Doctor Abbershaw’s Deductions
The room into which Meggie and Abbershaw were thrust so
unceremoniously in the middle of the night was one of the three which
opened out on to the small winding staircase leading down to Colonel
Coombe’s study.
It was comparatively empty, containing only a pile of disused
tapestries and old curtains, two or three travelling trunks and a
chair.
Here, as in the other room, the window was high up in the wall and
iron-barred. There was a second door in the room but it appeared to be
heavily bolted on the other side. Abbershaw made a thorough
investigation of the room with his torch, and then decided that escape
was impossible, and they sat down on the tapestry in silence.
Until now they had not spoken very much, save for a brief account from
Abbershaw of his interview with Campion and his journey through the
passage from his cupboard. Meggie’s story was simpler. She had been
seized on her way up to her room and dragged off through the
green-baize door to be questioned.
Neither felt that much was to be gained from talking. The German had
convinced them of the seriousness of their position, and Abbershaw was
overcome with self-reproach for what he could only feel was his own
fault. Meggie was terrified but much too plucky to show it.
As the utter silence of the darkness descended upon them, however, the
girl laid her hand on Abbershaw’s arm. ‘We’ll be all right,’ she
murmured. ‘It was wonderful of you to come and get me out like that.’
Abbershaw laughed bitterly. ‘I didn’t get you very far,’ he said.
The girl peered at him through the shadow.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s better up here than it was down
there.’
Abbershaw took her hand and spoke with unusual violence. ‘My God, they
didn’t hurt you?’ he said.
‘Oh no, nothing much.’
It was evident from her voice that she was trying to make light of a
terrible experience. ‘I was frightened more than hurt,’ she said, ‘but
it was good to see you. Who are they, George? What are they doing
here? What’s it all about?’
Abbershaw covered his face with his hands and groaned in the darkness.
‘I could kick myself,’ he said. ‘It’s all my fault. I did an absurd, a
foolhardy, lunatic thing when I destroyed those papers. I didn’t
realize whom we were up against.’
The girl caught her breath.
‘Then what you said was true?’ she said. ‘You did destroy what they
are looking for?’
‘Yes.’ Abbershaw spoke savagely. ‘I’ve behaved like an idiot all the
way through,’ he said. ‘I’ve been too clever by half, and now I’ve got
you, of all people – the person I’d rather die than see any harm come
to – into this appalling situation. I hit on the truth,’ he went on,
‘but only half of it, and like a fool I acted upon my belief without
being sure. Oh, my God, what a fool I’ve been!’
The girl stirred beside him and laid her head on his shoulders, her
weight resting in the hollow of his arm. ‘Tell me,’ she said.
Abbershaw was only too glad to straighten out his own thoughts in
speech, and he began softly, keeping his voice down lest there should
be listeners on the landing behind the bolted door.
‘It was Colonel Coombe’s murder that woke me up,’ he said. ‘And then,
when I saw the body and realized that the plate across his face was
unneeded and served as a disguise, I realized then that it was crooks
we had to deal with, and casting about in my mind I arrived at
something – not quite the truth – but very near it.’
He paused and drew the girl closer to him.
‘It occurred to me that Dawlish and Gideon might very well be part of
the famous Simister gang – the notorious bank thieves of the States.
The descriptions of two of the leaders seemed to tally very well, and
like a fool I jumped to the conclusion that they were the Simister
gangsters. So that when the documents came into my hands I guessed
what they were.’
The girl looked at him.
‘What were they?’ she said.
Abbershaw hesitated.
‘I don’t want to lay down the law this time,’ he said, ‘but I don’t
see how I can be wrong. In these big gangs of crooks the science of
thieving has been brought to such perfection that their internal
management resembles a gigantic business concern more than anything
else. Modern criminal gangs are not composed of amateurs – each man
has his own particular type of work at which he is an expert. That is
why the police experience such difficulty in bringing to justice the
man actually responsible for a crime, and not merely capturing the
comparatively innocent catspaw who performs the actual thieving.’
He paused, and the girl nodded in the darkness. ‘I see,’ she said.
Abbershaw went on, his voice sunk to a whisper.
‘Very big gangs, like Simister’s, carry this cooperative spirit to an
extreme,’ he continued, ‘and in more cases than one a really big
robbery is planned and worked out to the last detail by a man who may
be hundreds of miles away from the scene of the crime when it is
committed. A man with an ingenious criminal brain, therefore, can
always sell his wares without being involved in any danger whatsoever.
The thing I found was, I feel perfectly sure, a complete crime, worked
out to the last detail by the hand of a master. It may have been a
bank robbery, but of that I’m not sure. It was written in code, of
course, and it was only from the few plans included in the mass of
written matter – and my suspicions – that I got a hint of what it
was.’
Meggie lifted her head.
‘But would they write it down?’ she said. ‘Would they risk that?’
Abbershaw hesitated.
‘I admit that worried me at first,’ he said, ‘but consider the
circumstances. Here is an organization, enormous in its resources, but
every movement of which is bound to be carried out in absolute
secrecy. A lot of people sneer at the efficiency of Scotland Yard, but
not those who have ever had cause to come up against it. Imagine an
organization like this, captained by a mind simple, forceful, and
eminently sensible. A mind that only grasps one thing at a time, but
which deals with that one thing down to the last detail, with the
thoroughness of a Hun.’
‘Dawlish?’ said Meggie.
Abbershaw nodded in the darkness.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Mr Benjamin Dawlish is one of his names.’ He paused,
and then went on again with new enthusiasm, ‘Then imagine the brains
of his gang,’ he continued, ‘the man with the mind of a genius plus
just that one crooked kink which makes him a criminal instead of a
diplomat. It is most important that this one man of all others shall
evade the police.’
Meggie nestled closer to him.
‘Go on,’ she said.
Abbershaw continued, his voice hardly raised above a whisper, but
intense and vehement in the quietness.
‘He must be kept away from the gang then, at all costs,’ he said. ‘So
why not let him live at some out-of-the-way spot in the guise of an
innocent old gentleman, an invalid, going out for long drives in his
ramshackle old car for his health’s sake; but in reality changing his
personality on the road and becoming for a few hours an entirely
different person? Not always the same man, you understand,’ he
explained, ‘but adopting whatever guise seemed most suitable for the
actual detail in hand. A respectable suburban householder eager to
open a small account when it was necessary to inspect a certain bank
manager’s office; an insurance man when a watchman was to be
interviewed; a jovial, open-handed man-about-town when clerks were to
be pumped. And all these different personalities vanishing into thin
air as soon as their work was done, each one of them merging into the
quiet inoffensive old invalid driving about in his joke of a car.’
His voice died away in the darkness, and Meggie stiffened.
‘The Colonel,’ she whispered.
‘Yes,’ murmured Abbershaw. ‘I’m sure of it. He was the designer of the
crimes. Dawlish organized them, and a carefully trained gang carried
them out. The arrangements had to be written out,’ he went on,
‘because otherwise it would entail the Colonel spending some
considerable time with the gang explaining his schemes, whereas it was
much better that they should not know him, or he them. You see,’ he
went on suddenly, ‘that’s what Dawlish had to guard against –
double-crossing. Old Coombe’s plans had a definite market value. They
were worth money to any criminal gang who could get hold of them, and,
as I have said, to minimize any danger of this, Coombe was kept here,
practically as a prisoner, by Dawlish. I dare say the only time he saw
any member of the gang was when Gideon and some other member as
witness came down here to collect the finished scheme for one robbery,
or to discuss the next. On such occasions it was Coombe’s practice to
invite Wyatt to bring down a house-party as a blind to distract
attention from any of his other visitors, who may in some cases have
been characters “known to the police”.’ He stopped and sighed. ‘So
far,’ he said, ‘I was practically right, but I had made one tremendous
error.’
‘And that?’ The girl’s voice quivered with excitement.
‘That,’ said Abbershaw gravely, ‘was the fatal one of taking Dawlish
for Simister. Simister is a rogue about whom there are as many
pleasant stories as unpleasant ones, but about Eberhard von Faber no
one ever laughs. He is, without exception, the most notorious,
unsavoury villain this era has produced. And I have pitched us all –
you too – into his hands.’
The girl repressed a shudder, but she clung to Abbershaw confidently.
‘But why,’ she said suddenly, ‘why didn’t they succeed? Why didn’t the
Colonel give Dawlish the papers and the whole thing work out according
to plan?’
Abbershaw stirred.
‘It would have done,’ he said, ‘but there _was_ double-crossing going
on. The Colonel, in spite of his body-guard – Whitby and the butler –
must have got into communication with Simister’s gang and made some
arrangement with them. I’m only guessing here, of course, but I should
say that the Colonel’s plans were never allowed outside the house and
that his attitude towards Simister must have been, “I will sell them
if you can get them without implicating me”. So Simister employed our
friend, Mr Campion, to smuggle himself into Wyatt’s party without
being recognized by Dawlish.’
Meggie sat up. ‘I see,’ she said, ‘but then, George, who murdered the
Colonel?’
‘Oh, one of the gang, of course – evidently. When they discovered that
he had double-crossed them.’
The girl was silent for a moment, then:
‘They were very quick,’ she said thoughtfully.
Abbershaw jerked his chin up. This was a point which it had never
occurred to him to question.
‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.
Meggie repeated her former observation.
‘They were very quick,’ she said. ‘If the Colonel didn’t have a heart
attack he was murdered when we were playing with the dagger. Before I
had the thing in my hand, in fact. Did they see the old man part with
the papers? And if so, why did they kill him and not Albert Campion?’
Abbershaw was silent. This point of view had not occurred to him. As
far as he knew, apart from the single affair on the landing, they had
not spotted Albert Campion at all.
‘Besides,’ said Meggie, ‘if you remember, Dawlish seemed to be
surprised when something you said suggested that Coombe had
double-crossed them.’
Abbershaw nodded: the incident returned to his mind. Meggie went on
speaking, her voice very low.
‘So Albert Campion was the murderer,’ she said.
Abbershaw started.
‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I don’t think that for a moment. In fact I’m sure
of it,’ he went on, as he remembered the scene – it seemed incredible
that it was only that afternoon – when Mr Campion had heard of the
Colonel’s murder.
‘I’m sure of it,’ he repeated, ‘and besides,’ he added, as the
extenuating circumstances occurred to him, ‘why should von Faber have
taken all those precautions to conceal someone else’s crime?’
Meggie was silent at this, and Abbershaw continued. ‘There’s no doubt
that the Colonel intended to cheat the gang,’ he said. ‘The documents
were exquisite pieces of work, written on the finest paper in a hand
so small that it would have taken a reading glass to follow the words.
It was in code – not one I know, either – and it was only the tiny
plans that gave the clue to what it was. All sewn into the lining of a
pocket-book which Dawlish didn’t recognize when I showed it to him.
Oh, what a fool I was to destroy it!’
The regret in his tone was very poignant, and for some seconds the
girl did not speak. Then she moved a little nearer to him as if to
compensate him for any embarrassment her question might cause him.
‘Why did you?’ she said at last.
Abbershaw was silent for some time before he spoke. Then he sighed
deeply.
‘I was a crazy, interfering, well-meaning fool,’ he said, ‘and there’s
no more dangerous creature on the face of the earth. I acted partly on
impulse and partly because it really seemed to me to be the best thing
to do at the moment. I had no idea whom we were up against. In the
first place I knew that if I destroyed it I should probably be
preventing a crime at least; you see, I had no means, and no time, to
decipher it and thereby obtain enough information to warn Scotland
Yard. I didn’t even know where the bank to be robbed was situated, or
if indeed it was a bank. I knew we were up against pretty stiff
customers, for one man had already been murdered, presumably on
account of the papers, but I had no idea that they would dream of
attempting anything so wholesale as this.’
He paused and shook his head.
‘I didn’t realize then,’ he continued, ‘that there had been any
double-crossing going on, and I took it for granted that the
pocket-book would be recognized instantly. Situated as we were then,
too, it was reasonable to suppose that I could not hold out against
the whole gang, and it was ten chances to one that they would succeed
in getting back their plans and the scheme would go forward with me
powerless to do anything. Acting entirely upon the impulse of the
moment, therefore, I stuffed the plans into the grate and set fire to
them. That was just before I went down to speak to you in the garden.
Now, of course, Dawlish won’t believe me, and if he did, I’m inclined
to believe he would take his revenge upon all of us. In fact, we’re in
a very nasty mess. If we get out of here we can’t get out of the
house, and that Hun is capable of anything. Oh, my dear, I wish you
weren’t here.’
The last words broke from him in an agony of self-reproach. Meggie
nestled closer to his shoulder.
‘I’m very glad I am,’ she said. ‘If we’re in for trouble let’s go
through it together. Look, we’ve been talking for hours – the dawn’s
breaking. Something may turn up today. Don’t these people ever have
postmen or milkmen or telegram-boys or anything?’
Abbershaw nodded.
‘I’ve thought of that,’ he said, ‘but I think everyone like that is
stopped at the lodge, and anyhow today’s Sunday. Of course,’ he added
brightly, ‘in a couple of days there’ll be inquiries after some of us,
but it’s what von Faber may do before then that’s worrying me.’
Meggie sighed.
‘I don’t want to think,’ she said. ‘Oh, George,’ she added pitifully,
‘I’m so terribly tired.’
On the last word her head lolled heavily against his breast, and he
realized with sudden surprise that she was still a child who could
sleep in spite of the horror of the situation. He sat there with his
back against the wall supporting her in his arms, staring out across
the fast-brightening room, his eyes fixed and full of apprehension.
Gradually the room grew lighter and lighter, and the sun, pale at
first, and then brilliant, poured in through the high window with that
warm serenity that is somehow peculiar to a Sunday morning. Outside he
heard the far-away lowing of the cattle and the lively bickering of
the birds.
He must have dozed a little in spite of his disturbing thoughts, for
he suddenly came to himself with a start and sat up listening
intently, his ears strained, and an expression of utter bewilderment
on his face.
From somewhere close at hand, apparently in the room with the bolted
door, there proceeded a curious collection of sounds. It was a hymn,
sung with a malicious intensity, unequalled by anything Abbershaw had
ever heard in his life before. The voice was a feminine one, high and
shrill; it sounded like some avenging fury. He could make out the
words, uttered with a species of ferocious glee underlying the
religious fervour.
‘Oh vain all outward sign of grief,
And vain the form of prayer,
Unless the heart implore relief
And Penitence be there.’
And then with still greater emphasis:
‘We smite the breast, we weep in vain,
In vain in ashes mourn,
Unless with penitential pain –’
The quavering crescendo reached a pinnacle of self-righteous
satisfaction that can never be known to more forgiving spirits.
‘Unless with penitential pain
The smitten soul be torn.’
The last note died away into silence, and a long drawn-out
‘_Ah-ha-Ha-men_’ followed it.
Then all was still.