Detective-Sergeant Colson’s Deductions
The newspaper paragraphs about the murder at Marsh Quay dwindled in
length. There were several scathing leading articles dealing with the
inefficiency of the local police, and expounding the systems that
ought to be put into force. One leader-writer produced an article
conclusively proving that the Government was to blame. Writers of that
peculiar terse and asterisked matter—the editor, it is presumed, puts
in the asterisks in exchange for the copy he deletes—which adorns the
“magazine” page of certain of our morning papers reaped a small crop
of guineas. Thus one of them described the manufacture of cigar bands
another epitomised half a dozen yacht tragedies, and a third gave a
graphic sketch of how he himself had sailed in the Marsh Quay estuary.
The Sunday papers, of course, had their contributions. “An Expert in
Crime” brilliantly reconstructed the whole murder, hinted at clues
which the police ought to have found, and, without mentioning any
names, left the impression on the mind of the reader that the two
sailor-men, to wit, Jim Webb and Tom Gale, had acted in collusion,
with the assistance of Mrs. Yates, who had countenanced a mysterious
rendezvous at the “Mariner’s Arms.”
The police were inundated with letters—suggestive and critical. People
called at the police station to make statements, which were patiently
received and laid on one side. But, as usual, the police quietly kept
their own counsel and were unimpressed.
Colson, who was now in the best of spirits, called on Canon
Fittleworth.
“I’m sorry,” said the Canon, “but my list isn’t quite complete yet. I
shall have to make a few more efforts of memory, as Major Renshaw puts
it. I’m not satisfied.”
“What list, sir?”
“Why, the names of all the people I can remember who smoked any of my
cigars.”
“Oh, _that_!” exclaimed the detective. “Yes, I know. But it wasn’t
about that list that I called—later on will do very well. I came to
ask you for the name and address of your friend in Cuba who sent you
the cigars.”
“My Spanish friend. Certainly. I’ll write it down for you. What do you
want it for?” he asked, as he passed it over to Colson.
“Oh—it may be useful,” said the detective in a non-committal manner.
“One never knows.”
“Any further progress?”
The Canon, of course, was interested.
“You mustn’t ask me, please, sir. We’re doing all we can.”
Later on that day the police sent a cablegram to Cuba, asking for
certain information. Also, Colson ran up to London, and was closeted
for some time with the managing director of a reputable firm of
wholesale cigar importers, from whom he gathered certain details which
he carefully entered in his notebook.
“They’re first-rate cigars, aren’t they?” asked the managing director
at the close of the interview. “Of course, there are very few of them
manufactured. We keep them to ourselves.”
“I don’t know anything about them in that way,” replied the detective
dryly. “I haven’t smoked one.”
“Haven’t you? Well, you shall then. I’ve got some of them here. Take
half a dozen. Anything else I can do for you, let me know. So you know
Proctor, eh? Nice little chap. Asked me to run down and see him some
day.”
“I’d rather you said nothing about my visit, if you do, sir. You will
understand I’ve been asking you for this information in confidence.”
“Quite. I won’t say a word. Not that I’m likely to see him yet
awhile.”
The detective agreed that the brand was an excellent one as he smoked
one of the cigars on his return journey. He also read, in the evening
paper, one of the aforenamed articles on the lethargy of the
provincial police—and enjoyed it immensely. But, then, he was in the
mood for enjoying anything just then.
“By the way, Colson,” said the superintendent to him when they were in
consultation that evening, “have you made any more progress with that
blotting-paper puzzle, ‘Ezra’s ices’?”
“Not much, sir. I think I’ve found out two or three more words. But I
don’t attach importance to it. We’ve something more definite than that
to go upon.”
“True—but I’d bear it in mind all the same. We mustn’t neglect any
detail.”
“All right, sir. I’m feeling a little bit off colour,” he went on,
with a grin. “I think a little fresh air will do me good. So I propose
taking a day’s holiday to-morrow and spending it at Marsh Quay. I may
even stay the night, sir.”
“Very well, Colson,” replied the superintendent, grinning at him in
return. “I hope it will set you up. Don’t get into mischief.”
“I may commit a burglary, sir—that’s all. It’s a fascinating game when
you’re on a holiday. If possible—if I get any luck, that is—it won’t
come off. But I’ll come back and give myself up to you if it does.”
Colson seemed about to carry out his threat next day by taking with
him a jimmy, a strong pocket-knife, and a bunch of skeleton
keys—carefully selected from trophies at the police station.
The house in which Proctor resided at Marsh Quay was exactly opposite
the spot where the yacht had been anchored. The main entrance was from
the road, just before the quay was reached. A low stone wall, running
parallel with the estuary, bordered the garden on the western side,
and a small gate led through this wall to the shore; in fact Proctor
had come out of this gate when he had accosted Jim Webb and Mrs. Yates
on the morning when the murder was discovered.
The _Firefly_ was no longer riding in the little harbour. Acting on
the instructions of her owner, Jim Webb by this time was sailing her
back to Salcombe. Local interest in the scene of the murder had
subsided, and the detective had the place practically to himself.
He had found out all that he could about Mr. Proctor’s household and
habits. That was not very difficult. The unsuspecting landlady of the
“Mariner’s Arms,” in the course of an apparently casual conversation,
had told him that the boy Philip had left, and that his great-uncle
was once more by himself. He also gathered that Proctor’s domestic
establishment consisted of an elderly cook-housekeeper and a young
maidservant, both of whom slept at the back of the house, while
Proctor himself occupied a bedroom over the dining-room with a view,
south and west, of the estuary.
He further ascertained that it was the little man’s usual habit, when
alone, to walk into Frattenbury in the afternoon, where he read the
papers at a club.
It was the afternoon now, and he had seen Proctor start towards
Frattenbury across the field path, so he felt free and unobserved.
There were several things that he wanted to do. First of all he wanted
to saturate his mind with a mental vision of the committal of the
crime. It was not the first time, of course, that he had taken a
careful survey, but he wished to reconstruct the scene, as he had
imagined it, more closely.
For this purpose he took up a position on the shore just by the little
garden gate. Then he soliloquised:
“Yes—now suppose anyone in the house, or garden, were on the lookout
for Templeton’s return—Wait a bit, though. Something might have
happened before then. It was, probably, only the thought of robbery in
the first place.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed presently, “I believe I’ve got it—it would
account for the stick in the dinghy and everything else. This way.
“Let us call the murderer A. Well, A has reason to believe that
Templeton has those diamonds, and he doesn’t know that he has
already given them to Moss. He has seen Jim Webb go off to
Frattenbury—probably found out that he was staying the night there.
And he has seen Templeton go, too. He could easily find out if he was
expected back late or not. Tom Gale knew it, Grayson knew it, Jim Webb
knew it—they talked it over in the inn. And Mrs. Yates knew it—she
told me she’d remarked about it to others.
“Well, then, A, with this information, speculates that Templeton might
leave the diamonds on board. Quite likely. It was a dark night and a
lonely walk. He determines to take a chance on this. But he can’t do
it till the coast is quite clear. That wouldn’t be till after closing
time—ten o’clock. He waits about outside, probably in the garden,
taking his stick with him. He may have armed himself with a knife—ah!
that’s it, he took a tool of some sort—very likely an old dagger, as
the doctor pointed out, to prise open any locks. Capital!
“What next? As he stood there waiting, he lighted a cigar—being an
inveterate smoker—from force of habit. He would hear the men come out
of the inn at ten o’clock; he would hear Tom Gale walk off along the
quay, and then all would be quiet, with a clear coast.
“He goes down to the shore now. The dinghy is afloat. It’s much more
simple to use her for his purpose than to run a canoe down to the
water—and less noisy. He gets into the dinghy, laying his
walking-stick down in the stern—a natural action, because the seat for
the rower is well aft—pulls out to the yacht, gets on board and makes
the dinghy fast.
“Then he lights the lamp. That’s all right, because anyone seeing it
would naturally conclude the owner is aboard. People knew he was
sleeping there that night. And he begins to make his search.
“But Templeton comes back sooner than A expected. A man doesn’t
generally leave a house where he’s dining so early. But we know
Templeton did. He sees the light on board, finds the dinghy has gone,
and wonders what is up. Possibly he jumps to the conclusion that Jim
Webb has come back after all. A canoe is lying there handy; he runs
her down to the water and paddles aboard.
“Meanwhile A, still smoking his cigar from force of habit, has burnt
it down to the band; he flicks it off, or it drops off by itself. Then
he hears Templeton coming aboard. He is caught in the act.
“He has the tool or dagger, whatever it is, in his hand. Possibly his
first impulse is to hide—behind the table. But Templeton comes into
the cabin, and, for the moment, hesitates in astonishment. The folding
table is between them—that prevents a struggle. And then the climax
comes. A, either desperate at being discovered or acting on a
murderous instinct for the sake of the jewels—he hadn’t found them,
and both lockers were open, as we know—probably the former, reaches
over the table and aims a blow at the unlucky Templeton—a blow which
proves fatal.
“Then he probably pauses to think—he may even take a look outside, or
listen to hear if anyone is about. He knows he’s risked his neck for
the sake of those diamonds. He’s a cool hand and calculates there’s no
_greater_ risk—now the deed is done. So he takes out of Templeton’s
pockets his wallet—anything he can find—he isn’t going to examine them
at the moment—he knows he must clear out as quickly as possible. He
puts his hand under the body and feels the waistcoat pockets—they are
quite flat, so he doesn’t bother about them, little knowing that he
misses the only stone there is.
“His next move is to get back. Not the dinghy—the canoe, of course.
The dinghy might arouse suspicion if found on the shore in the morning
with the canoe fast to the yacht. In his haste and trepidation, he
forgets the stick he has left in the dinghy till afterwards. Probably
he is indoors by this time. He daren’t return that night. It’s too big
a risk. And he daren’t remove the stick the next day; people are about
from the beginning. His only chance to recover that stick is to do
exactly what he did do—on Sunday night. There! What do you think of
that?”
He addressed the remark out loud to a solemn-looking rook that had
perched for a moment on a post opposite to him.
And the rook flapped its wings and replied:
“Caw! Caw!”
And then flew away as if it was not a bit impressed—which it ought to
have been. For Detective-Sergeant Colson’s reasoning was so very clear
and lucid that he felt it was going to hang a man and give him
promotion.
Colson, unabashed, by the irresponsive and somewhat impertinent rook,
went on with his construction methods.
“When A had examined the contents of Templeton’s pockets,” and he
chuckled, “he was a little disappointed, I fear. Of course, he burnt
the lot. We shall never find them, but we _shall_ find A!”
Having arrived at this conclusion, to his great satisfaction, Colson
turned his thoughts to the other object for which he had visited Marsh
Quay that day. He wanted to get, somehow, into Proctor’s house, and
that without anyone knowing about it. He was quite prepared, if
occasion brought the necessity, to make a burglarious entry that
night, for which purpose he was minded to reconnoitre and view
possible means of entrance. There was another method of course. He
could ring the front-door bell, boldly ask to see Proctor, and,
finding that he was out, beg to be allowed to remain until he
returned. The only hindrance to this procedure was that he would
arouse Proctor’s suspicions, which he was not anxious to do. There was
a third way out of it, but rather risky. If he could satisfy himself
that the two domestics were out of hearing in the kitchen at the back
of the house, he might be able to slip in now—and try to find out what
he wanted to know.
The way in which he really did enter the house was entirely unforeseen
by him. He went into the garden, through the little green gate, and
was beginning carefully to observe how the windows of the dining-room
opened, when, out of the front door, cigar in mouth, walked Mr.
Proctor himself. Afterwards he ascertained that Proctor had, after
walking half-way to Frattenbury, turned back and let himself in at a
door behind the house. The nondescript-looking man who carried a
fishing-rod, but whose sport seemed to fail just at the time that
Proctor started for Frattenbury, told him this hours later. At present
he made an effort to conceal his surprise and mentally said, “Damn!”
“Hallo, Mr. Colson,” said Proctor cheerily, “still trying to find out
about that nasty business, I suppose! You were coming to see me?”
The detective had no resource but to reply in the affirmative. This he
did in a perfectly natural manner.
“Well, come along in, then,” said the little man; “it’s a bit chilly
outside to-day.”
He led the way to his bachelor dining-room, and gave the detective a
chair. The latter had quite recovered his composure; in fact,
outwardly, he had not shown that he had lost it.
“Just two or three things I should like to ask you, Mr. Proctor. I
know you’re on the jury, of course, but I won’t interfere with your
prerogatives. I rather wish you’d have been summoned as a witness
instead.”
“That was the fault of the police,” said Proctor, shrugging his
shoulders. “Now, what can I tell you? Stop. Have a cigar first. I can
offer you a really good smoke.”
“Cheek,” thought Colson.
Proctor went to a cupboard by the side of the fire-place, took a bunch
of keys from his pocket and unlocked it. On a shelf were more than a
dozen boxes of cigars. Colson eyed them eagerly, but was too far off
to see them closely, and too wise to give himself away by moving.
The little man carefully selected a box, shut the cupboard and locked
it, put the box in front of Colson on the table and said:
“I think you’ll like these. Now, then, Mr. Colson?”
The detective had taken out his pocket-book and was apparently
consulting it closely. In reality he was inventing questions.
“We’re not at all satisfied, sir,” he said. “You’ve got a good view of
the estuary. You didn’t notice any other strange craft besides the
_Firefly_ about at the time the murder took place?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“It’s as well to be certain. I suppose a small boat _could_ have got
up from lower down the estuary that night?”
“Yes—certainly. The tide was flowing, you know.”
“And she could have got back?”
“There was no wind. It would have been hard rowing—unless whoever he
was waited till the tide turned.”
The detective asked several more questions and spoilt three or four
pages of his notebook by writing down replies. Then the little man
said:
“I’m just going to have tea. Won’t you have some.”
“Oh, thank you very much, if it’s not troubling you.”
“Not at all—if you don’t mind excusing me for a few minutes. I’ve a
letter to write—in my den. I want to catch the only outgoing post we
have.”
“Oh, certainly, sir.”
“What a stroke of luck!” exclaimed the detective when Proctor had left
the room. “I should hardly have believed it; but, of course, he
doesn’t know. He’s out of his reckoning—thinks because that band was
changed that we don’t suspect anything.”
For a minute Colson sat still, smoking his cigar. Then, with a careful
look around, he crossed on tiptoe to the cupboard, took his skeleton
keys from his pocket, cautiously inserted first one, then another in
the keyhole and opened it.
Swiftly he ran his eye over the array of boxes. Removing a pile in
front, his face beamed as he caught sight of an unfastened box in the
back tier. He recognised the label. Quickly he opened it, took out a
cigar and looked at the band.
“It’s the one!” he murmured.
He dropped the cigar in his pocket, closed and locked the cupboard,
resumed his seat, and was innocently reading a newspaper he had picked
off the table, when Proctor returned, followed by his maid bringing in
the tea.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said the little man genially. “Do you
take sugar, Mr. Colson?”
They chatted on various topics, and when the detective rose to go,
Proctor accompanied him to the door.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Proctor.”
“Not at all. Only too glad to have been of any use to you. See you
to-morrow at the adjourned inquest, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Colson, “we shall meet at the inquest. Good afternoon,
sir.”
There was nothing further to detain him at Marsh Quay, so he went back
to Frattenbury and had a long conversation with the superintendent.
“Excellent,” said the latter, ticking off items on his fingers as he
spoke. “The same brand of cigar, and the cablegram from Cuba tells us
they have sent him these from time to time, and the firm in London
corroborate it.”
“And he’s been in Switzerland,” added Colson.
“And he’s been in Switzerland,” echoed the superintendent. “It’s quite
enough to go upon. I’ll make out the deposition, and then—after the
inquest.”
“After the inquest,” the detective said with a chuckle. “I wonder what
sort of a verdict the foreman will persuade the jury to return!”
“Wilful murder—against some person unknown,” replied the
superintendent sardonically.
“But it won’t be a true verdict,” said Colson with decision.