EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF DAVID LAMBERT
DETECTIVE OFFICER.
_Thursday, March 15th_, 1896.
Arrested Mr. Reginald Boyd this evening for the murder of his father,
Mr. Samuel Boyd, of Catchpole Square. Arrest made at the door of the
Coroner's Court. Had a little scene with Mr. Rawdon, the juryman who
has been making all this fuss during the inquiry.
Mr. Reginald Boyd bore his arrest very well. So did his good little
wife, who agreeably disappointed my expectation that she would break
down. So did not Mrs. Inspector Robson, a brick of a woman, who showed
me very plainly what she thought of me. I may say emphatically that
her feelings are the reverse of friendly, and from a woman of strong
opinions it is just what might be expected. But then she doesn't know
what is good for her; she would have to be gifted with second sight
before she would give me a civil word just now. Poor women! I pity
them. They will have a weary night of it.
If things turn out as I anticipate this arrest will be about the
cleverest move I have ever made. Reason why? Because I believe Mr.
Reginald Boyd to be as innocent as I am myself.
Why arrest him, then?
In the first place, because he had to be arrested, and if I had not
done it another officer would. Indeed, it is I who am indirectly
responsible for the issuing of the warrant. More correct, perhaps, to
say for expediting its issue. I could name half-a-dozen men who were
burning to make the arrest. They would have to rise very early to get
ahead of me.
In the second place, because I wasn't sorry to be able to do Inspector
Robson a good turn. A queer way of setting about it, he would say. But
it's true, for all that. And it's as good a thing as could have
happened to the young fellow.
In the third place, because, had the arrest not been made by me, I
should have no excuse for interviewing Dr. Pye. I hope to have
something to tell my French brother-in arms, Joseph Pitou, that will
astonish his weak nerves. He writes to me from Milan, where he is
making inquiries, he says. Is sorry he can't come over to London, he
says. I am not. I don't want him yet awhile. Keep away, friend Joseph,
keep away, till I send for you. There's plenty to puzzle over in this
Catchpole Square Mystery without having the other mystery of Louis
Lorenz piled on the top of it--that's what most men would think. I'm
not one of them. It needs something big in the way of sensation to
wake people up in this year of grace. If all turns out well, they'll
get it. Besides take Louis Lorenz out of the case, and what becomes of
Dr. Pye?
Dick Remington has a plan of operations already cut and dried--I'll
take my oath of that. It's humiliating to have to confess that I
haven't a notion what it is. Never mind. I'll back what I know against
what he knows, and we'll see who'll get to the winning post first. If
I had a leisure hour I'd ferret out the connection between him and
that old fence Higgins; as it is, I haven't a leisure minute.
Let me see. What have I to do to-morrow? First, the magistrate's
court, to give evidence of the arrest. Shall have to remain till the
remand's granted. There is sure to be a sharp lawyer on the other
side. If they're wise they will engage one of the highest standing.
I don't expect to be free till two or three o'clock, and then I must
see if I can hunt up the case of Louis Lorenz. There was a description
of the man in the papers, but I doubt if I shall be able to lay hands
on it, as there was no suspicion of the man coming our way. Then there
was a report that he was found dead in a wood in Gallicia, shot
through the heart. It was in Gallicia he was tried and condemned to
death, and three days afterwards escaped from gaol. Some said he
bribed the gaolers. The property was never traced. Friend Joseph Pitou
promises to send a portrait of him, and full personal particulars.
At eight o'clock I present myself at Dr. Pye's house in Shore Street,
and send in my card. A welcome visitor? Not much of an open question
that. Then will commence the tug of war. Strange that I have never set
eyes on him. I was not in the Coroner's Court when he gave evidence.
Very good of him to come forward, wasn't it, to drive a nail in Mr.
Reginald Boyd's coffin.
One o'clock. I must get to bed.
_Friday, March 16th_, 1896.
A busy day. I must set things down, or they will get muddled. Nothing
like system. Order is nature's first law. It is also mine.
By the first post a letter from friend Joseph. I passed it across the
table to my wife to translate. She shook her head. "Why," I said, "you
translated his other letters." "They were in French," she replied;
"this is in Italian. I don't understand Italian." And there the
rubbish lay on my table, and me staring helplessly at it, exasperating
me to that degree----!
Wasn't it enough to put a man out? What the devil does Joseph Pitou
mean by writing to me in all the languages under the sun? English is
good enough for me; isn't French good enough for him? Does it to crow
over me, I dare say, to show how superior the foreign detective
service is to ours. But I think we could teach you a trick or two,
friend Joseph. Off went a telegram to him in French (written, of
course, by my wife), requesting him to send me that letter again in
his own native language. And though it is now eleven o'clock at night
there is no reply. Do you call that business, Joseph Pitou? And where
is the portrait you promised to send?
There is a word in the letter that my wife says means patience. It is
repeated three times. Friend Joseph, no one knows the value of
patience better than David Lambert; he has exercised it to good
purpose in times gone by. But when a man that you would take your oath
is innocent is in a prison cell on a charge of murder it isn't easy to
exercise it, especially when you get letters written in foreign
languages.
Mr. Reginald Boyd's people have engaged the soundest and best counsel
in London in a case of this kind--Mr. Pallaret. None of your bullies
or cockchafers, but a man that knows the law and will stand no
nonsense, and a man that the bench listens to with respect. They could
not have done better, and he made it pretty plain that he did not mean
to allow this case to drag on at the pleasure of the police. They were
all in the magistrate's court, Inspector Robson and his wife, and Mrs.
Reginald Boyd, and, of course, the prisoner. Upon my word, it looks
like injustice to set the word against him, believing what I believe,
and knowing all the time that the case of the prosecution is as weak
as water. I did not give them a glance, but I felt Mrs. Robson's eye
upon me, and I was downright sorry for them. However, it was soon
over. Remanded for a week. That gives us breathing time, but to the
devil with your patience, friend Joseph.
I make a mistake when I say they were all there. Dick Remington was
absent, and it rather surprised me. So when I left the court I made my
way to Catchpole Square, just to give him the time of day and see how
he took it. There I met with another surprise. On the door of Samuel
Boyd's house is a written notice, saying that Dick Remington is absent
on business, and that all communications for him are to be addressed
to Inspector Robson.
Now, what is the meaning of that? On my way to Dr. Pye's to-night I
met Constable Applebee, on night duty there. When I see there's
something on a man's mind that's as likely as not to be of service to
me if I can get at it, I encourage that man to talk. I saw there was
something on Applebee's mind--you can see through him with half an
eye--and I encouraged _him_ to talk. Glad enough he was, and willing
enough. And what do you think he asked me? Why, if I knew where Dick
Remington was hanging out? "In Catchpole Square, of course," I
answered, quite innocently. "That he isn't," said Applebee, as
triumphantly as if we were playing a hand at cards and he had won a
trick by fine play. "There's a notice pasted on the door that he's not
to be found there; he's gone away on business it says." "Well," said
I, "if he's not to be found in Catchpole Square you'll find him at
Inspector Robson's house." "No, I sha'n't," he answered, thinking he'd
scored another trick. "I've been there, and from what Mrs. Robson said
it's my belief she doesn't know where he is." "That's singular," I
said, "what do _you_ make of it?" "What do you make of it, Mr.
Lambert?" he asked. I considered a moment, and then said I gave it up.
"But _you've_ an opinion," said I, insinuatingly. "Let's have it."
Upon which he volunteered his conviction that Dick Remington had cut
and run. "Why should he cut and run?" I asked, as innocent as any
baby. "That," he answered, solemnly shutting himself up, "I must keep
to myself." I laughed in my sleeve. _He_ wants to discover the
murderer of Samuel Boyd, and collar the reward, and he has come to the
conclusion that Dick Remington's the man. It's comic. I give you my
word, it's comic.
But I ask again, what is the meaning of Remington's disappearance? It
means something. What? Is he hunting for the tiger, and has he got a
clue? It seems to me that I mustn't lose time. That £500 belongs to
me, and I intend to have it.
At eight o'clock I knocked at Dr. Pye's door, and a young woman opened
it, a fine upstanding animal from the country. "Norfolk," said I to
myself when she asked me what I wanted in the sing-song voice peculiar
to the county. "I want to see Dr. Pye," I said. "Not at home," she
answered, without a moment's hesitation. "I think he is," I said. She
stared at me helplessly. "That is the answer you've been told to
give," I said. "Yes," she said. "To every one?" I asked. "Yes," she
said. I slipped my card and a sixpence into her hand. "Put the
sixpence in your pocket," I said, "and take my card up to Dr. Pye."
Willing as she was to pocket the sixpence I think she would have shut
the door in my face if I had left it free, but one leg was inside and
one out. "You will get in trouble if you don't do as I tell you," I
said. "I am an officer of the law--a policeman." I knew the magic
there was in the word to a Norfolk village girl. "Take the card this
instant to Dr. Pye," I said, in a tone of authority. She vanished, and
I waited five minutes by my watch before she came down again. "You can
come up," she said, and I noticed that she had been crying. We went
upstairs together, and she opened a door.
A man was standing at a table, holding a glass containing a liquid up
to the gas light. Two other glasses containing liquid were on the
table; the glasses were long and thin, and the liquid of different
colours. With the exception of these glasses, the table, and two
wooden chairs, the room was bare of furniture. The mantelshelf had not
an article upon it, there was not a picture on the walls. The house is
double-fronted, and must contain a great many rooms; the one I was in
faced Shore Street; there was a shutter to the window, partly closed.
"Dr. Pye?" I said.
"I am Dr. Pye," he answered. "Do not interrupt me; I am making an
experiment."
I stood still and silent, and waited.
From inquiries I have made no person in the neighbourhood is more than
casually acquainted with Dr. Pye. He has a reputation as a scientific
man, but I have been unable to ascertain on what precise grounds. It
is supposed that he is always experimenting with chemicals and gases,
and ignorant people go as far as to declare that he is searching for
the elixir of life. He is not on visiting terms with any of his
neighbours; all that is known and said of him is hearsay.
A remarkable looking man. There is a stoop in his shoulders, and at
the first glance he gives one the impression that he has passed all
his life in study. His eyes are the colour of steel, and I should
judge him to be possessed of great mesmeric power. His voice is slow
and deliberate; his manners, also. A man less given to impulsive
action I never gazed upon. I must not omit to mention that his hair is
iron grey, and his face clean shaven.
Holding one glass in his left hand he lifted another with his right,
and mixed the liquids. Then he placed the glasses on the table, and
fixed his eyes upon them.
He had not once looked steadily at me, but I recognised in his actions
a magnetic power which, had I been a man of weak nerve, would have
compelled me to follow the result of this experiment with an interest
as keen as his own appeared to be, and to the exclusion of every other
subject. To put it more plainly, he would, in a manner of speaking,
have emptied my mind of its own thoughts and replaced them with his.
This is what did _not_ occur. I followed the experiment with simple
curiosity.
After a silence which lasted two or three minutes he lifted his eyes
from the glasses, and they met mine. I smiled and nodded at him. He
did not return my salutation, and there was no change in his grey
face.
In the matter of expression I never met a man who seemed so utterly
devoid of it as Dr. Pye. His features might have been carved in wood,
his eyes might have been steel balls, for all the indication they gave
of what was passing in his mind. When you have any business on hand
with a man of that kind, beware. I had no need of the warning, having
all my wits about me, and having come prepared for possible squalls;
and whatever were my feelings regarding Dr. Pye, admiration was
certainly one of them. The prospect of a battle royal with such an
antagonist exhilarated me.
We continued to gaze at each other for a few moments, and I was
careful not to change my expression. That he was disappointed in my
manner I did not doubt; I was not exactly the kind of man he would
have liked me to be. My mind was my own; he had no power over it.
Presently he turned his attention again to the glasses on the table,
timing with his watch some expected change in the liquids he had
mixed. If he was the party I was searching for I needed to look to my
safety, so, though I showed no fear, and felt none, I did not move
from the spot upon which I had taken my stand on entering the room.
The handle of the door was within reach of my hand, so was my pretty
little revolver, which I can hold in my palm without anyone being the
wiser.
Opening a cupboard which, in my swift observation of it, contained
nothing but a few sticks and glasses, he took a slender cane from a
shelf, and stirred up the liquid. As he did so it burst gradually into
flame, in which shone all the colours of the rainbow. Tiny streams of
fire ascended fountainlike into the air, and dropped back into the
glass; it burnt, I should say, for the space of three minutes, the
colours all the time glowing and changing. In a small way I have
seldom seen anything prettier. At first I was inclined to regard this
little performance as a kind of hanky-panky, but I soon corrected
myself, for any person less resembling a vulgar showman than Dr. Pye
it would be difficult to find.
The coruscations of colour died away, the spiral threads of fire had
spent themselves, the liquid had disappeared, and at the bottom of the
glass was a small sediment, which Dr. Pye carefully emptied into a
piece of white satin tissue paper, which he carefully folded and put
into his pocket. Then he spoke.
"I gave the maid instructions that no person was to be admitted to see
me, as I was engaged upon an exceedingly delicate experiment which it
has taken me some days to prepare."
"I hope it has been successful," I said, politely.
"I cannot tell," he answered. "The small modicum of powder I have
collected is in its present state valueless except as a destroyer."
"As a destroyer?"
"Yes. The minutest portion of it dissolved in a glass of water is
sudden death. But these are matters in which you cannot be expected to
take an interest."
"Pardon me, doctor. To all men of intelligence such matters are of the
deepest interest"--I was proceeding when he waved the subject away.
"It is not of my scientific experiments you have come to speak. I see
by your card"--he referred to it--"that you are a detective officer."
"My name is tolerably well known," I said, and he stopped me again.
"To members of the criminal classes, no doubt. I am behind the age, I
am afraid."
If he thought to mortify me by implying that he had never heard of me
he did not succeed. "It is known to others outside those classes. You
have read my evidence in the case?"
"In what case?"
"The Catchpole Square case."
"No," he said, "such cases have no attraction for me. I used to take
in the daily newspapers, but I found that they distracted my attention
from my pursuits, so now I read only scientific papers."
"But you gave evidence at the inquest, doctor!"
"I know I did. A friend mentioned the matter to me, spoke of incidents
connected with it, and said that the murder must have taken place on
the night of Friday, the 1st of March. I recollected that I was up
late that night, and that, as I stood at my window at three in the
morning, some unusual movement in the Square forced itself upon my
attention; I recollected that I had used an insignificant little
invention of mine, a new kind of flash-light, to ascertain precisely
the details of the movement. I spoke of this to my friend, who said it
was my duty to come forward and relate what had come under my
observation. In consequence of that remark I tendered my evidence, and
was glad to be rid of the affair."
"But you are not rid of it, doctor," I said.
"How is that?"
"Have you not heard that Mr. Reginald Boyd has been arrested for the
murder?"
"No, I have not seen a newspaper this week, and you are the first
visitor I have had. The young man has been arrested, has he? I trust
he will be able to clear himself. When did the arrest take place?"
"Yesterday evening. I made it. It is news to you, then, that he was
brought before the magistrate this morning?"
"Yes, it is quite new to me. What was the result?"
"He is remanded for a week. It takes some time to get up a case of
this kind, and when we take one in hand we don't like to be beaten.
I've had to do with many, Dr. Pye, and I've never been beaten yet. I
don't mean to be beaten now."
There was the faintest show of interest on his countenance. "Do you
believe, in the young man's guilt, Mr. Lambert?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered. "Don't you?"
"How is it possible for me to have an opinion?" he said, and I looked
upon it as an astonishing remark for him to make after the evidence he
had given at the inquest.
"But you saw him leave the house on the night of the murder, doctor,
and under most suspicious circumstances, as if he were mortally afraid
of being caught. Is not that enough to base an opinion upon?"
"I must be just, Mr. Lambert. When my eyes fell upon Mr. Reginald Boyd
in the Court I was startled by the resemblance he bore to the man I
saw in the Square. If attention had not been called to my feeling of
astonishment, which I suppose was expressed in my face, I am not sure
whether I should have spoken of the resemblance."
"But consider, doctor. You came forward in the interests of justice."
"Undoubtedly."
"Of your own accord. Without being summoned."
"Yes."
"Would it have been in the interests of justice that you should
conceal this startling resemblance?"
"It is a fair question. It would not. But still I say I might have
reflected upon the matter before I gave my suspicion tongue."
"You would have left the Court without revealing the secret?"
"Secret!" he exclaimed.
"Well, it was a matter known only to yourself. May we not call such a
knowledge a secret?"
"You argue skilfully, and have drawn me into a conversation which I
would have perferred to avoid. My time is valuable, Mr. Lambert."
"So is mine, Dr. Pye."
There was a pause; each was waiting for the other to speak, and I was
determined he should be the first.
"May I inquire," he said, "your reason for evincing so extraordinary
an interest in this affair?"
Here was an opportunity for a bit of acting; I took advantage of it.
Leaning forward I said in my most serious tone, "Dr. Pye, my
reputation is at stake. It is a dangerous admission to make, but we
are closeted together in confidence, and may say anything to each
other without fear. No one can hear us"--(I was not so sure of that,
but it suited my purpose to say it)--"and if either of us were called
upon to give an account of our interview--though there is nothing more
unlikely--we might say what we pleased, invent what we pleased, put
into each other's mouth anything we pleased. That is the advantage of
speaking without witnesses."
"You are very frank," he said.
"It pays me to be so. I repeat, my reputation is at stake. I have
arrested a man for murder, and I am bound to prove him guilty. There
are jealousies in all professions; there are jealousies in mine. I am
surrounded by men who envy me, and who would like to step in my shoes.
They would clap their hands in delight if I let the man I arrested
slip through my fingers. Well, I don't intend to give them this
satisfaction. My present visit to you is partly private, partly
professional. Of course, if you say to me, 'Mr. Lambert, I decline to
have anything to do with your private feelings,' the only thing open
to me would be to keep those private feelings to myself, and to treat
you, professionally, as a witness who was not disposed to assist me."
"Justice must not be thwarted," he said.
"Exactly. You hit the nail on the head. May we continue the
conversation on the lines that will suit you?"
"Well, continue," he said; "it is rather novel to me, and I will
endeavour to work up an interest in a matter so entirely foreign to
me. You see," he added, and I was not sure whether he intended to be
humorous or serious, "there is nothing scientific in it."
"Not in a strict sense, perhaps, but, allowing a latitude, there is
something scientific in the methods we detectives pursue. The piecing
together of the loose bits of evidence which we hunt up, a bit here, a
bit there, arguing upon it, drawing conclusions from it, rejecting
what will not fit, filling up the empty spaces, until we present
the whole case without a crack in it for a guilty man to slip
through--that is what we call circumstantial evidence, and it is
really a science, doctor. Where did we break off? I was contending
that it would have been wrong for you to have left the Court without
speaking of the startling resemblance between Mr. Reginald Boyd and
the man you saw coming from his father's house in the middle of the
night. It would have been worse than wrong, it would have been
criminal. Now, doctor, a man of your penetration could not be
mistaken. He says he was home and in bed at the time, but it is
impossible for him to prove it. And why? Because there is not a shadow
of doubt that he was the man you saw. There must be no wavering in
your evidence on this point; the crime must be brought home to him; he
must not escape. Doctor Pye, you must let no feeling of compassion
prevent you from stating the honest truth. You see what is at stake in
this matter."
I may say, without vanity, that I was playing my cards well, and if I
did not laugh in his face--which would have been foolish, though I
could have done so with much enjoyment--I am entitled to my laugh at
the recollection of the scene.
"Your reputation is at stake," he said.
"I don't deny it; and the ends of justice; a much more important thing
to a gentleman of your position."
"Am I to infer that my presence will be necessary in a criminal
court?"
"It cannot be dispensed with. You will be served with a notice to
appear as a witness."
"When?"
"Next Friday at the Bishop Street Police Court. There is a clever
lawyer against us, Mr. Pallaret, and my instructions are to make the
case in its initial stages as strong as possible, for he will exert
all his powers to break it down."
"I must appear, I suppose," he said.
"And you will maintain that Mr. Reginald Boyd is the man."
"Yes, to the best of my knowledge and belief."
"Mr. Pallaret is a skilful cross-examiner."
"I will be prepared for him."
"He will endeavour to throw discredit upon your statement."
There was just the suspicion of a smile on his lips as he said, "Let
him try."
"It will be the more necessary for you to be firm, doctor," I said,
and I was curious to see whether he would fall into the trap, "because
Mrs. Death's evidence as to the time you saw Mr. Reginald Boyd come
out of the house is in direct contradiction to yours."
"Yes, I know."
"She says she heard the clock of Saint Michael's Church strike three
when she was in the Square."
"She is mistaken. She might easily be, alarmed as she was for the
safety of her husband."
He had fallen into the trap. Here was a man who had stated that I was
the first visitor he had had this week, and that he had not seen a
newspaper, acknowledging in his last replies to me that he was
acquainted with the evidence Mrs. Death had given in the Coroner's
Court yesterday. If it occurred to him that he had contradicted
himself he did not gather from me that I was aware of it. I rose to
go, and kept my face to him.
"I will wish you good night, doctor," I said, and then I lingered. "By
the way, might I see that clever little device of yours for throwing
light to a distance?"
"I am sorry I cannot show it to you," he replied. "It is being
repaired. Good night."
He was anxious to be rid of me, but I still lingered.
"It is from the back windows of your house, doctor, that you can see
into Catchpole Square?"
"Yes," he replied, and his voice was not cordial; but that I judge it
seldom is. I mean, that it was more guarded.
"Would you mind showing me the window you looked out of when you saw
Mr. Reginald Boyd?"
"I cannot show you the room to-night. It is used as a sleeping
apartment by one of the females in the house."
"I beg your pardon; but I should like to see it before next Friday."
"There will be no difficulty. Good night."
"Good night," I said again.
He accompanied me to the street door, inviting me by a motion of his
hand to precede him down the stairs. I would not be so impolite. I
insisted upon his going first, and I followed him, with my right hand
in the pocket containing my little revolver. Our last salutations
exchanged, he shut the street door upon me.
I walked to the end of the street, and then, on the opposite side of
the road, slowly retraced my steps till I was within twenty yards or
so of the house, and waited till Constable Applebee came round on his
beat.
"You will remain here," I said to him, "and keep Dr. Pye's house under
observation, without drawing attention upon yourself, till I return. I
shall be back in less than half an hour. Report to me if any person
enters or leaves the house during my absence."
When I returned it was in the company of an officer in plain clothes,
whom I had instructed to keep watch on the house until I sent another
man to relieve him. Applebee reported that Dr. Pye's street door had
not been opened.
Well, the train is laid. When it is fired, if friend Joseph Pitou is
not following a will-o'-the-wisp, there will be a rare explosion. Even
if he is, I think I can promise one.
What annoys me is, that I have been unable to get the particulars of
the case of Louis Lorenz.
A postman's knock at the door! The telegram!
Yes, here it is: "Letter, in French, to-morrow. Pitou."