The Cigar Band
The crowd that had assembled at the inquest at Marsh Quay loitered for
a while discussing the one important topic. Newspaper men were busy
with notebook and camera. The removal of the body of Reginald
Templeton from the “Mariner’s Arms” to the mortuary at Frattenbury,
pending the funeral the next day, was eagerly watched. Members of the
jury, for the most part stolid agricultural labourers or boatmen, were
closely questioned by friends or relatives, but, on the whole,
recognising the importance of their office, were not communicative.
Mr. Proctor refused to say a word to anyone. He came out of the
“Mariner’s Arms,” lighting a cigar as he did so, and walked straight
over to his house opposite, blandly smiling at an irrepressible
reporter who asked him to pose for his camera.
The coroner drove away with the Chief Constable in the latter’s car,
austere and grave as usual. Anthony Crosby, the superintendent and
Colson held a brief consultation in the inn parlour, where it was
arranged that the lawyer should call at the police station the next
morning for further discussion.
“What are you going to do, Colson?” asked the superintendent as he
rose to go. “Are you coming back to Frattenbury?”
“I want to think a bit, sir. I may cycle in later on. But I’m fairly
puzzled just now. There are two men we want to get hold of,
anyhow—this artist chap who was staying here, and Moss, opposite.”
The superintendent nodded.
“We’re bound to do that,” he said. “I expect there’ll be reports when
I get back to the station. Well, I’ll leave you now.”
Everyone else but the detective having left the inn, Mrs. Yates locked
the front door and came into the bar parlour.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Colson?”
“Yes, please. I should like some strong tea. Then I want you to keep
everyone away.”
“Trust me for that, sir. Not a soul comes into this house till six,
when I’m bound to open. I want to have a little quiet myself, Mr.
Colson. What with all these reporters and people asking questions I’m
fairly bewildered. I hope there won’t be any more murders here as long
as I keeps the ‘Mariner’s Arms,’ I do indeed.”
Seated at the table, drinking his tea, his notebook in front of him,
Detective-Sergeant Colson deliberately and methodically reviewed the
case, making his deductions as he did so, and writing them out
concisely. And this was the result when he finally closed his
pocket-book:
“_Templeton’s object in coming to Marsh Quay._ First, to see Moss.
That requires investigation. Secondly, to see his cousin. We know all
about that. Thirdly, an interview with some unknown person in
Frattenbury, who must have been the last person who saw him before he
was murdered. Why did not that person come forward to give evidence?
But he might not have lived in Frattenbury itself——he might have
spoken, loosely, of the neighbourhood. He might have arranged to see
Moss again—or this artist chap—or even Proctor. They are all possible.
“_Reason for appointment._ He hinted that he was carrying something
valuable. We know what that was. Diamonds. There were probably more
than the one we found. Who has them now?
“_Clues._ Only four at present of any value—possibly only two. (1) The
blotting-paper. Not easy to make out. If deciphered, it might lead to
finding out with whom the appointment was made, or what it was about.
But very uncertain. (2) The diamond. But that only appears to prove
that he had others. (3) The walking-stick. Most important, this. It is
pretty certain that the man who thinks he has recovered it is the
criminal. If only I hadn’t muddled it! (4) The cigar band. I ought to
have spotted that, and not have left it to that confounded parson to
find. There may be something in it, certainly.
“_Possible suspects._ (1) Moss. Why did he leave in such a hurry? The
fact of the murderer being on the spot last night, when he got that
walking-stick, seems to rule Moss out. But not necessarily. He might
easily have run down from London last night. There’s a lot to be
inquired into here. (2) Grayson, the artist. Why did he leave in a
hurry? He’s certainly got to be run to earth. (3) Proctor. Yes—Proctor
puzzles me. Such a cool old chap! He would have known exactly where to
land in that canoe—and, if so, he knew perfectly well that the boy
would find it there in the morning. Also, he’s been in Switzerland.
That stick again! And I thought he was never going to leave off
examining that cigar band at the inquest. We must keep a sharp eye on
Proctor. If he’s not simply a fool, he’s as wily as they make ’em.”
When he had closed his notebook and put it in his pocket, the
detective lighted his pipe and sat, smoking thoughtfully, looking out
of the window. He realised that the case was all the more difficult
because the few clues that he held, and the slight facts he had to go
upon, might equally apply to any one of the three persons he had
enumerated as being suspicious. And if, as it seemed, his work was to
eliminate two of these persons, he was anxious to make no mistake.
Colson was not the detective of fiction. He was simply a shrewd,
careful man, keenly observant, with a police training. Had he been
that brilliant genius which the writer of fiction is so fond of
delineating, he would, after his manner, by this time have made some
supernaturally clever deduction, which would have enabled him to spot
the criminal at once, and to run him down unerringly, with the
additional triumph attached to it that all his colleagues, and every
other person concerned, had been absolutely wrong in their suspicions.
He would, probably, have adopted extraordinary disguises, kept all his
clues and methods to himself, and never have given a hint of them to
his superior officers, and finally have achieved that superlative
climax in which he would have exclaimed, “Alone I did it!”
But Colson was what, in spite of the writers of fiction, is a useful
personage in tracing crime—Colson was a policeman, and he knew the
value of those often-derided police methods. He, for example, could
sit now, calmly smoking his pipe, secure in the knowledge that every
police station in the district was on the look-out for Grayson, the
artist, that in a very short time Moss would probably be found—also by
police methods—and that a little police machinery, which the
superintendent was already putting in hand as a result of their brief
conference after the inquest, would prevent Proctor from slipping away
from the neighbourhood unobserved—if he had any such idea in his mind.
As Colson looked out of the window, half lost in reflections, he
noticed a man detach himself from the little group that still lingered
near the scene of the tragedy, and go walking up the quay, hands in
pockets. It was Tom Gale, the “crew and cook” of the schooner that was
still moored at the quay head, waiting for his cargo.
An idea struck the detective.
“That chap was about all the time,” he argued, “it might be worth
while having another chat with him.”
So he went out, strolled along the quay, and finally stepped aboard
the schooner, where he found Tom Gale in his favourite attitude of
leaning over the bulwarks.
“Well,” he said, as he went up to him, “you gave your evidence well
to-day, my man. We like a witness who speaks out plainly, and you did
it.”
Tom grinned approval of the compliment. Inwardly he was proud of being
in any way mixed up with the case. He knew he could tell the
story—with self-complimentary embellishments—for many weeks in divers
bars, and that many invitations to “have one with me, mate,” would be
the resulting homage.
“Ah,” he said, “I told ’em what I knew. I wish it had been more, sir.”
“So do we all. But what you told us of Templeton crossing the
estuary—and seeing Moss—was important, you know.”
Tom Gale made a mental note of how he could truthfully say afterwards
that if it hadn’t been for him the police would have missed the very
essence of things—the detective himself had told him so—and then
spoke.
“Ah,” he said, “I seen him plain enough. Just over yonder ’twas,” and
he jerked his thumb in the direction of the opposite shore, “that ’ere
little Jew fellow, Moss, he stood on the shore, just there. D’ye think
’twas him as did it, sir?” he asked with relish.
The detective shook his head mysteriously.
“Ah,” he said, “we mustn’t jump to conclusions hastily, you know. So
you saw him plainly, did you?”
“Ah. T’other chap was only just a-askin’ on me who lived in that house
and I was tellin’ on him, when there was Moss himself—I pointed ’im
out.”
“What do you mean by ‘t’other chap’?” asked the detective sharply.
“Why, him as was standin’ just where you might be, sir, at the
time—that young artist feller what was lodging at the ‘Mariner’s
Arms.’”
“Oh!” said Colson, thoughtfully, “he was with you, was he?”
“O’ course he was, sir—now, ought I to ha’ told ’em that at the
inquest? I never thought of it.”
“No, no,” said the other. “It didn’t matter at all. But, tell me. If
this artist—Grayson is his name—was with you, did he recognise Mr.
Templeton when he came back? Or speak to him?”
Tom Gale shook his head.
“No, sir; directly Mr. Templeton started coming across, this here
artist chap went straight back to the inn—looked almost as if he
didn’t want Mr. Templeton to see him.”
“Oh, did it?” said Colson. “Yes, I see.”
He filled his pipe and handed his pouch to the other man. Tom Gale put
his hand in his pocket, ostensibly to get his pipe, and exclaimed:
“’Ullo. I’d forgotten this,” and drew forth a crumpled cigar.
He looked at it ruefully.
“Meant to ha’ smoked him yesterday, bein’ Sunday,” he said; “now he’s
too far gone. I must chop him up and smoke him in my pipe. ’Tain’t
often I gets hold of a cigar, guv’nor.”
Colson, who was looking at the cigar intently, asked him quietly:
“Where did you get it from?”
“That ’ere artist feller we was just a-talkin’ about gave ’im to me,
sir, up yonder in the ‘Mariner’s Arms.’ A good ’un, I reckon, ain’t
he?”
The detective took the cigar in his hand and smelt it. But, all the
time, he was carefully examining the band.
“Yes, it’s good enough,” he said. “Pity you’ve spoilt it. Oh—so
Grayson gave it to you, did he?”
“Yes, sir—Saturday afternoon, we was sittin’ in the bar parlour, me
and him, and he gave ’im to me. He smoked two of ’em while I was
there.”
“Well, look here,” said Colson, “have one of mine instead, to make up
for it.” And he pulled out what he called his “diplomatic cigar case.”
He rarely smoked anything but a pipe himself, but he always kept a few
good cigars in his pocket. He knew their value—when he was in search
of information.
“Take a couple,” he went on.
“Thankee, sir—don’t mind if I do.”
Tom Gale lighted one of them and smoked complacently. The detective
talked volubly and then bid him good afternoon.
“Blowed if he ain’t took that cigar o’ mine with him,” murmured Tom
Gale after he had gone. “Absent-minded like, I’ll ’low. It doan’t
matter, though.”
Colson, who had quietly slipped the crushed cigar into his pocket,
walked rapidly back to the inn. Arrived in the bar parlour, he laid
the cigar on the table, took from his case the band which the Canon
had handed in at the inquest, and carefully compared it with the
other.
A smile lightened his face.
“That’s better!” he exclaimed. “Here’s something to go upon at last.
The same brand, that’s what they are. It’s a good brand, but not
specially exclusive as that idiot of a parson wanted to make out. Same
brand as he smoked, he said. Very likely, but the clergy ain’t got the
monopoly of the cigar trade. Anyhow, this looks convincing. This young
Grayson smoked these cigars, and someone who was aboard the yacht
smoked one of ’em there. It’s good enough to go upon. Mrs. Yates!”
He opened the door as he spoke. The landlady bustled in.
“I’m going back to Frattenbury now. And I shan’t be staying the night
here.”
“Sorry to lose you, Mr. Colson.”
“Can’t be helped, Mrs. Yates. I don’t think there’s anything to keep
me here for the present. Oh—tell me. This young lodger of yours smoked
cigars, didn’t he?”
“He did, sir—as I knows. He was always dropping the ash about—on my
bedroom carpet too.”
“Do your carpets good, if you rub the ash in.”
“Lor’, sir! And the mess he made in the grate, too.”
The detective looked at the grate sharply. On the top of the coals,
that were laid there ready to be lighted, was a sprinkling of cigar
ash and a couple of red and gold bands. He picked them out.
“These came off his cigars, I suppose?”
“They must have, Mr. Colson. It’s few folks ever smokes them things
here. Pipes and ’baccy is what they mostly uses.”
“Quite so. Well, I’ll run up and pack my bag while you get my bill
ready.”
He rode quickly into Frattenbury, in a very cheerful mood, and
reported to the superintendent. That functionary was delighted.
“Good!” he exclaimed. “You’ve done well, Colson. We must have this
Grayson at any price. Thompson has just been in to report that he
stayed at Selham on Sunday and Sunday night—at the ‘Wheatsheaf.’”
“Did he?” exclaimed Colson. “That makes matters clearer than ever. He
was on the spot on Sunday night, eh?”
“He was seen riding into Frattenbury a couple of hours ago,” went on
the superintendent. “We’ll soon have him. He can’t get away by
train—we’ve seen to that. By the way, Colson, the post has just
brought in a letter from the London police about Moss. You’d better
see it.”
He handed a typewritten paper to the detective, who read:
Isaac Moss. In reference to your inquiries concerning this man, I
beg to report as follows. He rents a small office at 13a, Hatton
Garden. Deals in jewels, mostly diamonds, and is well known. Private
residence, “Fairview,” No. 53, Compton Avenue, Brondesbury. Nothing
known against him. Possesses passport, as he is frequently in
Amsterdam. Boats being watched as precaution.
“I sent Tyler up yesterday,” went on the superintendent. “He’s
probably on his track by this time.”
Late that night a message came through from Tyler:
Tracked our man, and have him under observation.
Colson smoked the pipe of peace at his own fireside that night. His
wife listened attentively as he told her all that he had done that
day.
“Looks promising, doesn’t it?”
She thought for a minute or two before she replied:
“I hope so—for your sake. But there are still difficulties. I want to
know why the little bag with the one diamond was put back in Mr.
Templeton’s waistcoat pocket—if the rest were stolen. And you say
yourself that the cigar band was not a _very_ extraordinary one. Be
careful, dear, won’t you? I want you to come out of this well, you
know——”
Colson smiled grimly.
“All right, old girl,” he said, “I’ll be careful. I know what you
mean. We don’t want to get anyone sent up for trial till we’re quite
certain. It’s too big a risk—and I’m not taking any risks in this
job.”