
hats and coats which were hanging there. What he was looking for was
at any rate not among them. In a few minutes the attendant came in,
and Ellery entered into talk.
“Do you get many hats and coats left behind here?” he asked.
“Not many, sir. Sometimes a gentleman leaves a coat or an umbrella;
but he generally comes back for it. Gentlemen sometimes leave things
when they’re a bit on, sir, if I may put it so without taking a
liberty. But not often, sir. Most of the customers here are very
regular gents. When things is left we keep them here for a week or two
and then we send them to the Lost Property Office. Have you lost
something, sir?”
“No, but a friend of mine thinks he left a coat and opera hat here a
week or so ago. Have you found anything of the sort?”
“Yes, I have,” said the porter. “And what’s more, I’m damned,
sir—begging your pardon, sir, if I could make it out at all. Gentlemen
don’t usually walk about in opera hats at lunch time, or go away
leaving their hats behind. But this lot was left at lunch-time. I know
that, sir, because it weren’t here in the morning, and I noticed it
after lunch.”
“Perhaps it had my friend’s name in it.”
“No, sir, that it hadn’t. I searched that coat, and not a name nor a
scrap of paper was there on it. A pair of gloves and a few coppers was
all it had in it.”
“Wasn’t there a name in the hat either?”
“No, there wasn’t, or we would probably have found the owner by now.”
“Well,” said Ellery. “I’m going to take you into my confidence. I
believe that coat and hat did belong to my friend, and I want you to
let me have a look at them. The matter is more important than it
sounds, for if it is the coat I think it may be the clue to the
discovery of a murderer.”
“Lord, sir, you don’t say so.” The attendant’s face brightened, and a
new sense of importance came into his manner. “Lord, a real murderer.”
He rubbed his hands. Then he said, remembering that he had no idea who
Ellery might be. “In that case, sir, oughtn’t we to send for the
police?”
“All in good time,” said Ellery; “but before we do that you must let
me see the coat and hat and find out if I am right. It wouldn’t do to
bring the police here on a wild goose chase. I don’t want to take them
away; but you must keep them safe and not give them up to any one
until the police come.”
The porter thereupon brought out the coat and hat. The coat was
undoubtedly George Brooklyn’s, or own fellow to his, and to make the
proof complete there was a button missing, and the remaining buttons
were the same as that which Joan had found in the handbag in Carter
Woodman’s office. Ellery turned to examine the hat. There was no name
in it, but in the crown there was evidence no less valuable. At some
time the adhesive gold initials which hatters use had been fastened
inside. These had been removed, or fallen out; but their removal had
left the spaces which they had covered cleaner than the rest of the
white silk lining. The initials “G.B.” stood out, not as plainly as if
the gold letters had remained, but quite unmistakably when the lining
was carefully examined. There could be no doubt that Joan’s sagacity
had resulted in bringing to light George Brooklyn’s hat and coat, or
that they had been left in a place which Woodman had visited on the
day following the murder. Their theory that Woodman had masqueraded as
George Brooklyn was confirmed, and the new evidence served to connect
him, more closely than any previous discovery, with the murders at
Liskeard House.
Ellery drew Woodman’s photograph from his pocket. “Have you ever seen
this gentleman?” he asked. But the porter did not remember. He might
have, or he might not. So many gentlemen came to the Avenue, and he
was not continuously in the cloak room. The lady at the cash desk
would be more likely to remember. She was a rare one for faces.
Cautioning the man to take the greatest care of the hat and coat until
the police came, Ellery rejoined Joan in the restaurant upstairs and
told her of his success. They determined to see the manager, and take
further precautions against the disappearance of George Brooklyn’s
clothes. Joan had selected a table in an alcove, at which it was
possible to talk quietly without being overheard, and, through the
head waiter, Ellery got the manager to come and join them there. They
told him, in confidence, the greater part of the story, names and all,
except that they did not give Carter Woodman’s name. The manager
promised that the coat and hat should be kept safely, and given up
only to the police. He then sent for the cashier, to whom Woodman’s
photograph was shown; but she did not remember his face, and was
inclined to be positive that he had not really lunched there on that
day. The waiters were then called in turn and shown the photograph;
but none of them remembered having seen Woodman. The manager seemed to
regard this as conclusive evidence that he had not lunched in the
restaurant.
“Of course,” said Ellery, “he may have lunched here and not been
noticed. But I’m inclined to believe he didn’t lunch here at all.
There was nothing to stop him from walking straight into the cloak
room, and then going right away as if he had lunched without coming
into the restaurant at all. I wonder how Moorman knew he lunched here
that day?”
“We can’t ask him that without putting him on his guard,” said Joan.
“But what we have is good enough. And we can make Moorman speak out
later, if it becomes necessary.”
The manager had by this time left them, and they were discussing the
situation alone. Suddenly Ellery broke in on something that Joan was
saying.
“By Jove,” he said, “I’ve just remembered. What a fool I am not to
have thought of it before.”
“What is it this time?”
“Why, you remember those finger-prints of Prinsep’s that were on the
club George was killed with. I know how they got there. When we were
in the garden before dinner I saw Prinsep take down that club from the
statue, and swing it about. He was showing it to—whom do you think?”
“Not Carter Woodman?”
“Yes, Woodman. That must have given him the idea of using the club. He
may have remembered that it would probably have Prinsep’s finger-marks
on it.”
“Yes, but if he used it afterwards it would have his marks too.”
“Not necessarily. Don’t you remember the police saying at the inquest
that some of the marks were blurred, as if the club had been handled
afterwards? That inspector fellow said he was sure the murderer had
worn gloves. That’s it. Woodman must have worn gloves, and they
blurred the marks. That shows that Woodman killed George as well as
Prinsep.”
“Of course it all helps to make it likely; and I never thought John
had done it. But it’s not proof, you know.”
“It may not be proof, but, by George, with the rest of the facts we
have I think it’s good enough.”
“No, Bob, I don’t think it is good enough—for proof, I mean—unless we
can prove that Carter was in Liskeard House that evening. If we could
prove that, I agree that we could bring the whole thing home to him.”
“But we know he went out of the Cunningham, and lied about where he
had been.”
“We know he lied, but we can’t even prove that he went out of the
hotel. We only showed that he could have got out, and in again,
without being seen. It really isn’t good enough—yet.”
“But how are we to make it any better?”
“If Carter got back into Liskeard House I’m going to find out how he
did it. He couldn’t have come in by the front door—some one would have
been certain to see him. And I’m fairly certain he couldn’t have got
in through the theatre without being seen.”
“Then how on earth did he get in?”
“That’s what I mean to find out. If he didn’t come in the other ways,
he must have come in through the coachyard.”
“But surely the evidence at the inquest showed that it was all locked
up, and no one could possibly have got in that way.”
“My dear Bob, the evidence only showed that it was locked at eleven
o’clock. The police theory was that the murders were somewhere about
midnight. But we believe Carter got out of the Cunningham some time
before eleven. He must have come through before it was locked. And we
know now, thanks to that coat-button, how he got out.”
“You may be right. But the chauffeur and his wife both said they
didn’t see any one come in before they locked up; so that, even if
Woodman did come that way, I don’t see how we can prove it.”
“You are a Jeremiah. Of course I don’t see either. But I haven’t
really tried yet, and I’m going to. And now, Bob, let’s pay our bill,
and get to work on it. It must be so, and I’m not going to believe it
can’t be proved.”