Colson is Baffled
Colson walked away from the police station till he came to a shop. It
was Sunday and, of course, the shutters were up, but he rang the bell
at the side door. It was opened by the proprietor, a thin,
sandy-haired man, who shook hands with the detective.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Colson,” he said, “come in, won’t you? We were
just sitting down to tea. The wife will be pleased, I’m sure, if
you’ll join us.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Blake. I’m sorry to disturb you. But I want you to
do something for me—if you will?”
Blake looked at him with interest.
“Anything about this murder at Marsh Quay?” he asked. “I heard you
were down there.”
“Now, look here, Mr. Blake, you and I know one another pretty well.
Don’t you ask me any questions about that, please. I believe you’re a
discreet man, or I shouldn’t have come to you. Will you hold your
tongue about it? About what I’m going to ask you?”
“Of course I will, Mr. Colson.”
“Very well. I want you to sell me a walking-stick—on a Sunday. Can we
go into your shop?”
“Certainly. Come along.”
He led the way into the shop, and turned on the electric light.
Whereat it was obvious that Mr. Blake dealt in tobacco, and those
other articles which generally characterise a tobacconist’s trade.
“What sort of a stick do you want?”
“One exactly like this—if you’ve got one.”
Blake took the stick in his hand and examined it carefully.
“You don’t know that stick, I suppose? You haven’t seen it before?”
asked Colson.
“Can’t say I have. It’s ordinary enough, eh? With a Swiss ferrule,
too. Might have been bought in Switzerland, and might not. We keep a
few of these ferrules now—some of our customers prefer them. Let’s
see—it ought to be easy to find one like it.”
A bundle of sticks was laid on the counter. Presently one was found
very closely resembling that brought by Colson.
“All right,” he said, “this will do—if you can put another ferrule on
it.”
“That’s easily done. Let’s be sure it’s the exact length—ah—we must
take half an inch off it. If you’re going to palm it off on anyone as
the original, it’s a hint to remember that nothing would give it away
so much as a difference, however small, in length. Half a minute. My
tools are at the back of the shop.”
When he returned with the two sticks he said:
“You’ve noticed yours is chipped a bit in the handle?”
“I know. I’ll make the other all right.”
“Rub some dirt in when you’ve done, with a touch of oil. But, there, I
expect you know your own job, Mr. Colson. Won’t you stay and have
tea?”
“I’m busy, thanks.”
Colson’s next rendezvous was his own home, a pleasant little house a
few minutes’ walk outside the city walls. And the pleasant little
house contained a pleasant little wife, who bustled about to get tea.
“I was wondering if you’d be home to-day, Bob,” she said.
“I shall have to be away to-night, my dear. This is going to be a big
case, I think.”
“Any progress?”
He nodded.
“A little,” he said; “tell you all about it when I’ve finished tea.”
No one else knew it, but Colson always took his wife into his
confidence. He knew the value of a woman’s intuition. And many a time
she had helped him at his work with her quick wit.
So, seated by the fire, carefully cutting the stick he had just bought
with his knife, he told her all that had happened.
“Have you any idea who did it, Bob?”
“Not the slightest. But there are one or two strong suspicions, eh?”
She nodded.
“You think robbery was the motive?”
“Looks like it—if that little bag had more diamonds in it.”
“But why should the thief not take the bag itself—and why should he
put it back in Mr. Templeton’s waistcoat pocket?”
“Ask me another,” he replied.
“Well, here’s another, then, Bob. Suppose we grant that the murderer
carried this stick. Why was it in the dinghy. You yourself say he must
have taken another boat to get to the yacht, because the dinghy was
fast to her. How came that stick in the dinghy then?”
“I know,” he said slowly. “And it’s puzzled me, too.”
“Unless——”
“Unless what?”
“Unless Mr. Templeton took someone on board first, someone who laid
his walking-stick in the boat while Mr. Templeton rowed him out, and
left it there when he was brought back to shore.”
Colson brought his hand down on his knee with a smack.
“Good!” he ejaculated. “There may be something in that. It might not
belong to the murderer at all. But I’ll test it, all the same.”
“By the way,” went on his wife, “which side of the path were the
prints of the stick?”
The detective looked at her with admiration.
“You see that, do you? Well done! They were on the right-hand side as
I walked into Frattenbury. That’s what made me think—what I’ve proved
from Canon Fittleworth—that Templeton carried it. A man generally
carries his stick in his right hand.”
She smiled a little as she gazed into the fire, pleased with the
compliment.
He had finished cutting the stick now, and was comparing it with the
original. Then he rubbed in some dirt and oil. The two sticks looked
exactly alike.
“Let me see,” said his wife.
She handled them lightly.
“There’s a tiny knob just here,” and she showed him it on the new
stick.
“Bravo! One to you. I’ll have that off.”
With the most careful scrutiny they both compared the two sticks. The
work was completed. Colson rose to go.
“Now, dear,” he said, “put some things for the night into my bag and
strap it on my bike, please. I’ll be back presently. Also, strap on
this stick.”
“I’ll wrap it up in brown paper first,” she said. “You can’t be too
careful.”
He kissed her, and went to the police station. Nothing fresh had
transpired. He left the stick he had found on the dinghy at the
station, wrote out his report, talked over matters with the
superintendent, and finally went home to get his bicycle.
Colson was an exceedingly careful man, and instead of taking the Marsh
Quay road at once, he started out of the city in the opposite
direction and rode by a circuitous route till he reached the southern
road by a by-way. When he came to the turning that led to Marsh Quay,
he put out his lamp and rode carefully through the darkness,
congratulating himself when he reached the “Mariner’s Arms” that he
had not passed a single person.
Mrs. Yates had provided a tempting supper of cold meat, pickles,
cheese and beer, and while the detective was doing full justice to it,
came into his room.
“They’ve all gone now, sir,” she said; “there’s no one else in the
house.”
“That’s all right. Well, I suppose they talked about the murder, eh?”
“Nothing else, Mr. Colson. A lot o’ rubbish they talked, too. There’s
nothing I overheard ’em say that’s worth mentioning.”
“I see. Well, now, look here, Mrs. Yates. I want you to leave the
front door on the latch, and if you hear me go downstairs in the
night, don’t you take any notice, see?”
“Very good, sir. Anything more you want?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Yates; you can clear away. Only, don’t take my
glass. I haven’t finished your excellent beer yet.”
When she had bid him good night, he lighted his pipe and leaned back
in his chair, thinking over the events of the day, sipping his beer
from time to time. Presently he looked at his watch. It was a little
after ten. Taking a small piece of red glass from his pocket, he
lifted the lamp from the table and approached the window with it. He
held the bit of glass in front of the lamp for a few minutes and then
put out the light.
He opened the window. It was a cloudy night and very dark. He could
hear Gadsden paddling himself ashore, and could just discern a dim
form as he landed. Gadsden was making plenty of noise. He lighted his
bicycle lamp, mounted his machine, and rode off, sounding his bell as
he did so. Colson heard him shout out “Good night” when he was a
little way down the road.
He sat by the window for some little time. Then, first putting on a
pair of rubber-soled tennis shoes, and taking with him the stick he
had brought from Frattenbury, first unwrapping it from its brown paper
covering, he slipped quietly downstairs and went out.
Very carefully picking his way, he went down to the shore. It was a
perfectly quiet night, the silence only broken by the ripple of the
tide flowing up the estuary. He looked around him. Only one light was
burning—in a window of Mr. Proctor’s house. The latter had evidently
not yet gone to bed.
Colson unhitched the painter from the post, slowly, without making a
sound, launched the canoe, and paddled out in silence. Arrived beside
the dinghy, he placed the walking-stick well under the seat, where he
had found the original, and returned just as quietly to the shore.
Before he went back to the inn he took careful stock of another canoe
that was close to the shore, and gave a nod of satisfaction. Then he
returned to his room and waited and watched.
As he had said, it was a forlorn hope and he hardly expected that
anything would come of it. It was more than probable that the murderer
was miles away by this time. And yet, if that stick _had_ belonged to
him, so far as Colson knew at present, it was the only clue to the
mystery. And whoever had left it in the dinghy must know that as well.
The point that Colson was building upon was the fact that the stick
had been stowed away under the seat of the dinghy and was not found on
board the yacht itself. If it belonged to the man who had committed
the crime, there was just the chance that he might calculate that
little notice had been taken of the dinghy. And it would be worth
something to him to get it back.
It was some time after midnight that Colson gave a start and stood
tense at the window. A slight sound had disturbed him. Straining his
eyes through the darkness, he could just discern a form apparently
bending over one of the canoes on the shore. Then he saw the form
straighten itself and walk a little distance away. He lost sight of
it, but in a few moments it returned. Again it bent down.
“He’s unfastening the painter,” murmured the detective. Then he could
see a man get into the canoe, and the next moment he could hear the
slight splash of a paddle. The unknown was making for the yacht.
Colson felt the little automatic pistol he carried in his pocket—he
was taking no risks. Quickly he made his way downstairs, opened the
door and went out, crouching low. It was his intention to get down to
the shore, lie hidden behind one of the boats, and catch the unknown
unawares as he landed. He looked across the water. The canoe was
alongside the dinghy now. He had to act quickly to get to his
hiding-place.
Then the unlucky thing happened. He caught his foot in a low post, and
went sprawling on the stones with a crash that rang out in the still
night. Colson swore roundly beneath his breath, picked himself up, and
rushed to the water’s edge. He knew he was discovered. Then, to his
dismay, he heard the splash of the paddle and could just see the canoe
shooting out beyond the yacht into the estuary.
He rushed for one of the other canoes, whipped out his knife, cut the
painter, and pushed her into the water. But as he stepped in he swore
again.
“Confound my luck,” he muttered; “there’s no paddle. _That’s_ what he
was up to.”
Looking out over the estuary, he saw the dim form of the canoe and its
occupant rapidly shooting up with the tide towards Frattenbury. By the
time he had found the paddle—thrown on the grass thirty yards away or
so—it was too late. The tide was running like a mill-stream.
Again cursing his bad luck, he paused for a minute to reflect. What
could he do? Nothing. The man might land on either bank, or at the
extremity of the estuary—anywhere. For a moment he thought of mounting
his bicycle, but the only road it was possible to ride was round by
Frattenbury. To attempt to follow up by running along the side of the
estuary in such a dark night would be equally fruitless for fast
going. The canoe would be running up that tide race with great speed,
and the occupant had every chance of escaping. Marsh Quay had neither
telephone nor telegraph; it was impossible to head him off by sending
a message to the Frattenbury police.
Colson shook his fist at the estuary, a disappointed man. To make
quite sure that the unknown had come for the walking-stick he paddled
out to the dinghy. It was a foregone conclusion. There was no stick
there.
He returned to the inn. There was nothing more to be done.
“There’s one thing, though,” he said as he undressed; “I’ve got the
original stick still, _and he doesn’t know it_. That’s a point to me,
and it may mean that I’ll have him yet.”
Colson was one of those fortunate individuals who can do with very
little sleep. He woke at an early hour, fresh and alert.
He glanced out of the window as he was dressing.
The tide was on the ebb. A canoe was out in mid-stream, a man in her
paddling down from the upper reach. As he drew nearer and began to
turn towards the shore, the detective recognised him. It was Mr.
Proctor.
Hastily Colson slipped on the rest of his clothes, and was on the
shore just as Mr. Proctor came in. The detective pursed up his lips as
he recognised the canoe. It was the one in which the unknown had made
his escape in the night.
Proctor was the first to speak as he stepped ashore. He smiled and
nodded affably.
“Good morning,” he said. “You’re an early bird, Mr. Colson.”
“So are you,” retorted the detective dryly. “Been out fishing?”
“No,” said the little man. “I’ve been rescuing my canoe. Some joker
seems to have played tricks with it in the night.”
“What do you mean?” asked the detective, looking at him intently.
But the little man returned his gaze quite calmly.
“Why,” he said, “my energetic young nephew went out eel-spearing at
some unearthly hour—to catch the falling tide—walks on the mud, you
know, with what we call cleat boards fixed to his boots. It’s a good
place for eels further up the estuary. About half a mile up he came on
my canoe, stranded on a ridge of stones. He couldn’t get her down to
the water by himself, so he ran home and woke me. Now, I should like
to know who took that canoe out last night.”
The detective thought he would like to know also.
“I suppose it wasn’t you—or any of your police people, eh?” went on
the little man. “I know in a case like this you’re up to all kinds of
funny little dodges.”
“No,” replied Colson, “it wasn’t any of us. Our man—Constable
Gadsden—came back to Frattenbury quite early last night. There was
nothing to keep him here.”
He looked hard again at Mr. Proctor as he spoke. He was getting a
little puzzled. But the other man was apparently quite calm.
“Well,” he said, “I’m going to get some breakfast. I suppose you had
yours before you came out from Frattenbury this morning?”
It was an innocent enough question, but Colson was on his guard.
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t,” he said. “I’m going to see if I can
get some at the ‘Mariner’s Arms.’”
Proctor nodded and turned to go.
“One moment,” said the detective. “I should like to see your nephew
about finding that canoe this morning.”
“What?” retorted Proctor, stopping and turning. “Do you think there’s
anything in it about the murder?”
“I never said that. But it’s best to take notice of anything, you
know.”
“Very well, then, come in after breakfast and see him.”
The detective ate his meal in silence. There were several matters
which gave him food for his mind as well as for his body. He was
getting profoundly dissatisfied with the course of events. When Mrs.
Yates came into the room to clear away he asked her, casually, how
long Mr. Proctor had been living at Marsh Quay.
“About two years, sir. The house was for sale then, and he came and
bought it. A nice gentleman he is, too.”
“Does he do anything?”
“Just a bit of boatin’ and fishin’, that’s all. He ain’t got cause to
work for his living. They say he’s retired from his business, whatever
it was I dunno.”
“Married?”
“No, sir. He’s a bachelor. Would you like a bit o’ fish for your
dinner, Mr. Colson? I can get some nice fresh whiting.”
“Excellent, Mrs. Yates. Keep your mouth shut about my sleeping here
last night. If anyone’s inquisitive, make ’em think I came out from
Frattenbury early this morning.”
“I will, sir.”
He strolled across to Mr. Proctor’s house. The latter saw him coming
through the window, and opened the door for him.
“Can I offer you a smoke?” he said. “A cigarette—or——”
“Thanks, I stick to my pipe. You don’t mind my lighting up?”
“Go on—have some of this,” and he set a tobacco jar on the table.
“Now, Phil,” he went on to the boy who was with him “you must tell the
detective-sergeant how you found my canoe this morning.”
Colson listened while the boy told his story, which was brief and
simple. And as he listened his gaze strayed once or twice to a
picture, a large framed photograph, hanging over the mantelpiece. He
asked Philip a few questions.
“Was she fastened in any way?”
“No—just lying on the stones.”
“Just as she might have been left if anyone had landed from her when
the tide was up, eh?”
“Yes.”
“I see. I expect you know all about the tide here, don’t you?”
“Rather,” said the boy.
“Then what time do you calculate the tide was up to the spot where you
found her?”
“That’s no use,” said Philip promptly. “You see, if the fellow landed
before high tide the flow would go on washing the canoe up and leave
her stranded when it turned. I found her at highwater mark, of
course.”
The detective, who had his eyes riveted on Proctor’s face while the
boy was replying, smiled approvingly.
“You’re a sharp lad,” he said. “I ought to have thought of that. But
it means that he landed either at or before high tide, eh?”
“That’s it,” said the boy.
Colson got up to go, lingering a little in the room. He strolled up to
the fire-place casually.
“That’s a fine view,” he said, nodding towards the picture. “Looks
like a bit of Switzerland.”
“It is,” replied Proctor. “It’s the Julier Pass, just before you get
into the Engadine.”
“Ah! I’ve always wanted to spend a holiday in Switzerland, but I’ve
never been able to run to it. You’ve been there, I suppose?” he asked
Proctor, turning to him as he spoke.
“Oh, yes—some years ago.”
“I see. Well, thank you very much, sir. I won’t hinder you any
longer.”
“I shall see you this afternoon,” said the little man, in the act of
showing him out. “I’m summoned on the jury.”
Philip had come to the door with them. The detective turned to him.
“Did you get good sport with the eels this morning?” he asked.
“Not so bad. It’s ripping sport. Have you tried it?”
“No,” laughed the detective. “What sort of a spear do you use?”
“Come along. I’ll show you. I left it in the garden here.”
Colson followed him, examined the spear, chatting as he did so.
“And you say about half a mile up yonder—near the spot where you found
the canoe—is the best place for eels?”
“Yes. I always go there.”
“I see. Well, if you get up so early you may make your uncle think
there’s a burglar in the house—if he hears you about in the dark, you
know, eh?”
“It wasn’t dark when I got up,” said the boy, a little surprised, “and
uncle knew I was going out this morning early. I told him so last
night.”
“Can’t quite make out that uncle of yours,” said Colson to himself as
he walked along. “I wonder if he is only a fool.”