SIR LUCIEN’S STUDY WINDOW
Old Bond Street presented a gloomy and deserted prospect to Chief
Inspector Kerry as he turned out of Piccadilly and swung along toward
the premises of Kazmah. He glanced at the names on some of the shop
windows as he passed, and wondered if the furriers, jewelers and other
merchants dealing in costly wares properly appreciated the services of
the Metropolitan Police Force. He thought of the peacefully slumbering
tradesmen in their suburban homes, the safety of their stocks wholly
dependent upon the vigilance of that Unsleeping Eye—for to an
unsleeping eye he mentally compared the service of which he was a
member.
A constable stood on duty before the door of the block. Red Kerry was
known by sight and reputation to every member of the force, and the
constable saluted as the celebrated Chief Inspector appeared.
“Anything to report, constable?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What?”
“The ambulance has been for the body, and another gentleman has been.”
Kerry stared at the man.
“Another gentleman? Who the devil’s the other gentleman?”
“I don’t know, sir. He came with Inspector Whiteleaf, and was inside
for nearly an hour.”
“Inspector Whiteleaf is off duty. What time was this?”
“Twelve-thirty, sir.”
Kerry chewed reflectively ere nodding to the man and passing on.
“Another gentleman!” he muttered, entering the hallway. “Why didn’t
Inspector Warley report this? Who the devil—” Deep in thought he walked
upstairs, finding his way by the light of the pocket torch which he
carried. A second constable was on duty at Kazmah’s door. He saluted.
“Anything to report?” rapped Kerry.
“Yes, sir. The body has been removed, and the gentleman with
Inspector—”
“Damn that for a tale! Describe this gentleman.”
“Rather tall, pale, dark, clean-shaven. Wore a fur-collared overcoat,
collar turned up. He was accompanied by Inspector Whiteleaf.”
“H’m. Anything else?”
“Yes. About an hour ago I heard a noise on the next floor—”
“Eh!” snapped Kerry, and shone the light suddenly into the man’s face
so that he blinked furiously.
“Eh? What kind of noise?”
“Very slight. Like something moving.”
“Like _something!_ Like _what_ thing? A cat or an elephant?”
“More like, say, a box or a piece of furniture.”
“And you did—what?”
“I went up to the top landing and listened.”
“What did you hear?”
“Nothing at all.”
Chief Inspector Kerry chewed audibly.
“All quiet?” he snapped.
“Absolutely. But I’m certain I heard something all the same.”
“How long had Inspector Whiteleaf and this dark horse in the fur coat
been gone at the time you heard the noise?”
“About half an hour, sir.”
“Do you think the noise came from the landing or from one of the
offices above?”
“An office I should say. It was very dim.”
Chief Inspector Kerry pushed upon the broken door, and walked into the
rooms of Kazmah. Flashing the ray of his torch on the wall, he found
the switch and snapped up the lights. He removed his overall and tossed
it on a divan with his cane. Then, tilting his bowler further forward,
he thrust his hands into his reefer pockets, and stood staring toward
the door, beyond which lay the room of the murder, in darkness.
“Who is he?” he muttered. “What’s it mean?”
Taking up the torch, he walked through and turned on the lights in the
inner rooms. For a long time he stood staring at the little square
window low down behind the ebony chair, striving to imagine uses for it
as his wife had urged him to do. The globular green lamp in the second
apartment was worked by three switches situated in the inside room, and
he had discovered that in this way the visitor who came to consult
Kazmah was treated to the illusion of a gradually falling darkness.
Then, the door in the first partition being opened, whoever sat in the
ebony chair would become visible by the gradual uncovering of a light
situated above the chair. On this light being covered again the figure
would apparently fade away.
It was ingenious, and, so far, quite clear. But two things badly
puzzled the inquirer; the little window down behind the chair, and the
fact that all the arrangements for raising and lowering the lights were
situated not in the narrow chamber in which Kazmah’s chair stood, and
in which Sir Lucien had been found, but in the room behind it—the room
with which the little window communicated.
The table upon which the telephone rested was set immediately under
this mysterious window, the window was provided with a green blind, and
the switchboard controlling the complicated lighting scheme was also
within reach of anyone seated at the table.
Kerry rolled mint gum from side to side of his mouth, and absently
tried the handle of the door opening out from this interior
room—evidently the office of the establishment—into the corridor. He
knew it to be locked. Turning, he walked through the suite and out on
to the landing, passing the constable and going upstairs to the top
floor, torch in hand.
From the main landing he walked along the narrow corridor until he
stood at the head of the back stairs. The door nearest to him bore the
name: “Cubanis Cigarette Company.” He tried the handle. The door was
locked, as he had anticipated. Kneeling down, he peered into the
keyhole, holding the electric torch close beside his face and chewing
industriously.
Ere long he stood up, descended again, but by the back stair, and stood
staring reflectively at the door communicating with Kazmah’s inner
room. Then walking along the corridor to where the man stood on, the
landing, he went in again to the mysterious apartments, but only to get
his cane and his overall and to turn out the lights.
Five minutes later he was ringing the late Sir Lucien’s door-bell.
A constable admitted him, and he walked straight through into the study
where Coombes, looking very tired but smiling undauntedly, sat at a
littered table studying piles of documents.
“Anything to report?” rapped Kerry.
“The man, Mareno, has gone to bed, and the expert from the Home office
has been—”
Inspector Kerry brought his cane down with a crash upon the table,
whereat Coombes started nervously.
“So that’s it!” he shouted furiously, “an ‘expert from the Home
office’! So that’s the dark horse in the fur coat. Coombes! I’m fed up
to the back teeth with this gun from the Home office! If I’m not to
have entire charge of the case I’ll throw it up. I’ll stand for no
blasted overseer checking my work! Wait till I see the Assistant
Commissioner! What the devil has the job to do with the Home office!”
“Can’t say,” murmured Coombes. “But he’s evidently a big bug from the
way Whiteleaf treated him. He instructed me to stay in the kitchen and
keep an eye on Mareno while he prowled about in here.”
“Instructed you!” cried Kerry, his teeth gleaming and his steel-blue
eyes creating upon Coombes’ mind an impression that they were emitting
sparks. “_Instructed_ you! I’ll ask you a question, Detective-Sergeant
Coombes: Who is in charge of this case?”
“Well, I thought you were.”
“You _thought_ I was?”
“Well, you are.”
“I am? Very well—you were saying—?”
“I was saying that I went into the kitchen—”
“Before that! Something about ‘instructed.’”
Poor Coombes smiled pathetically.
“Look here,” he said, bravely meeting the ferocious glare of his
superior, “as man to man. What could I do?”
“You could stop smiling!” snapped Kerry. “Hell!” He paced several times
up and down the room. “Go ahead, Coombes.”
“Well, there’s nothing much to report. I stayed in the kitchen, and the
man from the Home office was in here alone for about half an hour.”
“Alone?”
“Inspector Whiteleaf stayed in the dining-room.”
“Had he been ‘instructed’ too?”
“I expect so. I think he just came along as a sort of guide.”
“Ah!” muttered Kerry savagely, “a sort of guide! Any idea what the
bogey man did in here?”
“He opened the window. I heard him.”
“That’s funny. It’s exactly what I’m going to do! This smart from
Whitehall hasn’t got a corner in notions yet, Coombes.”
The room was a large and lofty one, and had been used by a former
tenant as a studio. The toplights had been roofed over by Sir Lucien,
however, but the raised platform, approached by two steps, which had
probably been used as a model’s throne, was a permanent fixture of the
apartment. It was backed now by bookcases, except where a blue plush
curtain was draped before a French window.
Kerry drew the curtain back, and threw open the folding leaves of the
window. He found himself looking out upon the leads of Albemarle
Street. No stars and no moon showed through the grey clouds draping the
wintry sky, but a dim and ghostly half-light nevertheless rendered the
ugly expanse visible from where he stood.
On one side loomed a huge tank, to the brink of which a rickety wooden
ladder invited the explorer to ascend. Beyond it were a series of iron
gangways and ladders forming part of the fire emergency arrangements of
the neighboring institution. Straight ahead a section of building
jutted up and revealed two small windows, which seemed to regard him
like watching eyes.
He walked out on to the roof, looking all about him. Beyond the tank
opened a frowning gully—the Arcade connecting Albemarle Street with old
Bond Street; on the other hand, the scheme of fire gangways was
continued. He began to cross the leads, going in the direction of Bond
Street. Coombes watched him from the study. When he came to the more
northerly of the two windows which had attracted his attention, he
knelt down and flashed the ray of his torch through the glass.
A kind of small warehouse was revealed, containing stacks of packages.
Immediately inside the window was a rough wooden table, and on this
table lay a number of smaller packages, apparently containing
cigarettes.
Kerry turned his attention to the fastening of the window. A glance
showed him that it was unlocked. Resting the torch on the leads, he
grasped the sash and gently raised the window, noting that it opened
almost noiselessly. Then, taking up the torch again, he stooped and
stepped in on to the table below.
It moved slightly beneath his weight. One of the legs was shorter than
its fellows. But he reached the floor as quietly as possible, and
instantly snapped off the light of the torch.
A heavy step sounded from outside—someone was mounting the stairs—and a
disk of light suddenly appeared upon the ground-glass panel of the
door.
Kerry stood quite still, chewing steadily.
“Who’s there?” came the voice of the constable posted on Kazmah’s
landing.
The inspector made no reply.
“Is there anyone here?” cried the man.
The disk of light disappeared, and the alert constable could be heard
moving along the corridor to inspect the other offices. But the ray had
shone upon the frosted glass long enough to enable Kerry to read the
words painted there in square black letters. They had appeared
reversed, of course, and had read thus:
[Illustration]