MAJOR HORNBY AND THE VENETIAN DAGGER
The Monday afternoon following the murder found Roper busy in the small
and unpretentious building in Considine that served as the Police
Station. As he worked he muttered to himself. "Take a Kodak with you on
your holidays. I don't think. When I get my holidays I'll take darned
good care to leave my photography apparatus at home." He looked at the
clock. "Just on three o'clock--the Inspector will be here in a jiffy."
He held half a dozen plates to the light--then put them down again on
the window-sill. "They'll be just about ready for him."
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Roper."
He turned quickly. "Hallo, Griffiths," he said as a constable entered.
"Got back all right then?"
Constable Griffiths grinned. "You've said it. Ran 'em into Lewes Jail
about half-past eleven this morning--wasn't half a mob as the van drew
up. News spreads, don't it, Mr. Roper? Nice job for a Bank Holiday!"
Roper nodded. "Guess they won't call it a honeymoon, that pair," he
reflected. "Still, things aren't at all clear...."
"Which one did the job, do you think?" interrogated Griffiths.
"Which job?"
"Why, the murder, of course. What's the Inspector think?" He went on. "I
know he ain't holding 'em yet for that job--I was here when they were
charged, but he's a dark horse, he is," he chuckled as at some
particularly satisfying reminiscence ... "I've known him years."
"Well, Griffiths, he hasn't confided in me ... yet," rejoined Roper,
"but if you want my opinion, for what it's worth, we aren't by any means
at the end of the case ... not by a long way."
Griffiths showed signs of agreement, sagely. "I gave Dr. Elliott a hand
when they brought the body down to the mortuary," he announced with an
obvious sense of importance, "unusual thing you know, Mr. Roper, a bloke
strangled and stabbed like this one was--like the pictures," he
concluded with evident relish.
"Yes," said Roper. "I can tell you it's given the Inspector plenty to
think about."
"More in it than meets the eye, eh?" Griffiths delivered this profound
opinion with a prodigious amount of head shaking and brow knitting.
"Shouldn't be surprised--but clear out now--here comes the Governor."
Griffiths adjusted his chin-strap. "Right-O--I'll come and see you
later."
"Did I hear you talking, Roper?" said Baddeley, as he entered. "Who was
it?" As I am entirely indebted to Baddeley himself for the substance of
this chapter, I can say with assurance that he mistook the constable's
voice for that of Fitch, Sir Charles Considine's butler, hence this
rather peremptory opening question--but he was a man who took very few
chances--and his mind at this particular time was casting, as it were,
backwards and forwards, to grasp any point that seemed of the slightest
significance.
"Constable Griffiths, sir," replied Roper. "He's been to Lewes, as you
know, sir, with the two prisoners and just got back. They're pretty
quiet, he says," volunteered Roper in addition. "Dazed-like."
"Humph!" grunted Baddeley. "Those photographs ready yet?"
"Just about, sir, I think." Roper went to the window and brought them
back. Then extracted them, one by one, from their frames.
Baddeley glanced quickly at the first two or three--those of Prescott's
dead body lying as we had found it.
"I want the finger-prints and the photo of those on the Venetian
dagger," he said impatiently. "I'm puzzled, Roper, the whole case
puzzles me--I want to see if any of the prints we got on those
interesting letters of yours correspond with those we originally spotted
on the dagger."
"Very good, sir," murmured Roper. "There's a beauty there of the dagger
prints"--he handed it over to his superior--"the others won't be very
long."
"Thanks! A remarkable case, Roper, don't you think?" He went on without
giving his assistant time to reply. "A man murdered in a country house,
with two weapons employed--although according to the medical testimony
the shoe-lace did the job effectively and the dagger wasn't needed. The
body is found in the billiard room on the billiard-table--in evening
dress and brown shoes. Where's the motive?"
"Ah, that's it, sir," interposed Roper. "Find that and you'll see
daylight."
"Well," went on Baddeley, "there are three people against whom we can
lodge a motive or a partial motive." He ticked them off on his fingers.
"(One) Webb--Prescott interrupted him or was in some way connected with
him ... he had been out that night on some pretext. (Two) Lieutenant
Barker--he had financial reasons for wishing Prescott out of the
way--and his I.O.U. cannot be traced. (Three) Major Hornby--he was
Barker's friend and brother officer. And had lost money to Prescott
similarly. Also he was the reverse of candid when I spoke to him." He
paused and considered. "They're the three I've got something against,
Roper, and one of those three had the shoe-lace in his pocket. Pretty
conclusive, some people would say, and yet ... and yet. I'm not
satisfied. Can you see the unusual features of this affair, Roper?"
"Seem to me a large number, sir," answered Roper. "Do you mean any
particular one?"
"I mean this. Everybody in the house has got the same alibi--of course
an unsupported and unsatisfactory one, I admit--but there it is. 'I was
asleep, Inspector.'"
"I suppose if the murdered man were here and could speak, he'd say he
was asleep too!" Roper grinned at the sally.
"Young Mr. Considine and Captain Arkwright admitted to a certain amount
of wakefulness, sir," he reminded the Inspector.
"Yes--I know. Arkwright heard the 'Spider'--I've no doubt on that
point--Jack Considine may have heard anything--Marshall--Mrs. Webb, if
you prefer it--possibly leaving the billiard room--it's an idea
certainly."
Roper pursed his lips together. "It's the motives some people _may_ have
had, sir, the motives that have to be probed for. What's that bit the
French say about looking for a woman always?"
"_Cherchez la femme_," said Baddeley. "I wonder."
"Any one of the people up at the Manor may be guilty, sir, it seems to
me," continued the indefatigable Roper, "and then again it may come back
quite simply and directly to 'Spider' Webb. The job is to pick out the
main trail and not go dashing off into side tracks that eventually
become blind alleys."
"Very true, Roper, very true," smiled Baddeley. "But it isn't quite so
easy as you imagine; one of your side tracks may turn out to be that
main trail and what you think is the main trail, may prove to be only a
side track."
"That Mr. Bathurst's a smart young fellow, sir. He'd have done well in
our line, don't you think so?"
"Perhaps! You can't always tell. What about those prints?"
Roper took them out. "They're all numbered, sir. And I've got the
corresponding numbers in my note-book. And I fancy we've got pretty well
everybody here. Everybody that's likely, that is!" He paused. Then
continued: "We haven't got the 'Spider's,' sir. You haven't forgotten
that, have you?... And I'm thinking his are the most likely."
"No, I know, Roper. Easily get those from 'the Yard' if necessary."
Roper arranged the photographs. "I'll put them in numerical order, sir,
that will simplify matters a bit."
Baddeley picked up his magnifying glass and proceeded on his course of
comparison. But one by one he laid the photos down again. Then suddenly
he shot up from his seat.
"You've clicked, Roper!" he shouted. He looked at the back. "Number 9,"
he exclaimed, "number nine for a certainty, look--the identical loops
and whorls--who in the name of thunder is Nine--where's your
note-book--quick, man, quick!" The prints had come out clearly and
distinctly. And when compared with the photograph of those on the
Venetian dagger, there didn't remain the shadow of a doubt that the same
fingers had made them. Roper flicked the leaves of his note-book.
"Number Nine, sir?" he queried. He ran his eye down the page. "Major
Hornby!"
Baddeley gasped. "This beats the band, Roper, but all the same, mark my
words, one of the three with a motive that's known. Well, I'm blessed."
Roper looked wise and said nothing.
Baddeley's mind went back. "He practically refused all information when
I questioned him, and told me to mind my own business. If he's the
murderer of Prescott he reckons we've got no proof at all ... he'll try
to put up a big bluff. Now where do I stand? All I can put against him
so far is a motive, finger-prints on a dagger that has played some part
in the crime ... anything else? I can't put a truculent manner and
attitude in as compromising evidence." He paced the room--backwards and
forwards. "Gets a darned sight more complicated every step," he
grumbled.
"This dagger was kept in the drawing-room, wasn't it, sir?" said Roper.
"So I'm told. On what they called the curio table. What are you driving
at?"
"Well, I don't somehow think the 'Spider' ever got into the
drawing-room."
"Marshall may have taken it from the table."
"Why don't her finger-prints show then, sir?"
"True ... Major Hornby seems to have been the last person to have used
it."
"He could easily have taken it to his bedroom, sir," continued Roper.
"Yes, he slept alone. It's feasible. But why the deuce was Prescott
outside that night?" Baddeley blazed. "Tell me that and I'll tell you a
lot more ... nothing I light on seems to have any bearing on that point.
And till I know, I'm messing round in the dark."
"Where does this Major Hornby hang out, sir?" questioned Roper.
"Don't know at the moment, but Sir Charles Considine will let me know at
once if I ask him. I think I will."
Anthony and I were in the garden when the Inspector arrived. He looked
worried and puzzled but determined.
"Good-afternoon, gentlemen, Sir Charles about and handy?"
Anthony looked at me. "Yes," I said, "you'll probably find him in the
library."
"Thank you." He passed through into the house, and it was not for some
days that I learned of the reason underlying his visit or what
transpired at his interview with Sir Charles Considine. Our host, I
imagine, was not too pleased at Baddeley's reappearance. We had had a
brief period of comparative quiet after the arrest of Webb and his wife,
and Sir Charles was expecting to be left alone until the inquest. This
advent of Baddeley disturbed him and brought back the sinister
influences that he had been trying to forget.
"The address of Major Hornby? Of course you can have it! But surely,
Inspector, you don't harbor any suspicions against a gentleman of Major
Hornby's standing?"
"Not at all, Sir Charles," replied Baddeley cheerfully. "I merely want a
little more information from the Major on one particular point than he
was able to give me when I saw him previously. That is all, sir."
Sir Charles rummaged through his pigeonholes. "Major Hornby is a man of
unimpeachable integrity, Baddeley--a British Officer--don't
forget--and--er--a gentleman. Here's the address." He turned a card
over. Baddeley took it. "Melville's Hotel, Canterbury," he read.
"Thank you, Sir Charles. Please accept my sincere apologies for
disturbing you. By the way--the inquest has been fixed for Thursday."
Sir Charles thanked him, and the Inspector bowed himself out.
"I want you to motor me over to Canterbury, Roper," he announced as soon
as he got back. "Major Hornby's staying there--it shouldn't take us too
long although, being Bank Holiday, the roads are certain to be pretty
thick." A couple of hours' journey took them over, and shortly
afterwards the car drew up outside Melville's Hotel.
The Inspector sent up his card with the request that he might see the
Manager. A tall man--dark and rather military-looking--quickly attended
upon him.
Baddeley told him his errand. "Major Hornby is staying
here--certainly--he arrived late on Saturday evening--but he is not in
at the present moment."
"Would he be likely to be long?" inquired the Inspector.
The Manager didn't think so--he would speak to one of the waiters. Would
the Inspector be kind enough to excuse him for a moment? Baddeley kicked
his heels in the vestibule. But his patience was not strained for long.
"Major Hornby is expected back for dinner--he has asked his waiter to
reserve him a corner seat at one of the dining-tables. Will you wait,
Inspector, or call back in about an hour?" Baddeley thought the matter
over for a moment and decided to call back.
"Roper," he said as he entered the car, "drive to a nice little pub,
where we can get a Guinness and something to eat in a certain amount of
seclusion. I'm getting a bit peckish."
Now this was a job near Roper's heart, and he lost little time in the
fulfilment of the instruction. The saloon they entered was moderately
full, and divided into two compartments, one of which was curtained off
and designated, "Smoke Lounge." Baddeley elected to remain in the
ordinary compartment and was just settling down to the enjoyment of his
"snack" when the fragment of a conversation from the other side of the
curtain arrested his attention and screwed all his faculties to their
highest pitch. "Well, Barker," said a voice that sounded strangely
familiar, "I'm glad I met you as you suggested--and I'm more than glad
that you've come to me for advice. I've given it to you, and I hope
you'll decide to take it. It's always as well in affairs of this kind,
to make a clean breast to somebody. And I don't imagine that the truth
will ever be brought to light now--so you can rest in peace."
Baddeley's eyes met Roper's--he put his finger to his lips.
"Thanks awfully, Major," came the reply, "it's been no end of a worry
wondering what has been found out, and what hasn't, and I'm deuced glad
to have told you. I'll say good-night"; and before Baddeley could offer
any further warning--the heavy, dark-blue curtain parted and there
stepped out Lieutenant Barker. Without noticing their presence, he
strode across the apartment and disappeared. The Inspector gripped the
edge of the table with his fingers. Then he leaned across and addressed
his companion.
"I'm going to strike while the iron's hot," he whispered. "You stay here
and listen--I'm going in there to have a word with Major Hornby. Don't
move from this table till you see me again."
Roper accepted the situation with an understanding nod, and Baddeley
pushed the curtains to one side and stepped through.
"Good-evening, Major Hornby," he said cordially. "May I sit down?"
Major Hornby looked up in amazement. Then his breeding got the better of
his inclinations. He suffered himself to return the Inspector's
greeting. He then turned nonchalantly to the table and emptied his
glass. This accomplished he rose as though to go. Baddeley raised his
hand.
"I want a word with you, Major," he spoke very quietly, and not without
dignity, "and, believe me, I have come some miles to get it."
Major Hornby shrugged his shoulders. Then he spoke very coldly. "You are
imposing a distinct strain on my forbearance, Inspector Baddeley--I have
already given you all the information I can. That should satisfy even
your fund of curiosity."
"All the information you _can_?" queried Baddeley, "or all the
information you intend to give me?"
Hornby eyed him with strong disfavor. "Call it what you choose."
Baddeley's impatience mastered him. "Look here, Major," he said, "I'm
going to be perfectly frank with you, and I'm not going to beat about
the bush." Hornby raised his eyebrows.
"I'm afraid I'm at a loss to----"
Baddeley cut him short. Lowering his voice considerably he leaned right
across the table, and something in his persistence compelled Hornby to
listen attentively. "You will remember, Major, that Mr. Prescott besides
having been strangled--had been stabbed at the base of the neck with a
dagger--known to Sir Charles Considine, your late host, and to his
intimates, as the Venetian dagger?"
Major Hornby showed signs of assent. The Inspector proceeded. "That
dagger was prepared and photographed on my instructions, immediately
after I first arrived on the scene, and on the result showed a distinct
set of finger-marks." His companion began to show evidence of interest.
"Now, Major," and here Baddeley grew grave, "I made it my business to
obtain a set of finger-prints of the various people I encountered in the
house"--he was studying Hornby very carefully now--"and I have compared
the incriminating set with the specimens I managed to obtain." He
paused.
"I'm all attention, Inspector," said the Major. "And you
discovered----?"
"That the finger-prints were _yours_--Major Hornby."
"Really, Inspector--now that's most interesting--when are you going to
arrest me?"
Baddeley waved the sarcasm on one side. "Can you explain what I have
just told you?"
Hornby pulled at his top lip, thoughtfully.
"Quite easily to a point," he said. He looked at the Inspector, who
showed no sign. Hornby went on. "I held that dagger in my hand on the
evening before Prescott was murdered."
"What were the circumstances?"
The Major smiled. "Nothing suspicious. After dinner that evening, we
were talking about crime----"
Baddeley was immediately alert. "What? Who was?"
"All of us. The conversation was general. Why do you ask?"
"Who was responsible for the turn the conversation took? Anybody in
particular--think carefully--it may be of the greatest importance?"
"Well, if you ask me, Inspector, it was Bathurst--he rather fancies
himself, you know, in the sleuth line. Can't think of anybody else. Yes,
I'm sure he began it."
Baddeley nodded. "All right! Go on!"
Hornby reflected. "Where was I?"
"Talking about crime," muttered his companion grimly. "Only talking----"
"Oh yes! Well, the conversation got pretty well going--murders and
detectives and what not, and it didn't seem likely that cards would be
started for some little time--and I wandered round the drawing-room.
When I got to the curio table, as it was called, my eyes fell on the
Venetian dagger. I couldn't help thinking how it fitted in with the
subject of the reigning conversation. I picked it up and examined it
with some interest--and the thought came to me that it might have sent
more than one soul into eternity."
The Inspector listened eagerly, and with some impatience.
"Yes, yes!" he said. "What then?"
Major Hornby shook his head--"There's nothing more to tell. I put the
dagger back on the table and shortly afterwards started to play cards."
Baddeley thought for a moment. His next question the Major thought
surprising.
"Tell me, Major Hornby," he said, "when you were examining the dagger,
did you by any chance happen to notice if any person in the room was
watching you?"
Hornby looked him straight in the eyes. "That's very remarkable--because
I did."
"Who was it?" The Inspector's eyes gleamed with excitement.
"Gerald Prescott!"
Baddeley pushed his chair back--then mastered his discomfiture. Hornby
eyed him with cool nonchalance. "And I can tell you something else of
importance. When I went to bed that night--the Venetian dagger had gone
from the curio table!! Because I looked."