more so. And Hugo, well, he didn’t know servants existed unless they
didn’t answer the bell. But he was a queer fellow. No notion of
anybody having rights against him. He wouldn’t let you get near him.
I’ve seen that make quiet men mad.”
“Meaning anyone in particular, sir?” Bell said.
“Oh Lord, no. Speaking generally.” He looked at Bell with a shrewd
smile. “Haven’t you found that in your job?” And Bell laughed. “Yes,
I’m afraid I don’t help you much. Are you going to help Mark? Where
is the butler?”
“Yes. Yes, we are rather wasting time, aren’t we?” Reggie stretched
himself. “It’s too soothing, Sir Brian. Can we walk across the park?
I hate exercise, but man must live.”
“I don’t think anyone would have to murder me if I stayed here long,”
Sir Brian started up. “I’ll show you the way. We can send your car
round to the village.”
Over immemorial turf they went their warm way. A herd of deer looked
at them critically, and concluded they were of no importance. “Pretty
creatures,” said Superintendent Bell.
“I’d as soon keep white mice,” said Sir Brian, and discoursed of the
wilder deer of other lands till he discovered that Reggie was left
behind.
Reggie was wandering off towards a little building away in a hollow
among trees. It was low, it was of unhewn stone bonded with lines of
red tile or brick, only a little above the moss-grown roof rose a
thin square tower. The tiny rounded windows showed walls of great
thickness and over its one door was a mighty round arch, much wrought.
“Does the old place take your fancy?” Sir Brian said.
“How did that get here?” said Reggie.
“Well, you’ve got me on my blind side,” Sir Brian confessed. “We call
it the old church. I dare say it’s as old as the Hall.”
“The Hall’s a baby to it,” said Reggie angrily. “The porch is Norman.
There’s Saxon work in that tower. And that tile is Roman.”
Sir Brian laughed. “What about the Greeks and the Hebrews? Give them
a look in.” Reggie was not pleased with him. “Sorry, afraid these
things don’t mean much to me. I don’t know how it began.”
“It may have been a shrine or a chapel over some sacred place.”
“Haven’t a notion. They say it used to be the village church. One of
my revered ancestors stopped the right of way--didn’t like the people
disturbing his poultry, I suppose--and built ’em a new church outside
the park.”
“Priceless,” Reggie murmured.
“What, the place or my ancestors?”
“Well, both, don’t you think?”
For the rest of the way Sir Brian told strange stories of the past of
the family of Carwell.
“He’s a good talker, sir,” said Superintendent Bell, when they had
left him at the park gate and were in their car. “Very pleasant
company. But you’ve something on your mind.”
“The chair,” Reggie mumbled. “Why was the man in his chair?”
“Lord Carwell, sir?” Bell struggled to adjust his mind. “Well, he
was. That girl was telling the truth.”
“I know, I know. That’s the difficulty. You smash the side of a man’s
head in. He won’t sit down to think about it.”
“Perhaps he was sitting when he was hit.”
“Then he’d be knocked over just the same.”
“I suppose the murderer might have picked him up.”
“He might. But why? Why?”
Superintendent Bell sighed heavily. “I judge we’ve some way to go,
sir. And we don’t seem to get any nearer the butler.”
“Your job,” said Reggie, and again the Superintendent sighed.
That night through a drizzling rain, lanterns moved in the village
churchyard. The vault in which the Carwells of a hundred and fifty
years lie crumbling was opened, and out of it a coffin was borne
away. One man lingered in the vault holding a lantern high. He moved
from one coffin to another, and came up again to the clean air and
the rain. “All present and correct,” he said. “No deception, Bell.”
Superintendent Bell coughed. Sometimes he thinks Mr. Fortune lacking
in reverence.
“Division of labour,” Reggie sank into the cushions of the car and
lit a pipe, “the division of labour is the great principle of
civilization. Perhaps you didn’t know that? In the morning I will
look at the corpse and you will look for the butler.”
“Well, sir, I don’t care for my job, but I wouldn’t have yours for a
hundred pounds.”
“Yet it has a certain interest,” Reggie murmured, “for that poor
devil with the death sentence on him.”
To their hotel in Southam Reggie Fortune came back on the next day
rather before lunch time.
“Finished at the mortuary, sir?” said Bell. “I thought you looked
happy.”
“Not happy. Only pleased with myself. A snare, Bell, a snare. Have
you found the butler?”
Bell shook his head. “It’s like a fairy tale, sir. He went out on
that evening, walked down the village street, and that’s the last of
him they know. He might have gone to the station, he might have gone
on the Southam motor-bus. They can’t swear he didn’t, but nobody saw
him. They’ve searched the whole country-side and dragged the river.
If you’ll tell me what to do next, I’ll be glad.”
“Sir Brian’s been asking for me, they say,” said Reggie. “I think
we’ll go and call on Sir Brian.”
They took sandwiches and their motor to Carwell Hall. The new butler
told them Sir Brian had driven into Southam and was not yet back.
“Oh, we’ve crossed him, I suppose,” Reggie said. “We might stroll in
the park till he’s back. Ah, can we get into the old church?”
The butler really couldn’t say, and remarked that he was new to the
place.
“Oh, it’s no matter.” Reggie took Bell’s arm and strolled away.
They wandered down to the little old church, “Makes you feel
melancholy, sir, don’t it?” Bell said. “Desolate, as you might say.
As if people had got tired of believing in God.”
Reggie looked at him a moment and went into the porch and tried the
worm-eaten oak door. “We might have a look at the place,” he said,
and took out of his pocket a flat case like a housewife.
“Good Lord, sir, I wouldn’t do that,” Bell recoiled. “I mean to
say--it’s a church after all.”
But Reggie was already picking the old lock. The door yielded and he
went in. A dank and musty smell met them. The church was all but
empty. Dim light fell on a shattered rood screen and stalls, and a
bare stone altar. A tomb bore two cadaverous effigies. Reggie moved
hither and thither prying into every corner, and came at last to a
broken flight of stairs. “Oh, there’s a crypt, is there,” he
muttered, and went down. “Hallo! Come on, Bell.”
Superintendent Bell, following reluctantly, found him struggling with
pieces of timber, relics of stall and bench, which held a door
closed. “Give me a hand, man.”
“I don’t like it, sir, and that’s the truth.”
“Nor do I,” Reggie panted, “not a bit,” and dragged the last piece
away and pulled the door open. He took out a torch and flashed the
light on. They looked into a place supported on low round arches. The
beam of the torch moved from coffin to mouldering coffin.
“Good God,” Bell gasped, and gripped Reggie’s arm.
Reggie drew him in. They came to the body of a man which had no
coffin. It lay upon its face. Reggie bent over it, touching gently
the back of the neck. “I thought so,” he muttered, and turned the
body over. Bell gave a stifled cry.
“Quite so, quite----” he sprang up and made a dash for the door. It
was slammed in his face. He flung himself against it, and it yielded
a little but held. A dull creaking and groaning told that the timbers
were being set again in place. Together they charged the door and
were beaten back “And that’s that, Bell,” said Reggie. He flashed his
light round the crypt, and it fell again on the corpse. “You and me
and the butler.”
Bell’s hand felt for him. “Mr. Fortune--Mr. Fortune--was he dead when
he came here?”
“Oh Lord, yes. Sir Brian’s quite a humane man. But business is
business.”
“Sir Brian?” Bell gasped.
“My dear chap,” said Reggie irritably, “don’t make conversation.” He
turned his torch on the grey oak of the door. . . .
It was late in that grim afternoon before they had cut and kicked a
hole in it, and Reggie’s hand came through and felt for the timbers
which held it closed. Twilight was falling when, dirty and reeking,
they broke out of the church and made for the Hall.
Sir Brian--the new butler could not conceal his surprise at seeing
them--Sir Brian had gone out in the big car. But the butler feared
there must be some mistake. He understood that Sir Brian had seen the
gentlemen and was to take them with him. Sir Brian had sent the
gentlemen’s car back to Southam. Sir Brian----
“Where’s your telephone?” said Reggie.
The butler was afraid the telephone was out of order. He had been
trying to get----
Reggie went to the receiver. There was no answer. Still listening, he
looked at the connexions. A couple of inches of wire were cut out.
Half an hour later two breathless men arrived at the village post
office and shut themselves into the telephone call-box.
On the next day Lomas called at Mr. Fortune’s house in Wimpole Street
and was told that Mr. Fortune was in his bath. A parlourmaid with
downcast eyes announced to him a few minutes later that if he would
go up Mr. Fortune would be very glad to see him.
“Pardon me,” said the pink cherubic face from the water. “I am not
clean. I think I shall never be clean again.”
“You look like a prawn,” said Lomas.
“That’s your unscientific mind. Have you got him?”
Lomas shook his head. “He has been seen in ten places at once. They
have arrested a blameless bookmaker at Hull and an Irish
cattle-dealer at Birkenhead. As usual. But we ought to have him in
time.”
“My fault entirely. He is an able fellow. I have underrated these
business men, Lomas. My error. Occasionally one has a head. He has.”
“These madmen often have.”
Reggie wallowed in the water. “Mad? He’s as sane as I am. He’s been
badly educated, that’s all. That’s the worst of business men. They’re
so ignorant. Just look at it. He killed Hugo by a knife thrust in the
vertebrae at the base of the skull. It’s a South American fashion,
probably indigenous. When I found that wound in the body I was sure
of the murderer. I had a notion before from the way he spoke about
Hugo and the estate. Probably Hugo was bent over the table and the
blow was struck without his knowledge. He would be dead in a moment.
But Sir Brian saw that wouldn’t do. Too uncommon a murder in England.
So he smashed in the skull to make it look like an ordinary crime of
violence. Thus ignorance is bliss. He never thought the death wasn’t
the right kind of death for that. Also it didn’t occur to him that a
man who is hit on the head hard is knocked down. He don’t lay his
head on the table to be hammered same like Hugo. I don’t fancy Brian
meant Mark to be hanged. Possibly he was going to manufacture
evidence of burglary when he was interrupted by the butler. Anyhow
the butler knew too much and had to be bought off. But I suppose the
butler wouldn’t stand Mark being hanged. When he found the trial was
going dead against Mark he threatened. So he had to be killed too.
Say by appointment in the park. Same injury in his body--a stab
through the cervical vertebrae. And the corpse was neatly disposed of
in the crypt.”
“What in the world put you on to the crypt?”
“Well, Sir Brian was so anxious not to be interested in the place.
And the place was so mighty convenient. And the butler had to be
somewhere. Pure reasoning, Lomas, old thing. This is a very rational
case all through.”
“Rational! Will you tell me why Sir Brian came to stir us up about
the butler and insisted Mark was innocent?”
“I told you he was an able man. He saw it would have looked very
fishy if he didn’t. Acting head of the family--he had to act. And
also I fancy he liked Mark. If he could get the boy off, he would
rather do it than not. And who could suspect the worthy fellow who
was so straight and decent? All very rational.”
“Very,” said Lomas. “Especially the first murder. Why do you suppose
he wanted to kill Hugo?”
“Well, you’d better look at his papers. He talked about Hugo as if he
had a grudge against the way Hugo ran the estate. I wonder if he
wanted to develop it--try for minerals perhaps--it’s on the edge of
the South Midland coal-field--and Hugo wouldn’t have it.”
“Good Gad!” Lomas said. “You’re an ingenious fellow, Fortune. He had
proposed to Hugo to try for coal, and Hugo turned it down.”
Reggie emerged from the bath. “There you have it. He knew if Hugo was
out of the way he could do what he wanted. If Mark or the old parson
had the place, he could manage them. Very rational crime.”
“Rational! Murder your cousin to make a coal mine!”
“Business men and business methods. Run away and catch him, Lomas,
and hang him to encourage the others.”
But in fact Lomas did not catch him. Some years afterwards Mrs.
Fortune found her husband on the veranda of an hotel in Italy staring
at a Spanish paper. “Don’t dream, child,” she said. “Run and dress.”
“I’m seeing ghosts, Joan,” said Mr. Fortune.
She looked over his shoulder. “Who is San Jacinto?”
“The last new South American republic. Here’s His Excellency the
President. _Né_ Brian Carwell. Observe the smile.”
CASE III
THE YOUNG DOCTOR
MR. REGINALD FORTUNE came into Superintendent Bell’s room at Scotland
Yard. “That was chocolate cream,” he said placidly. “You’d better
arrest the aunt.”
The superintendent took up his telephone receiver and spoke into it
fervently. You remember the unpleasant affair of the aunt and her
niece’s child.
“‘Oh, fat white woman that nobody loves,’” Mr. Fortune murmured.
“Well, well. She’s not wholesome, you know. Some little error in the
ductless glands.”
“She’s for it,” said Superintendent Bell with grim satisfaction.
“That’s a wicked woman, Mr. Fortune, and as clever as sin.”
“Yes, quite unhealthy. A dull case, Bell.” He yawned and wandered
about the room and came to a stand by the desk. “What are these
curios?” He pointed to a skeleton key and a pad of cotton-wool.
“The evidence in that young doctor’s case, the Bloomsbury diamond
burglary. Not worth keeping, I suppose. That was a bad business
though. I was sorry for the lad. But it was a straight case. Did you
read it, sir? Young fellow making a start, hard fight for it, on his
beam ends, gets to know a man with a lot of valuable stuff in his
rooms--and steals it. An impudent robbery too--but that’s the usual
way when a decent fellow goes wrong, he loses his head. Lead us not
into temptation. That’s the moral of Dr. Wilton’s case. He’s only
thirty, he’s a clever fellow, he ought to have done well, he’s ruined
himself--and if he’d had a hundred pounds in the bank he’d have run
straight enough.”
“A lot of crime is a natural product.” Mr. Fortune repeated a
favourite maxim of his. “I didn’t read it, Bell. How did it go?” He
sat down and lit a cigar.
“The trial was in this morning’s papers, sir. Only a small affair.
Dr. Horace Wilton came out of the army with a gratuity and a little
money of his own. He set up as a specialist. You know the usual
thing. His plate up with three or four others on a Harley Street
house where he had a little consulting-room to himself. He lived in a
Bloomsbury flat. Well, the patients didn’t come. He wasn’t known, he
had no friends, and his money began to run out.”
“Poor devil,” Reggie nodded.
“A Dutch diamond merchant called Witt came to live in the flats.
Wilton got to know him, prescribed for a cold or something. Witt took
to the doctor, made friends, heard about his troubles, offered to get
him a berth in the Dutch colonies, gave him two or three rough
diamonds--a delicate way of giving him money, I suppose. Then one
morning the valet--service flats they are--coming into Witt’s rooms
found him heavily asleep. He’d been chloroformed. There was that pad
on his pillow.”
Reggie took up the box in which the cotton-wool and the skeleton key
lay.
“Don’t shake it,” said the superintendent. “Do you see those scraps
of tobacco? That’s important. The bureau in which Witt kept the
diamonds he had with him had been forced open and the diamonds were
gone. Witt sent for the police. Now you see that tobacco on the
cotton-wool. The inspector spotted that. The cotton-wool must have
been handled by a man who smoked that tobacco. Most likely carried it
in the same pocket. Unusual stuff, isn’t it? Well, the inspector
remarked on that to Witt. Witt was horrified. You see it’s South
African tobacco. And he knew Wilton used the stuff. There was some
spilt in the room, too.”
“Have you got that?” said Reggie.
“No. I don’t think it was produced. But our man saw it, and he’s
reliable. Then a Dutch journalist dropped in. He was just over in
England. He’d called on Witt late the night before and couldn’t make
him hear. That surprised him because as he came up he’d seen some one
coming out of Witt’s rooms, some one who went into Wilton’s. That was
enough to act on. Wilton was arrested and his flat was searched.
Tucked away in the window seat they found the diamonds and that
skeleton key. He stood his trial yesterday, he made no defence but to
swear that he knew nothing about it. The evidence was clear. Witt--he
must be a soft-hearted old fellow--Witt tried to let him down as
gently as he could and asked the judge to go easy with him. Old
Borrowdale gave him five years. A stiff sentence, but the case itself
would break the man’s career, poor chap. A bad business, sir, isn’t
it? Impudent, ungrateful piece of thieving--but he might have been
honest enough if he could have made a living at his job.”
Mr. Fortune did not answer. He was looking at the key. He set it
down, took up a magnifying glass, carried the box to the light and
frowned over the cotton-wool.
“What’s the matter with it, sir?”
“The key,” Mr. Fortune mumbled, still studying the cotton-wool. “Why
was the key made in Germany? Why does Dr. Horace Wilton of Harley
Street and Bloomsbury use a skeleton key that was made in Solingen?”
“Well, sir, you can’t tell how a man comes by that sort of stuff. It
goes about from hand to hand, don’t it?”
“Yes. Whose hand?” said Reggie. “And why does your local expert swear
this is South African tobacco? There is a likeness. But this is that
awful stuff they sell in Germany and call Rauch-tabak.”
Bell was startled. “That’s awkward, sir. German too, eh?”
“Well, you can buy Solingen goods outside Germany. And German
tobacco, too. Say in Holland.”
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, sir?”
“Oh, I think the tobacco was a little error. I think the tobacco
ought not to have been there. But it was rather unlucky for Dr.
Wilton your bright expert took it for his brand.”
The superintendent looked uncomfortable. “Yes, sir, that’s the sort
of thing we don’t want to happen. But after all the case didn’t turn
on the tobacco. There was the man who swore he saw Wilton leaving
Witt’s flat and the finding of the diamonds in Wilton’s room. Without
the tobacco the evidence was clear.”
“I know. I said the tobacco was superfluous. That’s why it interests
me. Superfluous, not to say awkward. We know Wilton don’t use
Rauch-tabak. Yet there is Rauch-tabak on the chloroformed pad. Which
suggests that some one else was on the job. Some fellow with a taste
for German flavours. The sort of fellow who’d use a German key.”
“There’s not a sign of Wilton’s having an accomplice,” said Bell
heavily. “But of course it’s possible.”
Mr. Fortune looked at him with affection. “Dear Bell,” he said, “you
must find the world very wonderful. No, I wouldn’t look for an
accomplice. But I think you might look for the diamond merchant and
the journalist. I should like to ask them who smokes Rauch-tabak.”
“There must be an investigation,” Bell sighed. “I see that, sir. But
I can’t see that it will do the poor fellow any good. And it’s bad
for the department.”
Reggie smiled upon him. “Historic picture of an official struggling
with his humanity,” he said. “Poor old Bell!”
At the end of that week Mr. Fortune was summoned to Scotland Yard. He
found the chief of the Criminal Investigation Department in
conference with Eddis, a man of law from the Home Office.
“Hallo! Life is real, life is earnest, isn’t it, Lomas?” he smiled.
The Hon. Sidney Lomas put up an eyeglass and scowled at him. “You
know, you’re not a man of science, Fortune. You’re an agitator. You
ought to be bound over to keep the peace.”
“I should call him a departmental nuisance,” said Eddis gloomily.
“In returnin’ thanks (one of your larger cigars would do me no harm,
Lomas) I would only ask, where does it hurt you?”
“The Wilton case was a very satisfactory case till you meddled,” said
Eddis. “Also it was a _chose jugée_.”
“And now it’s unjudged? How good for you!” Reggie chuckled. “How
stimulating!”
“Now,” said Lomas severely, “it’s insane. It’s a nightmare.”
“Yes. Yes, I dare say that’s what Dr. Wilton thinks,” said Reggie
gravely. “Well, how far have you got?”
“You were right about the tobacco, confound you. And the key. Both of
German birth. And will you kindly tell me what that means?”
“My honourable friend’s question,” said Reggie, “should be addressed
to Mynheer Witt or Mynheer Gerard. You know, this is like Alice in
Wonderland. Sentence first, trial afterwards. Why didn’t you look
into the case before you tried it? Then you could have asked Witt and
Gerard these little questions when you had them in the box. And very
interesting too.”
“We can’t ask them now, at any rate. They’ve vanished. Witt left his
flat on the day of the trial. Gerard left his hotel the same night.
Both said they were going back to Amsterdam. And here’s the Dutch
police information. ‘Your telegram of the 27th not understood. No men
as described known in Amsterdam. Cannot trace arrivals.’”
“Well, well,” said Reggie. “Our active and intelligent police force.
The case has interest, hasn’t it, Lomas, old thing?”
“What is it you want to suggest, Fortune?” Eddis looked at him keenly.
“I want to point out the evanescence of the evidence--the
extraordinary evanescence of the evidence.”
“That’s agreed,” Eddis nodded. “The whole thing is unsatisfactory.
The tobacco, so far as it is evidence, turns out to be in favour of
the prisoner. The only important witnesses for the prosecution
disappear after the trial leaving suspicion of their status. But
there remains the fact that the diamonds were found in the prisoner’s
room.”
“Oh yes, some one put ’em there,” Reggie smiled.
“Let’s have it clear, Fortune,” said the man of law. “Your suggestion
is that the whole case against Wilton was manufactured by these men
who have disappeared?”
“That is the provisional hypothesis. Because nothing else covers the
facts. There were German materials used, and Wilton has nothing to do
with Germany. The diamond merchant came to the flats where Wilton was
already living and sought Wilton’s acquaintance. The diamond
merchant’s friend popped up just in the nick of time to give
indispensable evidence. And the moment Wilton is safe in penal
servitude the pair of them vanish, and the only thing we can find out
about them is that they aren’t what they pretended to be. Well, the
one hypothesis which fits all these facts is that these two fellows
wanted to put Dr. Horace Wilton away. Any objection to that, Eddis?”
“There’s only one objection--why? Your theory explains everything
that happened, but leaves us without any reason why anything happened
at all. That is, it’s an explanation which makes the case more
obscure than ever. We can understand why Wilton might have stolen
diamonds. Nobody can understand why anyone should want to put him in
prison.”
“Oh my dear fellow! You’re so legal. What you don’t know isn’t
knowledge. You don’t know why Wilton had to be put out of the way. No
more do I. But----”
“No more did Wilton,” said Eddis sharply. “He didn’t suspect these
fellows. His defence didn’t suggest that he had any enemies. He only
denied all knowledge of the theft, and his counsel argued that the
real thief had used his rooms to hide the diamonds in because he was
surprised and scared.”
“Yes. That was pretty feeble, wasn’t it? These lawyers, Eddis, these
lawyers! A stodgy tribe.”
“We do like evidence.”
“Then why not use it? The man Witt was very interesting in the box.
He said that in the kindness of his heart he had offered this
ungrateful young doctor a job in the Dutch colonies. Quite a nice
long way from England, Eddis. Wilton wouldn’t take it. So Wilton had
to be provided for otherwise.”