THE HAIRPIN CLUE
IN point of fact the first real clue I secured in this case consisted of
that hairpin I found on the floor of the lower cellar, though its bearing
on the mystery was not at first apparent. But it introduced me to a new
set of circumstances and took me a step or two on the road I wished to
travel. Until then I had been wandering round and round in a circle. My
first thought was that the hairpin belonged to Kitty Clevedon and that
she had deliberately deceived me when she declared that she had not
visited the cellar prior to conducting Thoyne and myself thither. My
suspicion was that she had been there and that she had found and removed
some traces of her brother—that she was, in fact, still playing a game of
bluff; though I did not believe that this time Thoyne was in it. She was
hoodwinking him as well as myself.
I set a watch on the cellar beneath the ruined wing, making myself a
hiding-place by clearing out some of the furniture in one corner and
restacking it so as to leave a narrow passage in which I could conceal
myself if I wished. And I set little traps of a very simple description,
but sufficient to show me on my next visit that somebody had been there
in my absence and had penetrated to the lower chamber by way of the
swinging flagstone; but I was more than astonished when during one of my
periods, behind my little rampart, I discovered that the visitor was not
Kitty Clevedon at all, but—Nora Lepley.
In all my imaginings my thoughts had never once turned to her. She came
in without faltering or hesitation, as one who knew her way intimately,
and swung open the trap-door, which she propped up by means of a board.
Then, taking the short ladder which I have already mentioned, and which I
knew by means of my little arrangements had been used during my absence,
she let it down, and by it descended to the lower cellar.
As soon as her head had disappeared I crept to the opening on hands and
knees and saw her lift out a rough block of stone which concealed a small
opening not unlike a natural cupboard. Then she took a small flash-lamp
from the pocket of her big apron and sent a beam of light into the hollow
place, but situated as I was I could not see whether she put anything in
or took something out. For a minute or two she stood pondering almost as
if she were trying to make up her mind on some doubtful point, then with
a quick sigh she replaced the lamp in her pocket and restored the stone.
I flitted back swiftly and noiselessly to my own corner whence I watched
her return from the lower depths, close down the stone and lay the ladder
along the wall, all with sedate, unhurried movements, as one who had no
reason to fear interruption. When she was quite safely away, and I
followed her to make sure, I went in my turn into the lower cellar to
investigate that little cupboard. It was evidently her own private safe,
containing all sorts of oddments a young girl might hide away when she
found too many prying eyes at home—a bundle of letters, an envelope
containing £20 in Treasury notes, some oddments of jewellery and so on.
But what most attracted my attention, because they were in such curious
contrast with the rest of the collection, were a drinking-glass and a
small phial wrapped in white paper. I picked the latter up and noticed a
number of figures lightly pencilled on the wrapper arranged in double
column thus:
9.37 3.17
11.21 4.28
12.18 5.19
1.34 6.37
What they could mean I could not imagine, nor did I worry very long about
them. I removed the wrapper, to find inside a small phial labelled
“Pemberton’s Drops,” which were described as “a safe remedy for headache,
sleeplessness, and all nerve troubles.” The dose was forty drops to be
taken in water or other liquid. I turned the bottle over and saw a
circular, red label, not much larger than a sixpence, on which was
printed in small, white letters “Grainger, Midlington”—obviously the
chemist from whom Nora Lepley had purchased her sleeping drug. I could
well understand that she did not want her friends to know that she took
an hypnotic composition of this character.
Almost without knowing what I was doing I removed the cork, and then with
a sudden jerk realised what it was I had stumbled upon. I smelt the
unmistakable odour of bitter almonds. Whatever the phial had contained
when Grainger of Midlington sold it to Nora Lepley, it was nearly full
now of a strong solution of hydrocyanic acid. I took up the glass, but
it was perfectly dry and odourless, despite which I had no doubt that it
had been the vehicle by which Sir Philip Clevedon had taken the poison.
The real art and science of the detective lies in building up one fact
upon another until the edifice begins to assume intelligible shape. I am
far from saying that a Sherlock Holmes is impossible. On the contrary, I
have met people possessed as he was of a sense of intuition almost as
keen and certain as seeing and hearing in ordinary men. But they are
few. The average detective, though he may indulge in theories, depends
really on facts and is wise not to wander very far from them. And he
will find, if he is sufficiently practised and astute, that facts breed
facts, and that a clue, even if it does not lead to the required
solution, does often produce other clues that continue the chain
unbroken. A “clue” that leads nowhere never was anything but a false
clue from the beginning. And a detective is largely dependent upon what
ordinary folk describe as luck or chance. His skill consists in making
use of chance and in missing nothing that luck brings him.
The police have, in addition to the natural astuteness of individuals,
the assistance of a singularly complete and effective organisation that
enables them to push their inquiries far and wide and, when they have
settled on their man, to weave round him a net from which escape is all
but impossible. By telegraph and telephone, the police of the whole
country can be put on the alert, descriptions can be circulated in a few
minutes, information conveyed and facts gathered until the story is
complete. The English police work under some difficulty since the
methods of questioning and even bullying that are legal in France and are
frequently permitted in America are rigidly forbidden here. English law
really does try to live up to the theory that a man is innocent until he
is proved guilty and that he must not be trapped into any unwary
admission. I do not mean to say that the English police invariably abide
by the strict letter of the law or always observe it in spirit. There
are occasions when it is worth while to take risks. But, generally
speaking, the law as it is and as it is administered aids the criminal
and hampers the police, despite which, however, the latter are
wonderfully successful.
Still, I can hear someone saying, many crimes go unpunished, many
criminals remain undiscovered. True, but one has to remember that many
criminals are known against whom there is no clear proof. The conviction
of a wrong-doer is a matter of evidence not of belief. I am acquainted
with two persons, one a man very well known in business circles, the
other a lady of great charm and important position, who, I am quite sure,
are murderers. The police are equally aware of the fact. But so
skilfully have the criminals covered every trace that anything like proof
would be wholly impossible.
And, again, it must not be forgotten that the criminal may be a person of
first-class education, alert mentally, intrepid, with money, position and
influence to aid him, and that he not only prepared the ground before the
crime without hindrance or suspicion but was able to use his skill and
resource in confusing the pursuit after it. A burglar, jewel thief, or
the like, may be a person of the Bill Sikes variety, but he is quite as
likely to be a University man with a profession and income and a wide
circle of friends.
When brains are pitted against brains it is a straight fight and the best
brains win quite irrespective of right or morality. The pursuit’s most
valuable and useful asset lies in the fact that most criminals sooner or
later make mistakes, and crime as a rule leaves no margin for error. The
alert detective misses nothing of that sort and loses no opportunity his
opponent may concede to him. But when all is said, facts remain the
detective’s chief stock-in-trade, and it is the connected chain of
established facts that eventually leads him to the solution required and
the person wanted.
So far, for example, in this Clevedon case I had been groping in the
dark, hanging grimly on to the few facts I had; and my blunderings and
stumblings had led me to that little phial of poison in Nora Lepley’s
secret hiding-place. I could not see yet the full bearing of that
discovery, but it was a new fact which I had reached simply by following
my nose.
Of course, I made a special journey into Midlington to look up Grainger,
the chemist, who, I learnt, had been in business in the city about
thirty-five years, was widely known, and very highly respected. I made a
small purchase, and noticed that there were several bottles of
Pemberton’s Drops in the large glass case that was full of various
proprietary medicines.
“Is that stuff any use for sleeplessness?” I asked, pointing to one of
the bottles.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “It seems fairly popular but I have never
tried it.”
“Is it dangerous to take?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” he replied, “though personally I should say that
all hypnotic drugs are better left alone. The preparation is a secret.
I do notice that people who take them come back for them, which seems to
suggest that they are effective.”
I went straight to Peakborough and interviewed Mr. Pepster.
“I’ve something I want you to do,” I said to him.
“Good! Is it important?”
“I think so. I fancy things are beginning to move.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he retorted grimly. “As for me, I’m absolutely
fed up. The case is getting on my nerves. But what is it?”
“I want to know all there is to be known about Nora Lepley.”
“Yes?”
“And about Grainger, a Midlington chemist.”
“But what connection is there—?”
“I don’t know yet. I want to know. Probably there is none. But I have
traced prussic acid to Nora Lepley—”
“Gad!”
“And in a bottle that came from Grainger’s shop.”
“Good Lord!”
“Yes, it’s a queer development, isn’t it?”
“But—”
“I know absolutely nothing more than I have told you.”
Pepster nodded thoughtfully, then touched a bell.
“What is the next train for Midlington?” he asked of the police clerk who
answered his summons.