The Case with Nine Solutions
by J. J. Connington
Contents
I. The Dying Man
II. The House Next Door
III. Sir Clinton at Ivy Lodge
IV. The Crime at Heatherfield
V. The Bungalow Tragedy
VI. The Nine Possible Solutions
VII. The Fly in the Amber
VIII. The Hassendean Journal
IX. The Creditor
X. Information Received
XI. The Code Advertisement
XII. The Silverdale Wills
XIII. The Murder of the Informer
XIV. The Jacket
XV. Sir Clinton's Double
XVI. Written Evidence
XVII. Mr. Justice
XVIII. The Connecting Thread
XIX. Excerpts from Sir Clinton's Notebook
Chapter I
The Dying Man
Dr. Ringwood pushed his chair back from the dinner-table. A glance at
the clock on the mantelpiece told him that on this evening he had been
even later than usual in getting home for dinner. The expression in
his eyes showed that he had gone short of sleep for some time past;
and when he rose to his feet, every movement betrayed his over-tired
condition.
“Bring my coffee to the study, please, Shenstone,” he ordered. “And
you might take the telephone in there as well.”
He crossed the hall wearily, switched on the study lights, and stood
for a moment on the threshold as if undecided what to do. A bright
fire burned on the hearth; the heavy pile of the carpet was soft to
his feet; and the big saddlebag armchairs spoke to him of pure
physical comfort and relaxation after the strain of the day. He moved
over to a table, hesitated again, and then picked up a copy of the
_B.M.J._ in its postal wrapper. Taking a cigar from a box on the
table, he clipped it mechanically and sat down in one of the chairs by
the fire.
Shenstone drew a small table to Dr. Ringwood's elbow and placed the
coffee on it; then, retiring for a moment, he returned with the
telephone, which he plugged to a connection in the room.
“Bring it over here, Shenstone. I want to be sure that the bell will
wake me if I happen to doze.”
Shenstone did as he was ordered and was about to leave the room when
Dr. Ringwood spoke again.
“Fog clearing off, by any chance?”
Shenstone shook his head.
“No, sir. Worse now than when you came in. Very thick indeed, sir. One
can't see even the nearest street lamp.”
Dr. Ringwood nodded gloomily.
“It's to be hoped no one wants me to go out this evening. Difficult
enough to find one's way about a strange town in the daytime with a
fog like this over everything. But in the daytime there are always
people about who can give you some help. Nobody bar policemen will be
out to-night, I should think.”
Shenstone's face showed his sympathy.
“Very difficult for you, sir. If there's a night call, perhaps you'd
knock me up, sir, and I could go out with you and help you to find
your way. I'd be quite glad to do it, sir, if I could be of any
service. When Dr. Carew went into the nursing home he specially
impressed on me that I was to give you every assistance I could.”
A tired smile crossed Dr. Ringwood's face.
“Doubtful if you can see any further through pea-soup than I can
myself, Shenstone. Half the time, as I was coming back for dinner, I
couldn't see even the pavement; so I'm afraid your local knowledge
wouldn't give you much of a pull. Thanks all the same. I've got a map
of the town and I'll try to find my way by it.”
He paused, and then, as Shenstone turned to go, he added:
“Put a decanter—Scotch—and some soda on the table over yonder. Then I
shan't need to worry you again to-night.”
“Very good, sir.”
As Shenstone left the room, Dr. Ringwood tore open the wrapper of the
_B.M.J._, threw the paper into the fire, and unfolded the journal. He
scanned the contents while sipping his coffee; but in a few minutes
the bulky magazine slipped down on to his knees and he resigned
himself completely to the comfort of his surroundings.
“Thank the Lord I didn't need to become a G.P.” he reflected.
“Specialism's a tough enough row to hoe, but general practice is a
dog's life, if this is a sample of it.”
He picked up the _B.M.J._ again; but as he did so his sharp ear caught
the sound of the front door bell. An expression of annoyance crossed
his features and deepened as he heard Shenstone admit some visitor. In
a few seconds the door of the study opened and Shenstone announced.
“Dr. Trevor Markfield, sir.”
Dr. Ringwood's face cleared as a clean-shaven man of about thirty
entered the room; and he rose from his chair to greet the newcomer.
“Come in, Trevor. Try that pew beside the fire. I've been meaning to
ring you up ever since I came last week, but I haven't had a moment.
This 'flu epidemic has kept me on the run.”
Trevor Markfield nodded sympathetically as he moved towards the fire
and extended his hands to the blaze.
“I'd have looked you up before, but it was only this morning I heard
from someone that you were doing _locum_ for old Carew. It's a bit out
of your line, isn't it?”
“Carew's an old friend of ours; and when he went down with
appendicitis he asked me in a hurry to look after his practice and I
could hardly refuse. It's been an experience, of sorts. I haven't had
two hours continuous sleep in the last five days, and I feel as if the
next patient runs the risk of a free operation. I'm fit to bite him in
the gizzard without anæsthetics.”
Markfield's stern features relaxed slightly.
“As bad as all that?” he asked.
“Oh, I don't mind real cases. But last night I was called out at two
in the morning, when I'd just got back from a relapsed 'flu case. A
small boy. ‘Dreadfully ill, doctor. Please come at once.’ When I got
there, it was simply an acute case of over-stuffing. ‘It was his
birthday, doctor, and of course we had to let him do as he liked on
that day.’ By the time I'd got there, he'd dree'd his weird—quite
empty and nothing whatever the matter with him. No apologies for
dragging me out of bed, of course. A doctor isn't supposed to have a
bed at all. I expect the next thing will be a fatal case of ingrowing
toe-nails. It's a damned nuisance to have one's time frittered away on
that sort of thing when one's at one's wits end to do what one can for
people at the last gasp with something really dangerous.”
“Still got the notion that human life's valuable? The war knocked that
on the head,” Markfield commented, rubbing his hands together to warm
them. “Human life's the cheapest thing there is. It's a blessing I
went over to the scientific side, instead of going in for physicking.
I'd never have acquired a good sympathetic bedside manner.”
Dr. Ringwood made a gesture towards the decanter on the table.
“Have a spot?” he invited. “It's a miserable night.”
Markfield accepted the offer at once, poured out half a tumblerful of
whisky, splashed in a very little soda, and drank off his glass with
evident satisfaction. Putting down the tumbler, he moved across and
sat down by the fire.
“It's an infernal night,” he confirmed. “If I didn't know this end of
the town like the palm of my hand, I'd have lost my way coming here.
It's the thickest fog I've seen for long enough.”
“I'm in a worse box, for I don't know the town,” Dr. Ringwood pointed
out. “And we're not near the peak of this 'flu epidemic yet, by a long
way. You're lucky to be on the scientific side. Croft-Thornton
Research Institute, isn't it?”
“Yes, I came here three years ago, in 1925. Silverdale beat me for the
head post in the chemical department; they gave me the second place.”
“Silverdale?” Dr. Ringwood mused. “The fellow who works on alkaloids?
Turned out a new condensate lately as side-line? I seem to know the
name.”
“That's him. He doesn't worry me much. I dine at his house now and
again; but beyond that we don't see much of each other outside the
Institute.”
“I've a notion I ran across him once at a smoker in the old days. He
played the banjo rather well. Clean-shaven, rather neatly turned out?
He'll be about thirty-five or so. By the way, he's married now, isn't
he?”
A faint expression of contempt crossed Markfield's face.
“Oh, yes, he's married. A French girl. I came across her in some
amateur theatricals after they arrived here. Rather amusing at first,
but a bit too exacting if one took her on as a permanency, I should
think. I used to dance with her a lot at first, but the pace got a bit
too hot for my taste. A man must have some evenings to himself, you
know; and what she wanted was a permanent dancing-partner. She's taken
on a cub at the Institute—young Hassendean—for the business.”
“Doesn't Silverdale do anything in that line himself?”
“Not a damn. Hates dancing except occasionally. They're a weird
couple. Nothing whatever in common, that I can see; and they've
apparently agreed that each takes a separate road. You never see 'em
together. She's always around with this Hassendean brat—a proper young
squib; and Silverdale's turned to fresh woods in the shape of Avice
Deepcar, one of the girls at the Institute.”
“Serious?” Dr. Ringwood inquired indifferently.
“I expect he'd be glad of a divorce, if that's what you mean. But I
doubt if he'll get it, in spite of all the scandal about Yvonne. If I
can read the signs, she's just keeping the Hassendean cub on her
string for her own amusement, though she certainly advertises her
conquest all over the shop. He's not much to boast about: one of these
young pseudo-romantic live-your-own-lifer's with about as much real
backbone as a filleted sole.”
“A bit rough on Silverdale,” commented Dr. Ringwood apathetically.
Trevor Markfield's short laugh betrayed his scorn.
“A man's an ass to get tied up to a woman. Silverdale got caught by
one side of her—oh, she's very attractive on that side, undoubtedly.
But it didn't last, apparently, for either of them—and there you are!
Outside their own line, women are no use to a man. They want too much
of one's time if one marries them, and they're the very devil,
generally. I've no sympathy with Silverdale's troubles.”
Dr. Ringwood, obviously bored, was seeking for a fresh subject.
“Comfortable place, the Institute?” he inquired.
Markfield nodded with obvious approval.
“First-rate. They're prepared to spend money like water on equipment.
I've just come in from the new Research Station they've put up for
agricultural experiments. It's a few miles out of town. I've got a
room or two in it for some work I'm doing in that line.”
Before Dr. Ringwood could reply, the telephone bell trilled and with a
stifled malediction he stepped over to the instrument.
“Dr. Ringwood speaking.”
As the message came through, his face darkened.
“Very well. I'll be round to see her shortly. The address is 26
Lauderdale Avenue, you say? . . . I'll come as soon as I can.”
He put down the telephone and turned to his guest.
“I've got to go out, Trevor.”
Markfield looked up.
“You said 26 Lauderdale Avenue, didn't you?” he asked. “Talk of the
Devil! That's Silverdale's house. Nothing wrong with Yvonne, is there?
Sprained her ankle, or what not, by any chance?”
“No. One of the maids turned sick, it seems; and the other maid's a
bit worried because all the family are out to-night and she doesn't
know what to do with her invalid. I'll have to go. But how I'll find
my way in a fog like this, is beyond me. Where is the place?”
“About a couple of miles away.”
“That'll take a bit of finding,” Dr. Ringwood grumbled, as he thought
of the fog and his own sketchy knowledge of the local geography.
Markfield seemed to reflect for a moment or two before answering.
“Tell you what,” he said at last, “I've got my car at the door—I'm
just down from the Research Station. If you like, I'll pilot you to
Silverdale's. I'll manage it better than you possibly could, on a
night like this. You can drive behind me and keep your eye on my
tail-light. You could get home again all right, I expect; it's easier,
since you've only got to find your way to a main street and stick to
it.”
Dr. Ringwood made no attempt to dissemble his relief at this solution
of his difficulties.
“That's decent of you, Trevor. Just let me have a look at the map
before we start. I'll take it with me, and I expect I'll manage to get
home again somehow or other.”
He glanced ruefully round the comfortable room and then went to the
window to examine the night.
“Thicker than ever,” he reported. “You'll need to crawl through that
fog.”
In a few minutes, Dr. Ringwood had put on his boots, warned Shenstone
to attend to the telephone in his absence, and got his car out of the
garage. Meanwhile Markfield had started his own engine and was
awaiting the doctor at the gate.
“Hoot like blazes the moment you lose sight of me,” he recommended.
“If I hear your horn I'll stop and hoot back. That should keep us in
touch if the worst comes to the worst.”
He climbed into his driving-seat and started slowly down the road. Dr.
Ringwood fell in behind. The fog was denser than ever, and the
headlights of the cars merely illuminated its wreaths without piercing
them. As soon as his car had started, Dr. Ringwood felt that he had
lost touch with all the world except the tail-light ahead of him, and
a few square feet of roadway immediately under his eyes. The kerb of
the pavement had vanished; no house-window showed through the mist.
From time to time the pale beacon of a street-lamp shone high in the
air without shedding any illumination upon the ground.
Once the guiding tail-lamp almost disappeared from view. After that,
he crept up closer to the leading car, shifted his foot from the
accelerator to the brake, and drove on the hand-throttle. His eyes
began to smart with the nip of the fog and his throat was rasped as he
drew his breath. Even in the saloon the air had a lung-catching tang,
and he could see shadows in it, thrown by the nimbus of the headlights
in the fog.
Almost from the start he had lost his bearings and now he pinned his
whole attention on Markfield's tail-lamp. Once or twice he caught
sight of tram-lines beside his wheels and knew that they were in a
main thoroughfare; but this gave him only the vaguest information of
their position. The sound-deadening quality of the vapour about him
completed the sense of isolation. Except for the faint beat of his own
engine, he seemed to be in a silent world.
Suddenly Markfield's horn surprised him, and he had to jam on his
brakes to avoid colliding with the car in front of him. A shadowy
figure, hardly to be recognised as human, moved past him to the rear
and vanished in the fog-wreaths. Then once more he had to concentrate
his attention on the dim lamp ahead.
At last Markfield's car slid softly alongside a pavement and came
slowly to rest. Dr. Ringwood pulled up and waited until his guide got
down from his seat and came back to him.
“We're just at the turn into Lauderdale Avenue.”
Dr. Ringwood made no attempt to conceal his admiration.
“That's a pretty good bit of navigation,” he said. “I didn't notice
you hesitate once in the whole trip.”
“I've a fairly good head for locality,” Markfield returned carelessly.
“Now all you have to do is to turn to the left about ten yards further
on. The numbering starts from this end of the road, and the even
numbers are on the left-hand side. The houses are villas with big
gardens, so you've only got to keep count of the gates as you pass
them. Stick by the pavement and you'll see the motor-entrances easily
enough.”
“Thanks. I doubt if I'd have got here without you, Trevor. Now what
about the road home?”
“Come straight back along here. Cross three roads—counting this as No.
1. Then turn to the right and keep straight on till you cross
tram-lines. That'll be Park Road. Keep along it to the left till
you've crossed two more sets of tram-lines and then turn to the right.
That'll be Aldingham Street, at the Blue Boar pub. You'll find your
way from there simply enough, I think. That's the easiest way home. I
brought you by a shorter route, but you'd never find it on a night
like this. See you again soon. 'Night!”
Without waiting for more, Markfield strode off to his car and soon Dr.
Ringwood saw the red star, his only point of contact with the real
world, slip away from him and vanish in the fog. When it had gone, he
let his clutch in and began to grope his way laboriously along the
pavement-edge and into Lauderdale Avenue.
The fog was as thick as ever, and he had some difficulty in detecting
even the breaks at the edge of the pavement which indicated the
positions of house-gates. The walls of the gardens were concealed
behind the climbing curtain of vapour. He counted seven entrances and
was well on the way to the next when suddenly the roar of a horn made
him lift his eyes to the spaces ahead; two golden discs shone almost
upon him and only a wild wrench at the wheel saved him from a
collision as the strange car swept past on the wrong side.
“Damn their eyes!” he grumbled to himself. “People like that should be
hanged. No one has a right to go barging along at twenty miles an hour
on a night like this, hustling everyone out of their way. And on the
wrong side of the road, too.”
In his swerve he had lost touch with the pavement and he now crept
back to the left, steering in gently for fear of rubbing his tyres on
the kerb. Then he began counting the gates once more.
“Eight . . . Nine . . . Ten . . . Eleven . . . Twelve. It's the next
one.”
He passed the next gate and drew up just beyond it. Then reflecting
that it was hardly safe to leave a car on the street in a night like
this, he got down from his seat and went across the pavement to open
the gate of the short drive leading up to the house. The entrance was
clear, however, and he was about to return to his car when a thought
struck him and he lit a match to examine the pillar of the gate.
“No number, of course!” he commented in annoyance. “Ivy Lodge. This
must be the place, anyhow.”
Returning to his car, he backed it past the gate and then drove in and
up the carriage-way. Just in time, as he came near the front door, the
lights of a standing car warned him and he pulled up short to avoid a
collision. Shutting off his engine, he got out and approached the
house, passing a lighted window as he did so. The standing car was
empty, and he climbed the steps to the front door, from which a light
was shining. After some searching he discovered the press-button and
rang the bell. The fog seemed thicker than ever; and as he stood on
the steps and gazed out into it, he could see no lights except those
of the empty motor and his own headlamps. The house seemed completely
isolated from the world.
Growing impatient, as no one came to open the door, he rang again; and
then, after a shorter interval, he held his finger down on the button
until it seemed impossible that anyone in the house could fail to hear
the sound of the bell. But still no one appeared. The lighted rooms
and the waiting car convinced him that there must be someone on the
premises; and once more he set the bell in action.
As its notes died away again, he bent towards the door and strained
his ears to catch any sound of movement within the building. At first
he heard nothing; but all at once something attracted his attention: a
noise like a muffled cough. Dr. Ringwood hesitated for only a moment
or two.
“Something damned queer about this house, it seems to me,” he
commented inwardly. “Technically it's burglary, I suppose; but if the
door's unlocked, I think I'd better go in and look round.”
The door opened as he turned the handle, and he stepped softly into
the hall. Everything seemed normal in the house. He could hear the
ticking of a grandfather's clock further back on the stairs; but the
noise which had first attracted his attention was not repeated. Gently
closing the door to shut out the fog, he stood for a moment listening
intently.
“Anybody here?” he demanded in a carrying voice.
There was no answer; but after a short time he heard again the sound
which had puzzled him, evidently coming from the lighted room on the
ground floor. Half a dozen swift steps took him to the door which he
flung open.
“Good God! What's wrong with you?” he ejaculated, as his glance caught
the only occupant of the smoke-room into which he had come.
On a chesterfield, a fair-haired young man was lying helpless. From
the red stain on the lips, Dr. Ringwood guessed at a hæmorrhage of the
lungs; and the quantity of blood on the boy's shirt-front and the dark
pool on the carpet pointed to the severity of the attack. The youth's
eyes caught the newcomer, and he beckoned feebly to the doctor.
Ringwood crossed to the chesterfield and bent down. It hardly needed
an expert to see that assistance had come too late. The sufferer made
an effort, and the doctor stooped to catch the words.
“. . . Caught me . . . pistol . . . shot . . . thought it was . . .
all right . . . never guessed . . .”
Dr. Ringwood bent closer.
“Who was it?” he demanded.
But that broken and gasped-out message had been the victim's last
effort. With the final word, a cough shook him; blood poured from his
mouth; and he fell back among the cushions in the terminal convulsion.
Dr. Ringwood saw the jaw drop and realised that he could be of no
further service. Suddenly his weariness, accentuated by the strain of
the drive through the fog, descended upon him once more. He
straightened himself with something of an effort and gazed down at the
body, feeling himself curiously detached from this suddenly-emergent
mystery, as though it were no direct concern of his. Then, in his own
despite, his cool medical brain began to work as though by some
volition independent of his own. He drew out his notebook and jotted
down the few disjointed words which he had caught, lest he should
forget them later on.
Still held by the rigour of his training, he stooped once more and
made a close examination of the body, discovering in the course of it
two tiny tears in the dress shirt which evidently marked the entries
of the bullets which had pierced the lungs. Then, his inspection
completed, he left the body undisturbed, noted the time on his
wrist-watch, and made a further jotting in his pocket-book.
As he did so, a fresh idea crossed his mind. Had there been more
murders? What about the maids in the house? The one who had rung him
up must have been somewhere on the premises, dead or alive. Possibly
the murderer himself was still lurking in the villa.
Too tired to think of risk, Dr. Ringwood set himself to explore the
house; but to his amazement he discovered that it was empty. Nowhere
did he see the slightest sign of anything which suggested a divergence
from normal routine. The cloak-room showed that two men lived on the
premises, since he noted hats of two different sizes on the pegs; and
there appeared to be three bedrooms in use, apart from the servants’
rooms on the upper floor.
The next step was obviously to ring up the police, he reflected. The
sooner this affair was off his shoulders, the better. But at this
point there flashed across his mind the picture of a methodical and
possibly slow detective who might even be suspicious of Ringwood
himself and wish to detain him till the whole affair was cleared up.
That would be a nuisance. Then a way out of the difficulty opened up
before him. He remembered paying a visit on the previous night to a
butler down with 'flu. When he had seen the patient, the man's master
had come and made inquiries about the case; and Ringwood had been able
to reassure him as to the man's condition.
“What was that chap's name?” Ringwood questioned his memory. “Sir
Clinton Something-or-other. He's Chief Constable or some such big bug.
When in doubt, go to headquarters. He'll remember me, I expect; he
didn't look as if much slipped past him. And that'll save me from a
lot of bother at the hands of underlings. What the devil was his name?
Sir Clinton . . . Driffield, that's it. I'll ring him up.”
He glanced round the hall in which he was standing but saw no
telephone.
“It's probably in the smoke-room where the body is,” he suggested to
himself.
But though he searched all the likely places in the house he was
unable to find any instrument.
“They haven't a 'phone, evidently,” he was driven to admit. “But in
that case, I can't be in Silverdale's house at all. This must be the
wrong shop.”
Then he remembered the moment when the other car had swept down upon
him out of the fog.
“That probably explains it,” he said aloud. “When I had to swerve out
of his way, I must have missed one of the entrance gates before I got
back in touch with the pavement again. If that's so, then obviously
I'm in the wrong house. But whose house is it?”
He re-entered the smoke-room and looked round in search of some clue.
A writing-desk stood over against one of the walls, and he crossed to
it and took up a sheet of paper from a note-paper case. The heading
was what he wanted: “Ivy Lodge, 28 Lauderdale Avenue, Westerhaven.”
“That's what happened,” he reflected, with a faint satisfaction at
having cleared the point up so simply. “I'm next door to Silverdale's
place, evidently, I can 'phone from there.”
It occurred to him that he had better be on the safe side and make
sure of his information by adding the name of the householder when he
rang up the Chief Constable. A fresh search among the pigeon-holes of
the desk produced a letter in its original envelope addressed to
“Edward Hassendean, Esq.” Dr. Ringwood put it down again and racked
his memory for an association with the name. He had paid only the most
perfunctory attention to Markfield's talk, earlier in the evening, and
it was some seconds before his mind could track down the elusive data.
“Hassendean! That was the name of the cub who was hanging round the
skirts of Silverdale's wife, I believe.”
He glanced at the body on the chesterfield.
“It might be that youngster. The police will soon find out from the
contents of his pockets, I expect. Besides, the rest of the family
will be home soon. They must be out for the evening, and the maids
too. That accounts for the house being empty.”
He pulled out his pocket-book and scanned the note he had made of the
boy's disjointed utterance.
“Caught me . . . thought it was . . . all right . . . never
guessed . . .”
A flash of illumination seemed to pass across Dr. Ringwood's mind as
he re-read the words. In it he saw a frivolous wife, a dissolute boy,
and a husband exasperated by the sudden discovery of an intrigue; a
sordid little tragedy of three characters. That seemed to be a plain
enough explanation of the miserable affair. Markfield's suspicions had
clearly been fairly near the truth; if anything, they had fallen short
of the real state of affairs. Something had precipitated the
explosion; and Dr. Ringwood idly speculated for a moment or two upon
what could have led to the husband's enlightenment.
Then he awoke to a fresh aspect of the affair. The Hassendean family
would be coming home again shortly, or else the maids would put in an
appearance. The sooner the police were on the premises, the better. In
the meanwhile, it seemed advisable to prevent any disturbance of
things, if possible.
Dr. Ringwood left the smoke-room, locked the door after him, and
removed the key, which he slipped into his pocket. Then, making sure
that the front door could be opened from the outside when he returned,
he went down the steps and out into the fog once more.