“Good Lord, the porter who found him didn’t recognize the body.”
“Remember his face.”
“My God, don’t talk about his face.”
“Sorry, sorry. Well, I dare say the porter was upset too.”
“Yes, but the porter said Rand was biggish, and the body’s on the
small side. The porter said he had a lot of hair, and the body’s
absolutely bald.”
“My dear chap, give a man a straight back and a bit of manner and
lots of fellows think he’s biggish--while he’s alive. And a man
that’s absolutely bald is just the man to wear a wig.”
“I thought we were to go by facts,” Bell said gloomily.
“And so we are, Bell. Just a-going to begin, Mr. Snodgrass, sir. No
rash haste.”
“Have you got something up your sleeve?”
“Not one little trump. Oh, my dear Bell, how can you? Did I ever? My
simple open heart is broken.”
“You’re damned cheerful, aren’t you?”
“My dear man, I never made you swear before. My dear Bell! Sorry.
Let’s get on. Let’s get on. I want to call on the elusive Rand.”
There was nothing individual about the rooms of Mr. Rand. He had been
content with the furniture supplied by the owners of the place, which
was of the usual wholesale dullness. Reggie turned to the manager of
the flats. “I suppose there’s nothing in the place Mr. Rand owns? Not
even the pictures?”
“The pictures were supplied by the contractors for the furniture,
sir. So----”
“The Lord have mercy on their souls,” said Reggie.
“So there is nothing of the tenant’s personal property except his
clothes.”
“He is elusive, our friend Rand,” Reggie murmured, wandering about
the room. “Smoked rather a showy cigar. Drank a fair whisky. Doesn’t
tell us much about him. Do the servants come here every day?”
The manager was embarrassed. “Well, sir, in point of fact, we’re
short-handed just now. Not unless they’re rung for. Not unless we
know the tenant’s using the rooms.”
“Don’t apologize, don’t apologize. In point of fact, they haven’t
been here since”--he looked critically at some dust upon a grim
bronze--“since when?”
“I should say some days,” said the manager, with diffidence.
“I should say a week. No matter. Many thanks.”
Superintendent Bell with some urgency ushered the manager out. When
he had done that he turned upon his inspector. “Confound you. Warren,
what do you want to stare at the waste-paper basket for? That chap
would have seen it if Mr. Fortune hadn’t got interested in the smokes
and drinks.”
Reggie laughed and the inspector abased himself. “Very sorry, sir.
Didn’t know I stared. But it is so blooming odd.”
Bell snorted and lifted the basket on to the table. It was nearly
full of black burnt paper. “Why did they burn it in the basket?” said
the inspector.
“Because the fireplaces are all gas stoves, I suppose,” said Bell.
“But I don’t know why they couldn’t leave the stuff on the hearth.”
“Because this is a tidy crime,” said Reggie. “Nice, quiet,
middle-class crime. No ugly mess. I told you that.”
The Superintendent gazed at him. “Now what can you know, you know?”
“I don’t know. I feel. I feel the kind of man that did it. Don’t you?
I’ll lay you odds he came of a neat, virtuous, middle-class home.”
The Superintendent started. “Who are you thinking of?”
“You are so hasty to-day, Bell. I haven’t got a ‘who’. Still
anonymous is the slayer. But I’ll swear I’ve got his character.”
“Have you, though!” said Bell. “Tidy fellow! Don’t make a mess!
Remember that face?”
“Oh, I said he was mad.”
“Well, I’m not yet. I’m only feeling what I can feel.” He began to
examine the burnt paper. “Letters mostly. Some stoutish paper. Some
stuff looks a bit like a notebook. That’s all we’ll get out of that.”
“Well, except the one thing. Whoever did that was clearing up.
Clearing up something that might have left traces that might have
been dangerous. Same like he cleared up the dead man’s face. Don’t
you see? Somebody and some affair had to be absolutely abolished.”
“Yes. What was it?”
“We mayn’t ever know that,” said Reggie slowly.
“I believe you,” said Bell, and laughed. “I feel that, sir.”
The inspector and he began to examine the room in detail, opening
drawers and cupboards. But except for tobacco and spirits they found
no trace of Mr. Rand. Nothing had been broken open, but nothing was
locked. “No keys on the deceased, were there, Mr. Fortune?” said Bell
suddenly. “And that’s a point, too. Very few men go about without any
keys.”
“Well, hang it, very few men go about without any money,” Reggie
expostulated. “The corpse hadn’t a copper. You can take it the way we
found him wasn’t the way he used to go about. He’d do his vest up,
for instance.”
“Ah,” said Bell sagely. “You’ve got it all in your head, I must say.
That’s the thing about you, Mr. Fortune, if you don’t mind my saying
so. You’ve always got a whole case in your mind at once; there’s some
of us only see it in bits, so to speak.”
Reggie smiled. He understood that Superintendent Bell was repenting
of having lost his temper, and was anxious to make it up. “I never
found so good a fellow to work with as you. Bell,” he said. “You
always keep a level head.”
Superintendent Bell shook it and stared at Reggie. “Not to-day. As
you know very well, Mr. Fortune, begging your pardon. I’ve been
rattled, and that’s the truth. Ought to know better at my time of
life, to be sure. I’ve seen a good deal, too, you might say. But
there’s some things I’ll never get used to. And that chap’s face
upset me.”
Reggie nodded. “Yes. I was sayin’--the only things that make you
afraid are the mad things. And the only thing that does you good is
to fight ’em. That’s why I’ve cheered up.”
“That’s right, sir. Well, now, these facts of yours. There’s no
papers anywhere. All burnt in that basket. Rather odd there is not so
much as a book.”
“I don’t think he was a man of culture, the elusive Rand. But you’ve
missed something, haven’t you?”
“I dare say,” Bell grinned. “I generally do when you’re about.”
“There’s not a sign the murder was done in this room.”
“Oh, I saw that all right. But we hadn’t any reason to think it was.”
“No,” Reggie sighed, “No. So tidy. So tidy.” And they went into Mr.
Rand’s bedroom.
That also was tidy. No trace of a struggle, of blood. That also had
no papers, no books, nothing personal but clothes.
“Spent a good deal at his tailor’s,” said Bell, looking into a
well-filled wardrobe, and read out the name of a man in Savile Row.
“Hallo. They’re not all the same make. Some cheaper stuff. Why,
what’s the matter with his boots, sir?” For Reggie was taking up one
pair after another.
“Nothing. All quite satisfactory. About a nine and rather broad. The
corpse wore about a nine and had a broad foot. What’s that about his
clothes? Different tailors? Are the clothes all the same size? All
made for the same man?” Suit after suit was spread out on the bed.
They were to the same measure; they all were marked “W. H. Rand”.
“Quite satisfactory,” Reggie purred. “They’d fit the corpse all
right. Pretty different styles, though. He dressed to look different
at different times. He is elusive, is W. H. Rand.”
They began to open drawers. There was the same abundance, the same
variety of styles in Mr. Rand’s hosiery. “Yes, he meant to be
elusive,” Reggie murmured. “Anything from a bookmaker to a
churchwarden at a funeral. 16½ collars, though. And that’s the
measure of the corpse. Is all the linen marked?”
It was, and with ink, so that the mark could only be removed by
taking out a piece of the stuff. “If the corpse is Rand, where the
devil did his shirt come from?” said Reggie. “The slayer unpicked the
name from his coat. That was one of the Savile Row suits. But the
shirt? Did the slayer bring a change of linen with him? Provident
fellow, very provident.”
Bell, on his knees by a chest of drawers, gave a grunt. “Lord, here’s
a drawer tumbled. And that’s the first yet. It’s new stuff, too--not
worn.”
Reggie bent over him and whistled. “Not marked. Same sort of stuff as
the corpse wears. And the drawer’s left untidy. The first untidy
drawer. Well, well. Everybody breaks down somewhere. He began to be
untidy then. When he got to the shirt and the vest.” He shivered and
turned away to the window. “This damned place looks out on the well,”
he cried out, and turned back and sat down. “Bah! The slayer did
that, I suppose,” he muttered, and sprang up. “Believe in ghosts, you
men?”
“Good Lord, sir, don’t you start giving us the jumps!” said Bell.
Reggie was at the dressing-table. “Sorry, sorry,” he said over his
shoulder, opening and shutting drawers. Then he turned with something
in his hands. “That wasn’t such a bad shot of mine, Bell. Here’s a
wig. The corpse is uncommon bald. The elusive Rand had lots of brown
hair. Here’s a nice brown wig.”
“There’s no blood on it!” Bell cried.
“No. I guess this is Mr. Rand’s second best. The one he had on when
he was killed wouldn’t look nice now.”
“That about settles it,” Bell said slowly.
“We haven’t seen the bathroom,” said Reggie.
Bell looked at him and shrugged.
“Not likely to be much there, sir,” said the inspector.
“There could be,” said Reggie gravely, and led the way.
It was a bathroom of some size but no luxury. Only the sheer
necessities of bathing were provided. The lower half of the walls was
tiled, the floor of linoleum. Reggie stopped in the doorway.
“Anything strike you about it, Bell?”
“Looks new, sir.”
“Yes. Nice and clean. Tidy, don’t you know. But there’s no towels and
no sponge. Yet in the bedroom everything was ready for Rand to sleep
there to-night--pyjamas, brushes and comb, everything. Didn’t he use
towels? Didn’t he have a sponge?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“This is where the slayer cleared up after the murder. And he took
the dirty towels and the bloody sponge away with him. Tidy
fellow--always tidy. Just wait, will you?” And he went into the
bathroom on all fours. About the middle of the room he stopped, and
pored over the linoleum, and felt it with the tips of his fingers.
Then he stood up and went to the window, opened it, and looked out.
He examined the sill, and then sat himself on it in the manner of a
window cleaner, and began to study the window frame. After a minute
or two he pulled out a pocket-knife, and with great care cut a piece
of wood. He put this down on the edge of the porcelain basin, and
resumed his study. When he had finished he went down again on his
hands and knees, and wandered over the floor. He made an exclamation,
he lay down on his stomach, and stretched underneath the bath. When
he stood up he had in his hand something that glittered. He held it
out on his palm to Bell.
“What’s that, sir? A match-box?”
“It might be. A gold match-box--provisionally. No name. No initials.
On opening--we find inside--a little white powder”--he smelt it, put
a fragment on the tip of his finger and tasted--“which is cocaine.
Well, come in, Bell, come in. See what you can make of the place. I
can’t find a finger-print anywhere.” He slipped the gold box into his
pocket.
The two detectives came in, and went over the room even more minutely
than he. “There’s nothing that tells me anything,” said Bell.
Reggie sat on the edge of the bath. “Well, well, I wouldn’t say
that,” he said mildly. “It’s not what we could wish, Bell. But there
are points--there are points.”
“All right, sir. Call Mr. Fortune,” Bell grinned.
“I don’t say it’ll ever go into court. But some things we do know.
The dead man is Rand, the elusive Rand. He had papers worth burning.
He was killed by a powerful man with one or two blows, probably in
the sitting-room. After death he was stripped and dressed in the
unmarked clothes, probably here. For his body was brought where a
mess could be cleaned up, to have the face smashed in. You can see
the dents in the linoleum where his head lay. And then he was pitched
out by that window. There’s a bit of animal matter, probably human
tissue, on that scrap of wood. Then the slayer packed up everything
that was bloody and went off; and one of ’em--the tidy slayer or the
elusive Rand--one of ’em used cocaine.”
Superintendent Bell shrugged his shoulders. “It don’t take us very
far, sir, does it? It don’t amount to so much. What I should call a
baffling case. I mean to say, we don’t seem to get near anybody.”
Reggie grunted, got off the bath, and taking with him his bit of
wood, went back to the sitting-room, the two detectives in silent
attendance. There he tumbled Mr. Rand’s cigarettes out of their box,
and put his bit of wood in it.
“I suppose there’s nothing more here,” he murmured, his eyes
wandering round the room. “Try it with the lights on. Switch on,
inspector. . . . No. Ah, what’s that?” He went to the gas fire and
picked out of its lumps of sham coal a scrap of gleaming metal. The
next moment he was down on his knees, pulling the fire to pieces.
“Give me an envelope, will you?” he said over his shoulder, and they
saw he was collecting scraps of broken glass.
“What is it, sir?”
“That’s the bridge of a pair of rimless eyeglasses. And if we’re
lucky we can reconstruct the lenses. When Rand was hit, his glasses
jumped off and smashed themselves. That’s the fourth thing the slayer
didn’t think of.”
“You don’t miss much, Mr. Fortune. Still, it is baffling, very
baffling. Even now, we don’t know anybody, so to speak. We don’t even
know Rand. What was Rand, would you say? It was worth somebody’s
while to do him in. I suppose he knew something. But what did he
know? Who was Rand?”
Reggie was putting on his overcoat. He collected his envelope and his
cigarette box and put them away, looking the while with dreamy eyes
at Superintendent Bell. “Yes,” he said; “yes, there’s a lot of
unknown quantities about just now. Who the devil was Rand? Well,
well! I think that finishes us here. Will you ring for the lift,
inspector?” When he was left alone with Bell, he still gazed dreamily
at that plump, stolid face. “Yes. Who the devil was Rand? And if you
come to that, who the devil is Sandford?”
“Good Lord, Mr. Fortune, do you mean this business is that business?”
“Well, there’s a lot of unknown quantities about,” said Reggie.
PHASE IV.--THE CHARGE
When they talked about the case afterwards, Reggie and Lomas used to
agree that it was a piece of pure art. “Crime unstained by any vulgar
greed or sentiment; sheer crime; iniquity neat. An impressive thing,
Lomas, old dear.”
“So it is,” Lomas nodded. “One meets cases of the kind, but never
quite of so pure a style. Upon my soul, Fortune, it has a sort of
grandeur--the intensity of purpose, the contempt for ordinary values,
the absolute uselessness of it. And it was damned clever.”
Reggie chose a cigar. “Great work,” he sighed. “All the marks of the
real great man, if it wasn’t diabolical. He was a great man, but for
the hate in him. Just like the devil.”
“You’re so moral,” Lomas protested. “Don’t you feel the beauty of it?”
“Of course I’m moral. I’m sane. Oh, so sane, Lomas, old thing. That’s
why I beat the wily criminal. And the devil, God help him.”
“Yes, you’re as sane as a boy,” Lomas nodded.
But all that was afterwards.
Everything that was done in the case is not (though you may have
feared so) written here. We take it in the critical, significant
scenes, and the next of them arrived some days after the discovery of
the corpse.
Lomas was in his room with Superintendent Bell, when Kimball came to
them. He was brisker than ever. “Anything new, is there? Have you hit
on anything? I came round at once, you see, when I got your note.
Delighted to get it. Much better to have all the details cleared up.
Well, what is it?”
“I’m afraid I’ve nothing for you myself,” said Lomas. “The fact is,
Fortune thought you might be able to give him some information on one
or two points.”
“I? God bless me, you know all that I know. Where is he, then, if he
wants me?”
And Reggie came. “Have you been waitin’?” he said, with his airiest
manner. “So sorry. Things are really rollin’ up, you know. New facts
by every post. Well, well.” He dropped into a chair and blinked at
the party. “What are we all doin’ here? Oh, ah! I remember.” He
smiled and nodded at Kimball. “It was that fellow I wanted to ask you
about.”
Kimball, as was natural, did not relish this sort of thing. “I
understood you had something important on hand. I’ve no time to
waste.”
“Why, it’s so jolly hard to understand what’s important and what
isn’t, don’t you know? But it all comes out in the end.”
“You think so, do you? This is the coal affair?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Reggie answered thoughtfully. “No, I wouldn’t
say that. After all, the Coal Ramp isn’t the only pebble on the
beach.”
“Then why the devil do you bother me?” Kimball cried.
Reggie sat up suddenly. “Because this is something you must know.” He
rearranged his coat and slid down into the chair again, and drawled
out what he had to say. “Some time the end of last year--point of
fact--last December--bein’ quite precise, from fifth to
twenty-ninth--in one of the nursin’-homes in Queen Anne
Street--speakin’ strictly, No. 1003--there was a man bein’ operated
on by Sir Jenkin Totteridge for an affection of the middle ear. This
chap was called Mason. You went to see him several times. Who was
Mason?”
Kimball stared at him with singular intensity. Then he swung half
round in his chair with one of his characteristic jerky movements,
and pulled out his snuffbox. He took a pinch. “You’ve found a mare’s
nest,” he said, with a laugh, and took another pinch.
As he spoke, Reggie sprang up with some vehemence, bumping into his
arm. “Sorry--sorry. A mare’s nest, you say? Now what exactly do you
mean by that?”
Kimball stood up too. “I mean you’re wasting my time,” he said.
“That isn’t what I should call an explanation,” Reggie murmured. “For
instance, do you mean you didn’t go to see Mason?”
“Don’t let’s have any more of this damned trifling,” Kimball cried.
“Certainly I went to see Mason.”
“Good! Who is he?”
“Jack Mason is a fellow I knew in my early days. I went up and he
didn’t. I’ve seen little of him this ten years. When he had that
operation, poor chap, he wrote to me, and I went to see him for the
sake of old times. And what the devil has it to do with Scotland
Yard?”
“Mason is the man who was found at the Montmorency House flats with
his face smashed in.”
“God bless my soul! Mason! Poor chap, poor chap! But what are you
talking about? The papers said that was a man called Rand.”
“Mason, otherwise Rand. Rand, otherwise Mason. Who was Mason, and why
did somebody kill him?”
Kimball made one of his jerky gestures. “Killed, was he? I thought he
fell out of the window.”
“He was murdered.”
“Good God! Old Jack Mason! It’s beyond me. I haven’t a notion. You
know this upsets me a good deal. I’ve seen little of him for a long
time. I can hardly believe he’s gone. But why the devil did he call
himself Rand?”
“What was he?” said Reggie sharply.
“God bless me, I couldn’t tell you,” Kimball laughed. “He was always
very close. An agent in a small way, when I knew him--colonial
produce, and so forth. I fancy he went in for building land.
Comfortably off always, but he never got on. Very reserved fellow.
Loved to be mysterious. No. I suppose it isn’t surprising he used two
names.”
“Why was he murdered?” said Reggie.
“I can’t help you.”
“That’s all you can say?”
“Yes. Afraid so. Yes. Let me know as soon as you have anything more.
Good morning, good morning.” He bustled out.
“A bit hurried, as you might say,” said Superintendent Bell.
Reggie picked up a paper-knife and fell on his knees. He rose with
some fragments of white powder on the blade. “I suppose you saw me
jog his arm,” he said. “And that’s cocaine.” He tumbled Lomas’s
paper-clips out of their box and put the stuff in. “Do you remember
the first time we had him here, he took snuff? I thought he was
rather odd about it and after it, and I went over to the window where
he stood to see if I could find any of the stuff he used. But he’d
been careful. He is careful, is Kimball.”
“He is damned careful,” Lomas agreed, and began to write on a
scribbling-pad, looking at each word critically.
There was a pause. “Beg your pardon, sir,” said Superintendent Bell.
“You talked about the murder being a madman’s job. Do you mean Mr.
Kimball, being a dope fiend, is not responsible for his actions?”
“O Lord, no. Kimball’s not a dope fiend. He uses the stuff same like
we use whisky. He’s not a slave to it yet. Say he’s a heavy drinker.
It’s just beginnin’ to interfere with his efficiency. That’s why he
left the box behind in the bathroom; that’s why he’s a little jerky.
But he’s pretty adequate still.”
“You talked about mad. You were emphatic, as you might say,” Bell
insisted. “What might you have in your mind, sir? Mr. Kimball’s
generally reckoned uncommon practical.”
“He isn’t ordinary mad,” said Reggie. “He don’t think he’s Julius
Cæsar or a poached egg. He don’t go out without his trousers. He
don’t see red and go it blind. But there is something queer in him. I
doubt if they’re physical, these perversions. Call it a disease of
the soul.”
“Ah, well, his soul,” said Bell gravely. “I judge he’s not a
Christian man.”
“I wish I did know his creed,” said Reggie, with equal gravity. “It
would be very instructive.”
Lomas tapped his pencil impatiently. “We’re not evangelists, we’re
policemen,” he said. “And what do we do next?”
“Take out a warrant and arrest Kimball,” said Reggie carelessly.
Bell and Lomas looked at each other and then at him. “I don’t see my
way,” said Lomas.
“The corpse can be identified as Mason. I’ll swear to the operation.
Totteridge will swear it’s the man he operated on as Mason. Kimball
admits several visits to Mason. In the room from which the corpse was
thrown was a gold snuff-box containing cocaine. Shortman’s will swear
that box is their make and exactly similar to a box sold to Kimball.
And Kimball takes cocaine. It’s a good prima facie case.”
“Yes. Did you ever see a jury that would hang a man on it?”
“We do have to be so careful,” Bell murmured.
Reggie laughed. “And Kimball’s a Cabinet Minister.”
“Damn it. Fortune, be fair!” Lomas cried. “If I had a sound case
against a man, he would stand his trial whoever he was. I don’t wink
at a fellow who’s got a pull. You know that. But there’s a reason in
all things. I can’t charge a Cabinet Minister with murder on evidence
like this. What is it after all?” He picked up his scribbling-pad and
read: “‘Three circumstances--Kimball knew the murdered man; a
snuff-box like Kimball’s was found on the scene of the murder; that
snuff-box held cocaine, and cocaine is what Kimball uses.’
Circumstantial evidence at its weakest. Neither judge nor jury would
look at it. There’s no motive, there’s no explanation of the method
of the crime. My dear chap, suppose you were on the other side, you’d
tear it to ribands in five minutes.”
“On the other side?” Reggie repeated slowly. “I’m not an advocate,
Lomas. I’m always on the same side. I’m for justice. I’m for the man
who’s been wronged.”
Lomas stared at him. “Yes. Quite--quite. But we generally take all
that for granted, don’t we? My dear chap, you mustn’t mind my saying
so, but you do preach a good deal over this case.”
“I had noticed the same thing myself,” said Superintendent Bell, and
they both looked curiously at Reggie.
“Why am I so moral? Because the thing’s so damned immoral,” said
Reggie vehemently. “What’s most crime? Human. Human greed, human
lust, human hostility. But this is diabolical. Sheer evil for evil’s
sake. Lomas, I’ll swear, when we have it all out, we’ll find that it
still looks unreasonable, futile, pure passion for wrong.”
“Meaning Mr. Kimball mad. You do come back to that, sir,” Bell said.
“Not legally mad. Probably not medically mad. I mean he has the devil
in him.”
“Really, my dear Fortune, you do surprise me,” Lomas said. “I
perceive that in all things you are too superstitious. The right
honourable gentleman hath a devil! It isn’t done, you know. This is
the twentieth century. And you’re a scientific man. Consider your
reputation--and mine, if you don’t mind. What the devil are we to do?
Try exorcism?”
“You won’t charge Kimball?” Lomas signified an impatient negative.
“Very well. You say you don’t let a man off because he’s in the
Government. Suppose you had a prima facie case like this against a
nobody. Suppose I brought you as good grounds for arresting Sandford.
Wouldn’t you have him in the dock? On your conscience now!”
Again Bell and Lomas consulted each other’s faces. “I wonder why you
drag in Sandford?” said Lomas slowly.
“He’s in it all right. I asked you a question.”