On the Tiles
Inspector Blaikie had received very definite instructions from the
superintendent as to the course of investigation which he was to
follow up. He was to find out all he could about Woodman’s financial
circumstances, and he was to seek for proof that Woodman had been in
possession of Walter Brooklyn’s walking-stick. Side by side with this
line of investigation, he had intended to look further into his own
private suspicions of Ellery; but these, which had been almost removed
by his last talk with the superintendent, were finally dispelled by a
further talk with William Gloucester. Ellery’s _alibi_ was good
enough: Carter Woodman was the man whose every concern he must
scrutinize if he would find the murderer.
It did not take the inspector long to prove beyond doubt that Woodman
was in a state of serious financial embarrassment. Discreet inquiries
in the city showed that he had been speculating heavily in oil shares,
and that he stood to lose a large sum on the falling prices of the
shares which he had contracted to buy. There was nothing to show
directly that he had staked his clients’, as well as his own, money on
the fate of his dealings; but the inspector could make a shrewd guess
at the state of his affairs. In all probability, he must either raise
money at once, or else face ignominious collapse, and perhaps worse.
It was definite that he had been putting off his creditors with
promises to pay in the near future, and plunging meanwhile into more
serious difficulties in the attempt to extricate himself.
So far, so good; but the other matter gave the inspector far more
serious trouble. Try as he would, he could get no clue that would tell
him whether Walter Brooklyn had really left his walking-stick in
Carter Woodman’s office. His first thought had been to see Woodman’s
confidential clerk, and to find out, if possible without putting
Woodman on his guard, what the man might know. He had scraped an
acquaintance with Moorman in the course of his investigations, and had
several times talked to him about the case. Moorman, he was fairly
well convinced, had not the least suspicion of his employer’s guilt,
and the inspector was sure that he had said nothing to make him
suspect. Indeed, he could hardly have done so; for only since he last
saw the man had he himself begun to suspect Woodman.
Now, accordingly, Inspector Blaikie, watching for an opportunity when
he was certain that Carter Woodman was not in his office, went to see
Moorman. He asked for Woodman, and, receiving the answer that he was
out, fell easily into conversation with the old clerk. It was quite
casually that he asked after a while, “By the way, Walter Brooklyn was
here on the day of the murders. You don’t happen to remember whether
he had his walking-stick with him, do you?”
Moorman looked at him sharply, as if he realised that there was a
purpose in the question. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “’Tisn’t a thing I
should notice, one way or the other. I’m too short-sighted to notice
much.”
The inspector tried a little to jog his memory, but with no result.
Moorman either did not remember, or he would not tell. To ask the
young clerk in the vestibule seemed too dangerous; for to do so would
almost certainly be to put Woodman on his guard. The inspector could
only report to the superintendent that he had failed to trace the
stick.
“Look here, Blaikie,” said Superintendent Wilson, “this will never do.
We know perfectly well who committed these murders, and we’re as far
off bringing it home to him as ever.”
The inspector could only reply that he had done his best.
“Yes; and I’m not blaming you,” his superior rejoined. “But it won’t
do. I see I shall have to take a hand in the game myself. We must find
out about that walking-stick, and there’s another point I’ve reasoned
out to-day. Where’s the weapon with which Prinsep was killed?”
“Why, you’ve got the club.”
“Yes, yes; but you don’t tell me that the murderer carried that
immense unwieldy thing up two flights of stairs, when he might easily
have been seen. No, Prinsep wasn’t killed with that club. George
Brooklyn was; but it was some other weapon that killed Prinsep.”
“There’s the knife,” suggested the inspector. “But you have that too.”
“Really, inspector, you are unusually thick-headed this morning. The
man wasn’t killed with a knife. He was killed with a blow on the back
of the head, delivered with some heavy blunt instrument. Isn’t that
what the doctors said?”
“Quite. If it wasn’t the club, I suppose the murderer carried the
weapon away.”
“I suppose he may have done, as you did not find it. You are sure
there was no object in the room that might have been used as a
weapon.”
“None at all, I think. The stick belonging to Walter Brooklyn could
not have made the wound, I am told—nor any of the other sticks for
that matter. It looked much more like a case of sand-bagging, now I
think of it in this light.”
“Well, inspector, I’m not satisfied, and I feel sure you will not
object if I do a bit of investigation on my own.”
“Are you taking the case out of my hands, sir?”
“No, no. I want you to carry on, and especially to find out what these
young people—Miss Cowper and Ellery—are doing. There are only two or
three points on which I want to satisfy myself personally.”
“Very well, sir,” said the inspector; and he left feeling—and
looking—more than a little aggrieved.
Superintendent Wilson, in his rare personal appearances in the work of
detection, had one great advantage, he was not known by sight, even to
most of the habitual criminal class. He had, therefore, on this
occasion at least, no need to disguise himself. He merely went to
Carter Woodman’s office as a prospective client, who had been strongly
recommended to him. He wanted both to have a look at Woodman himself
and to see whether anything more could be got out of Moorman on the
question of the stick.
Woodman was engaged with a client when he arrived, and he had a
favourable chance of making friends with the old clerk before he was
shown into the inner office. He used his opportunity for that alone,
making no attempt to lead the conversation towards the business on
which he had come. In a very few minutes he was shown into Woodman’s
private office.
Looking his man up and down, he noted, as the inspector had noted
before him, the powerful physique, the straining vitality, the false
geniality of Woodman’s manner. But he could see also that the man was
seriously worried. There was, for all his appearance of heartiness, a
harried look about him, and he seemed preoccupied as, with an
excellent assumption of business incapacity, his visitor began to
unfold a long story about a lease and a mortgage which he wished to
negotiate. Woodman listened with growing impatience, as the
superintendent meant that he should. At length he interrupted, saying
that the details could be dealt with later. His visitor was most
apologetic—never had a head for business, but positively must get the
matter dealt with that day. He lived away in the country—Mr. Amos
Porter of Sunderling in Sussex was his description for the nonce—and
he would not be in town again for weeks. Woodman finally suggested
that, as there was other work he must do, Mr. Porter should settle the
details with his clerk—an excellent man of business, who would be able
to tell him all he wanted. Mr. Porter, after a perfunctory attempt to
go on with his explanation to the principal, agreed; and he was soon
back in the other office with Moorman.
Mr. Porter had left his hat, coat, and stick in the outer office when
he went in to see Woodman, laying the stick on a chair and covering it
with his coat. His business with Moorman was soon done, and he crossed
the room to get his things. By a curious accident, while he was
struggling into his coat, he dropped his stick at Moorman’s feet.
Moorman picked it up, but as he was passing it back to its owner, he
started violently and almost dropped it.
“A queer old stick, is it not?” said Mr. Porter. “I value it highly
for its associations.”
Moorman peered at him, oddly. “I beg pardon, sir, but isn’t that the
stick a gentleman I know used to carry?”
“No, no. I’ve had this stick for years. I bought it in—let me see,
where did I buy it? Never mind. I had no idea there was another like
it. That is most interesting. May I ask who uses such a stick?”
“The gentleman’s name is Brooklyn—Mr. Walter Brooklyn. He had one very
like yours.”
“God bless my soul! Not the fellow whose name has been in all the
papers? Dear me, what was it about? I know it was in the papers.”
“Mr. Brooklyn was suspected—wrongly—of murder.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now. And you know Mr. Brooklyn? How interesting.”
Moorman lowered his voice. “He was in the office with that stick on
the very day on which the murders were committed.”
“Dear, dear. It is coming back to me. There was something about the
stick in the papers. How odd it should be like mine.”
“It was found in the room where one of the murders took place.”
“And you saw Mr. Brooklyn with the stick when he left this office the
same day. Dear me, that must have looked very bad for him. But he was
released, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, the police let him go.”
“And did you give evidence, Mr. Moorman? Did you have to say you had
seen him leave this office with that stick in his hands? It must be a
terrible ordeal to be a witness—terrible.”
“I didn’t have to give evidence, and in any case I didn’t see the
stick when Mr. Brooklyn left the office.”
“Oh, I see. He hadn’t the stick with him when he left. Then, of
course, it wouldn’t go so much against him, it being found. Why, it
might have been my stick”—and Mr. Porter gave a curious high laugh.
“Well, Mr.—is it Moorman?—thank you. You’ve told me just what I wanted
to know—about my mortgage. I will write in, sending all the documents.
_Good_-morning.”
Safely out of earshot and eyeshot of Woodman’s office, Superintendent
Wilson had a quiet laugh. “A little diplomacy does it,” he said to
himself. “Now I know all about the stick. And next for another little
exploration.”
The superintendent’s next visit was paid in his proper person. Driving
to Liskeard House, he asked to be shown up to Prinsep’s room, where
everything was still just as it had been when the murder was
discovered. There he made a careful examination of the room and all
its contents, seeking for any weapon with which the murder could
possibly have been done. His search was fruitless; and, after a while,
he passed to the window and gazed out thoughtfully into the garden
below. The roof of the antique temple showed over the intervening
trees; but the place where the murder of George Brooklyn had taken
place was completely hidden by the trees and the bushes growing around
them. The superintendent cast back in his mind to discover whether the
bushes had been searched for possible clues. He assumed that they
had—it was an elementary precaution—but he had best have a hunt round
himself. Something might have been overlooked. He went down the
private staircase into the garden, and began his search.
Nothing rewarded his efforts, though he spent a good hour searching;
and it was with a puzzled expression that he went upstairs again to
Prinsep’s room, resuming his stand at the window and gazing out.
Suddenly something seemed to catch his attention. Leaning as far out
of the window as he could, he studied intently what he could see of
the roof. “It’s just a possibility,” he muttered, as he closed the
window, and crossed the room.
What Superintendent Wilson had remarked was that almost on the level
of Prinsep’s window was the roof of that part of the house which
projected over the stable-yard. It was not near enough for any entry
to the room to be effected by its means; but it was easily within
reach of a throw, and an object cast away upon it would be completely
invisible and safely disposed of until some day, probably distant,
when the roof might need repair. It was an admirable place for the
bestowal of any inconvenient piece of property.
By means of the landing window, the superintendent found his way
without much difficulty out on to the roof, and was easily able to
climb over its gabled side to the flat space in the centre. And there
at last his efforts were rewarded; for on the roof lay, clearly just
where it had been thrown, a small bag heavily loaded, not with sand,
but with small shot—a deadly weapon. Stuffing the thing into his
pocket, the superintendent climbed back with more difficulty, and shut
the window behind him. He chuckled softly to himself. He had reasoned
aright, and here at last was a clue that had not been laid to
mislead—a real clue that he must make to point straight at the
murderer. He went back to his office to examine his find at leisure.