The Eight of Swords
For a moment the colonel only stared at him. His broad-checked sport suit looked wildly out of place in that dingy office. "Oh, look here—!" he protested. "Depping? Can't be Depping, demmit. Depping wouldn't get murdered. Lay you a fiver he'd never think of getting murdered. I say—"
Hadley pushed out a chair for him. Growling, the other stamped over to it and took up the telephone. He had the air of one who was determined to quash this nonsense at the beginning.
"Hallo, hallo, hallo… Eh? Murch? How are you? Oh, but I mean to say, what's all this rot?… But how do you know?"
A pause.
"Well, maybe he was cleaning his gun and it went off," Standish cut in with an air of inspiration. "Knew a fella who did that once. Fella in the Fifty-Ninth. Blew his foot off…
"No, demmit. I see that. He couldn't've. done it if there's no gun… Right, right. You rake charge, Murch. Be down this afternoon. Always something, dash it! Right, right. ‘Bye."
He hung up the receiver and regarded it gloomily. "I say, look here! I forgot to ask him—!"
"I have all the facts," interposed Hadley, "if you will explain them to me. Please sit down. These gentlemen…?"
Introductions were performed. The Bishop of Mappleham, who had seated himself with solid grimness on the other side of Hadley's desk, regarded Standish almost in satisfaction. He seemed genuinely concerned, but he could not help mentioning it.
"Much," he said, "much as I regret the passing of any human being, I must point out that I gave warning of this. It does not in any sense allay the blame, or mitigate the deep damnation of his taking-off. Yet—"
Standish got out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. "Dash it," he said querulously, "how was I to know the poor devil would get himself done in? Something's wrong. You don't know the fella. Why, he even had a share in my firm!"
Hadley, Donovan noticed, was looking from one to the other of them with an irritated expression. But he addressed the bishop deferentially.
"I must thank you, my lord," he interposed, "for your prompt action and assistance in this matter. When we have heard the facts of the Depping murder, I should be pleased if you would explain further—"
"But, confound it, he slid down the bannisters!" protested Standish in an injured tone. "Smack down the bannisters, like a demn'd gaitered avalanche, dem-mit, and landed in front of Lady Langwych!"
The bishop froze. He swelled. He looked at Standish as once he had looked at a minor deacon who slipped on the altar steps with the collection plate and sent a shower of coppers over the occupants of the first three pews.
Those circumstances, sir" he said coldly, "I have already explained, to the satisfaction of any normal-witted person. In an unlucky moment I overbalanced myself, and in order to avoid the consequences attendant upon a disastrous fall, I was compelled to clutch at the bannister and thus — er — expedite my descent somewhat. That was all"
The colonel resented these slurs on his intelligence.
"Well, then, why did you chuck ink bottles at the vicar?" he demanded heatedly. "By Jove, I may not be a bishop, but, damme, I never biffed a vicar in the eye in my life! If you call that a sign of intelli—"
Bluish tints were appearing round the bishop's nostrils. He sat bolt upright, breathing hard, and looked round the circle. His eye rested on Dr. Fell, who was making curious noises behind the hand he had pressed over his mouth.
"You spoke, sir?" inquired His Lordship.
"No, my lord, I didn't," rumbled Dr. Fell guardedly. "Whoosh! Wheel Gurrunk! N-noo." He clapped on his hand again; but he was shaking all over, and there was a moisture in his eyes.
"I am glad to hear it, sir. But you thought something, perhaps?"
"Well, then," said the doctor frankly, "why did you chuck ink-bottles at the vicar?"
"Gentlemen!" roared Hadley, hammering on his desk. He controlled himself with an effort, and set all the papers straight before him to regain his equanimity. "Perhaps" he went on, "I had better outline the facts as I heard them from Inspector Murch, and you, colonel, can supply the blanks… First, however: What do you know of this Mr. Depping?"
"Very good sort, old Depping is," Standish replied defensively. "Related to some good friends of mine in India. Turned up one day five or six years ago; visited me; heard I'd the Guest House vacant; liked it; rented it, and been there since… Stiffish sort of fella. Fastidious, d'ye see? All books and what not; over my head. Even carried a special cook with him — liked the fancy dishes." the colonel chuckled. "But you had to know him, damme!"
"What do you mean by that?"
Standish assumed a confidential air. "Why, like this. Didn't know the fella ever drank much; only liked half a bottle of Burgundy — fastidious — bah. But I dropped in on him one night, unexpectedly. There was the old boy without his pince-nez, sitting in his study with his feet up on the desk, and three-quarters of a bottle of whisky gone — whistle-drunk. Ha. Queerest thing I ever saw. I said, 'Er, damme.' He said, 'Heh-heh.' Then he started to sing and roar, and… Look here," said the colonel uneasily. "I don't want to say anything against him, eh? But I think he was a secret drinker, and went on those sprees about every two months. Why not? Did him good, I say. Made him human. Why, before I was married I did it myself. Hum." Standish coughed. "Hey, what's the harm, if nobody sees you? He was anxious for nobody to see him. Dignity. After I'd barged in on him, he made that valet of his sit in the hall outside his study door, every night, damme! — every night, in case somebody dropped in and he wasn't ready." Hadley frowned.
"Did it every occur to you, colonel, that he had something on his mind?"
"Eh? Something on his mind? Tosh, tosh! Nonsense. What would he have on his mind? He was a widower— he'd got pots of money—"
"Go on, please. What else did you know about him?"
Standish fidgeted. "Not much. He didn't — mix, d'ye see? Fell in with Burke, my partner, and invested a dashed sight with us. Said he'd always wanted to read for a publisher, and, by Jove, he did! He took all the heavy stuff nobody else would touch. You know— somebody's treatise on something, that took seven years to write, or what not; bundle about six inches thick, all interlined so you can't read it, and author sending you letters every other day. Bah."
"Had he any relatives?"
Standish's red face was complacent, and then grew uneasy. "I say, this will knock the stuffing out of… H'm, yes. He'd a daughter. Dem'd fine gel. None of your hussies, d'ye see, that knock you off the road in a two-seater, d'ye see?" said the colonel viciously. "Fine gel, even if she does live in France. Used to worry Depping no end, what she might be up to. He'd kept her in a convent, though, till she was of age, so maybe she liked France, but God knows why. Ha. I said, "Right, right; time she was married.' And the gel and my son—" He brooded. "There's always something, — eh?"
Hadley’s eyes moved about the group. They rested on the bishop, who seemed about to speak; so Hadley went on quickly:
"Then you never knew of an enemy he might have had? I mean, somebody not in your circle, whom you had never met?"
"Good Lord, No!"
"I asked that," Hadley went on, "because of the circumstances surrounding his death. According to Inspector Murch, who has the testimony of his valet and cook, this is what happened… "
He rustled his papers. "His valet, Raymond Storer, says that he came back to the Guest House about seven o'clock, after having been out to tea—"
"Had it with us," grunted the colonel. "We were all pretty bucked about the news: his daughter and my son, I mean. He'd got a letter from her the day before, and he and I talked it over night before last. So he came up to tea yesterday and told the whole crowd."
"Did he seem in good spirits?"
"Good Lord, yes. Tickled pink."
Hadley’s eyes narrowed. "Did anything occur, then, while he was with you that — upset him?"
Standish had taken out a cigar, and he was lighting it when an uneasy thought seemed to strike him. He screwed round his neck and looked somewhat malevolently at the bishop.
"Hey… Look here, I've thought of something!" His boiled eye protruded. "He did seem down in the dumps when he left, by Jove. And that was just after you took him aside and spoke to him. Eh?"
The bishop folded his hands over his umbrella. His heavy jaw had a curious expression of seeming to move about with repressed satisfaction.
"Quite so, my friend," he replied. "I shall tell the chief inspector about it when he has finished outlining the facts… Pray go on, sir."
"The valet testified," Hadley went on, after a slight pause, "that he seemed disturbed when he arrived back at the Guest House. He ordered his dinner to be sent to him in the study. And he did not, as seems to have been usual, dress for dinner.
"His dinner was taken up to him about half past eight, when he seemed to have been even more restless. He told the valet that he had work to do, and would be at home to nobody that night. Last night, you remember, was the end of the heat wave. The storm broke late in the evening—"
"Damme, and what a storm!" grunted the colonel. "Henry Morgan got caught in it, and had to walk three miles to—"
Hadley's temper was wearing thin. "If you don't mind, colonel" he said, "it will be rather necessary for you to know these things… Shortly after the storm broke, it blew down a wire or something of the sort, and all the lights went out. The valet, who was on the ground floor closing all the windows, rummaged about until he found some candles. He was about to go upstairs with them when there was a knock at the outer door.
"The wind blew out his candle when he opened the door, but when he had got it lighted again, he saw that the caller was nobody he had ever seen before…"
"You have a description of the man, Mr. Hadley?" the bishop put in crisply.
"Not a very good one. He was medium-sized, youngish, dark hair and moustache, loud clothes, and spoke with an American accent."
An expression of grim triumph drew the bishop's neck in folds over his collar. He nodded. Tray go on, Mr. Hadley?
"The valet was about to shut the door, saying that Mr. Depping could see no one, when the man put his foot in die door. He said" — Hadley glanced at his notes—"he said, 'Hell see me. Ask him.' Inspector Murch was not very clear about this. The man seems to have pointed to some sort of speaking tube."
"Right" said the colonel. "You know. You whistle in 'em, demmit. Then you talk. Depping only used two rooms to live in: study and bedroom. He'd got a speaking tube running up to the study. It was beside the outer door."
"Very well… The man was insistent, so Storer spoke to Mr. Depping upstairs. Mr. Depping finally said, 'All right; send him up,' though the man would give no name. But Depping told the valet to be close at hand, in case he should be needed. Storer suggested that he had better go and see to fixing the lights, whereupon Depping said not to mind the lights; that he had plenty of candles in the study, and they would suffice.
"However, Storer woke up the cook, a man named Achille Georges, and sent him out in the rain with a flashlight — under great protest — to find out whether or not the wires had come down. Meantime he was going about shutting the upstairs windows, and he heard Depping and his guest talking in the study. He couldn't hear anything that was said, but they seemed on amiable enough terms. Presently the cook returned, swearing no wire was down. They had a look at the fuse box, and discovered that there had only been a short circuit of some sort, and that plugging in new fuses restored the lights… "
For the first time Dr. Fell, who had been sitting abstractedly filling a pipe, rolled up his big head and stared at the chief inspector. His eyes had a curiously cross-eyed look. A long sniff rumbled in his nose.
"I say, Hadley," he muttered, "that's very interesting; It's the first interesting detail you've mentioned so far. Go on, go on."
Hadley grunted. He looked speculatively at the doctor, and went on:
"By that time it was nearly midnight, and Storer wanted to get to bed. He knocked on the study door, told Depping the lights were repaired, and asked whether he could retire. Depping said, 'Yes, yes,' rather impatiently. So he turned in. There was still a terrific thunderstorm going on, and it kept him awake… On reflection, this morning, he thinks he heard the sound of a shot about a quarter past twelve; he noticed it at the time, but he thought it must be a part of a thunderclap, and didn't investigate. Inspector Murch says the police surgeon reports a quarter past twelve to be about the time of death.
"The next morning, when Storer went downstairs, he saw over the transom that the lights were still burning in the study. He knocked at the door for some time, and got no answer; the door was locked on the inside. So he got a chair, climbed up, and looked through the transom.
"Depping was lying forward across his reading desk, with the back of his head shot open direcdy against the bald spot. Finally Storer plucked up enough nerve to push the transom back, crawl through, and get into the room. Depping had been dead for many hours, and there was no weapon to be found."
Young Donovan found his morning-after head rapidly disappearing. This cool, unhurried, gruesome recital roused his wits and his imagination. That wild talk of sliding down bannisters now seemed a part of yesterday night's tippling; it was the first time he had caught the scent of a man hunt, and he was beginning to understand its fascination. There was a silence. With a return of uneasiness he found the bishop's complacent paternal eye fixed upon him.
This, Mr. Hadley," said the bishop, "is most interesting. And instructive." He waved his hand towards his son. "My son, Mr. Hadley, is a student of criminology like myself. Hem. I shall see presently what good his studies have done him" He became businesslike, and considered. There are several suggestive points, I fancy. For example—"
"But, demmit! — " protested the colonel, mopping his forehead, "I say—!"
"— for example" the bishop continued coldly, "you say the door of the study was locked on the inside. Did the murderer escape through a window?"
"No. Through another door. There is an upstairs balcony running along the side of the house, and a door opens out on it. This door — which Storer says is generally locked — was partly open." Hadley regarded him without sarcasm, and very patiently. "Now, then. If you will explain your own part in the matter…?"
The bishop nodded, and smiled at Standish in a kindly fashion.
"With pleasure. Fortunately, Mr. Hadley, I can tell you the name of the man who called on Mr. Depping last night. As a matter of fact, I can show you a photograph of him."
While the colonel a tared, he took from his inside pocket a sheet of glazed paper, carefully annotated in a small hand, and bearing two photographs, which he handed across to Hadley. Now that he was vindicated, the bishop's sense of humor seemed to reassert itself.
"His name is Louis Spinelli. In case the name fails to stir your memory, Mr. Hadley, there are a few notes on him at the bottom of the sheet"
"Spinelli—" repeated Hadley. His eyes narrowed. "Spinelli — got it! Blackmail. That's the chap. One of Mayfree's mob, who tried to get into England last year—"
"The only one," the bishop corrected, "who did get into England. This man, Mr. Hadley, is too intelligent to try to walk into this country in his own name in character. Allow me to explain."
This, young Donovan reflected, as he had always reflected, was weird language to hear from a bishop of the Church of England. And the odd part of it was that the old boy carried it off. He talked in this vein as easily as he would have spoken from a pulpit. His son had never quite got used to it.
"At the Police Museum in Centre Street, which is similar to your Black Museum here, their exhibits are classified to represent various types of crime, Mr. Hadley. The commissioner gave me permission to bring back a great deal of interesting lore. This man Spinelli was originally a blackmailer, a lone hand; singled out for notice because of a curious peculiarity he had, which caught him before long.
"He is a young Italian-American, about thirty years old, of decent parents and excellent education. I am told that his manners are good, and that he could pass almost anywhere but for one incredible weakness. He cannot resist the temptation to wear the loudest and most conspicuous attire procurable, in addition to rings and jewelry of all kinds. Look at what you can see of it in that photograph. When he was about twenty-three, they caught him and sent him to Sing Sing for ten years."
The bishop paused. His heavy-lidded eyes moved round the group.
"He was out of prison in three. Nobody knows exacdy how it was contrived. According to what I can gather, he realized it was unsafe to play alone. He joined up with Mayfree, who was all-powerful at the time, and nobody could touch him. Then—"
Dr. Fell snorted.
"Look here" he protested, "by God and Bacchus, I hope this little affair isn't going to turn into a dull and stodgy piece of gang-history. Hurrumph. Ha. If there's anything I dislike, it's to see the classic outline of a murder case involved in any such monotonous red tape. I was just becoming interested in that question of the lights…"
The bishop shook his head.
"You needn't be afraid of that, my dear sir. You may take my word for it that Spinelli is back on his old lone-hand blackmail tactics. Mayfree's organization is broken up. Nobody knows why, and I know it puzzled the commissioner. It began to decline in power some time ago. The leaders tried to leave the country: some to Italy, some to England, some to Germany. They were refused entrance. But, in some fashion, Spinelli got
"Well soon see to that," snapped Hadley, and spoke briefly into the telephone. He looked at the bishop, and went on rather curtly: "You must know, sir, that this is pure guesswork on your part. I take it you never saw Spinelli face to face?"
"As it happens," said the bishop calmly, "I saw him face to face twice. Once in the police line-up at Centre Street, where nothing was proved against him; that was how I happened to hear die details of his case. And again last night. He was coming out of a public house not far from The Grange. Before that I had seen him at a distance, and in the moonlight, under — hum— somewhat unusual circumstances, in the park of The Grange." The bishop coughed. It was his clothes which started my memory working, and I thought his face was familiar. But last night I saw him as close as I see you now."
"By Gad!" said the colonel, staring at him with a new expression now. "So that was why you cut away this morning, hey?"
"I do not believe that my story would have been listened to with great respect by the chief constable," the bishop answered frostily. There, gentlemen, is one of the things I have discovered. The question is—"
Hadley tapped his knuckles moodily on the desk. He glanced at the telephone, which refused to ring.
The question is," he said, "that we shall have to look into this very carefully, but I think somebody is under a misapprehension. This business of American gangsters shooting scholarly country gentlemen in the wilds of Gloucestershire… Pah. Confound it. All the same—"
"I do not think," the bishop said deliberately, "that Louis Spinelli did shoot him. This is no time for going into my reasons. But I should like to ask, Mr. Hadley, what you intend to do."
Hadley was blunt. "It's all up to Colonel Standish. He's the chief constable of his county. If he wishes to call in the Yard, he can do so. If he wishes to handle it himself, it's all the same to me. What do you say, colonel?"
"Personally," observed the bishop in a reflective voice, "I should be most happy to lend the police any assistance in my humble power in this unfortunate business." He pulled out all the stops in the organ of his voice. The massive face swelled, and there was a hypnotic gleam in his eye.
"Got it!" exclaimed Standish, with an air of inspiration. He was tacdess. He went on: "Got it, by Jove! There's our man — Fell. Look here, demmit. You promised to come down to The Grange and spend a few days, didn't you? I say, old man. You wouldn't let a demnition foreigner come and blow the daylight out of a friend of mine, hey? Hey?" he turned to the bishop. "This is Fell, you know. Fella who caught Cripps and Loganray and the fake preacher what's-his-name. Look here, what about it?"
Dr. Fell, who had got his pipe lighted at last, rumbled and scowled and poked at the floor with his stick.
"For a long time," he said querulously, "I have protested against these utterly commonplace cases. There's no picturesque or bizarre feature about this thing at all. Where's your drama? Where's —"
Hadley regarded him with a sort of dry and bitter satisfaction.
"Yes. Yes, I know. You are in your element," he agreed, "with the sort of fantastic lunacy of a case which doesn't come our way once in a dozen years, ordinarily. People shot with a crossbow bolt at the Tower of London, or thrown off the balcony of a haunted prison. All right! But what about the featureless, prosaic case that we get week in and out, and that's the hardest to solve? Try your hand at one of them. I don't think you'll make so much fun of the police after that… Excuse me, gentlemen. This is merely a little private matter."
He hesitated, and then growled.
"Unfortunately, I’ve got to tell you something else. There is one small point Inspector Murch mentioned which isn't exactly commonplace. It may mean nothing at all, or even be a possession of Depping's; but it certainly isn't commonplace."
"There are several points," said Dr. Fell, "which aren't commonplace, if you must drive me into saying it. Mmf. Ha. No. Well?"
Hadley rubbed his chin uneasily "Near Depping's hand," he went on, glancing down his notes, "there was a card… Yes, that's what I said: a card. It was about the size and shape of a playing card, according to this, with a design beautifully painted in water colour. The design consisted of eight figures which looked like swords, set in the form of a star, and a symbol like water running through the middle of it. There you are. Now go ahead and construct your romance." He threw the notes down on his desk.
Dr. Fell's hand stopped with the pipe halfway to his mouth. He puffed a long breath, wheezily, through his moustache and his eyes grew fixed.
"Eight swords—" he said. "Eight swords: two on the water level, three above, and three below… Oh, Lord! Oh, Bacchus! Oh my ancient hat! Look here, Hadley, this won't do."
He continued to stare at the chief inspector.
"Oh, all right," said Hadley irritably. "You're in your element again. A secret society, I imagine? The Black Hand, or something like it? A sign of vengeance? — Bah!"
"No" said the doctor slowly, "nothing of the sort. I wish it were a simple as that. This is as mediaeval, and devilish, and imaginative, as… Yes, by all means. I shall certainly go down to Gloucestershire. It must be a strange place. And I shall spare no pains to meet a murderer who knows about the eight of swords." He got up, flinging his cape over his shoulder like a bandit, and stumped to the window, where he stood for a moment staring down at the traffic on the Embankment; with his white-plumed mane of hair ruffled, and the glasses coming askew on his nose.