H. M. Argues the Case
A clock in the passage was striking eleven-thirty when they reached the library.
"— full reports," Inspector Potter was intoning. "Statement of police surgeon, post-mortem order for you to sign. Here's plaster-of-Paris casts of two sets of footprints, Mr. Bohun's and Mr. Bennett's: only tracks before we got there. Plan showing exact line of footprints, measured to scale. I thought that was wise; it's beginning to snow again. Here's the fingerprint reports. Photographs will be developed and sent back this afternoon. The body's still there, but it's been moved up on the bed."
Potter was laying out articles in an orderly line on the table under the yellow-shaded lamps. It had grown darker outside, and dead tendrils of vine whipped the windows as the wind rose. There was a growling in the chimney, a draught in which one high sheet of flame cracked like thorns and flicked out spurts of fiery embers. Masters, his heavy face showing more wrinkles under the lamp, sat at the table with an open notebook. Maurice Bohun, looking interested and pleased with his bright unwinking eyes fixed on a corner of the fireplace, also sat at the table. Over at one side, in silhouette against the firelight like two Dutch dolls, stood Thompson and a gray-haired sturdy woman in black. Bennett could not see H. M. But there was a big mass of shadow in the far corner of the fireplace, where he thought he could make out a gleam on enormous glasses and a pair of white socks.
"Thanks, Potter," said Masters. "Here's your notebook back. I've been reading Sir Henry all, the testimony we've accumulated to date. And now… any instructions, sir?'
"Uh?"
Masters moved a little to one side, so that some faint light penetrated towards the corner of the fireplace. Now Bennett could see H. M. start a little and open his eyes. The corners of his broad mouth were turned down, as though he were smelling a bad breakfast-egg, and he was ruffling the two tufts of hair on either side of his big bald head.
"Any instructions, sir?"
"I wasn't asleep, damn you," said H. M. He put a dead pipe into his mouth and puffed at it. He added querulously: "I was concentratin'. Now don't rush me! Don't rush me, will you? You fire a lot of undigested stuff at me and expect me to make sense of it straight off. Also, I see I got to go out to that pavilion before it snows again; and that's more work. I don't like this a little bit, Masters. It's ugly — devilish ugly. What were you askin'? Oh. Reports. No, save 'em for a minute until I get something straight. Stand over a little bit, son," he gestured to Potter, "and lemme talk to Mr. and Mrs. Thompson."
There was something in H. M.'s presence, despite his efforts to glare, which seemed to put the Thompsons at their ease.
"Howdy, folks," said H." M., lifting his pipe. "I've heard what you told the chief inspector, and I'm goin' to use both of you as a check on the others in this place. If any of 'em lied, you tell the old man. Now then." He squinted at Thompson. "Were you on this little party that went explorin' the house by candlelight last night?"
"No, sir. My wife and I were preparing the pavilion for Miss Tait. Bedclothing, seeing the chimneys were clear and the fires lit, water-taps working; all that sort of thing. My wife had charge of Miss Tait's clothes — "
"Such lovely clothes!" said Mrs. Thompson, holding up her hands and looking at the ceiling. "She wouldn't 'ave one of the 'ousemaids do it. Only me."
"Uh-huh. What time d'you leave the pavilion?"
"At just a little past twelve, sir, when Mr. Maurice and the two other gentlemen brought Miss Tait out there."
"Sure you didn't leave any matches there, hey?"
Bennett, from where he stood unnoticed with Katharine in the shadows by the doorway, could only see Thompson's back. But he thought that there was nervousness for the first time in the man's manner. Thompson glanced at Maurice, who sat impassive and pleasant-faced, a complete host.
"I'm sorry, sir. It was an oversight."
"And after you came back to the house, what did you do?"
"That," said Mrs. Thompson, with an air of excited remembrance, "was when I went to bed, Mr. T."
"That, sir, as my wife says, was when she went to bed. I polished some silver, according to Mr. Maurice's orders, and waited for the others to return from the pavilion. They returned about a quarter past twelve, so I locked up the house then."
"And they didn't go out afterwards?"
"Well, sir, Mr. Willard went out after Mr. Maurice and the other-person had gone to the library. But Mr. Willard stayed only about ten or fifteen minutes. He asked me if I would be up and would let him in; he said he would go out the back door of the house, which is near my pantry, and tap on the window when he returned. That's what he did, sir."
H. M. looked down his nose, as though he were-bothered by an invisible fly. He growled to himself.
"Uh-huh. It's a funny thing about that, a question nobody seems to have bothered to ask. And, bum me, it's important! Look here. Between midnight and half-past, all kinds of people were wanderin' up and down, down and back, all over the place from the house to the pavilion — and that dog Tempest never barked. But one person left the house at half-past one, and the dog kicked up such a row that they hadda put him inside. Now how did that happen, hey?"
Masters swore softly. He looked at his notebook, at H. M., and back to his notebook again.
"Why, sir," said Thompson, "that's easily explained. I know, because I spoke to Locker on the telephone to the stable. Sorry, sir; I almost forgot to tell you. Miss Tait had asked me to see that two horses were ready in the morning for her and Mr. John. It slipped my own mind until Mr. Willard came back from the pavilion; and that made me wonder (excuse me) why Tempest hadn't barked. So I thought Tempest must be inside with Locker — Locker likes him, and often keeps him in the house until late. And that made me remember I hadn't phoned Locker about the horses. So I did, about twenty minutes past twelve, and he told me he was just taking Tempest out to the kennel. "
He was an old man, and he seemed bewildered now; but always his eye moved furtively towards Maurice. He had half turned about now, the better to look at his employer.
"I fear you forget many things," said Maurice, still vaguely pleasant. Then Maurice literally showed his teeth. But he looked at H. M., because in his elephantine way H. M. seemed almost excited.
"Now take it easy, son," H. M. urged blandly. "Take all the time you want about it, but be certain. Are you tellin' me that the dog wasn't loose all last evening, up until maybe half-past twelve?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, strike me pink!" muttered H. M. He put the pipe back in his mouth and drew at it almost admiringly. "Ho ho. That's the best news I've heard in this nightmare yet. I had a sort of hazy idea workin' about in the back of my mind; nothing serious, d'ye see, or any symptom of acute thought; but I thought I might as well have-somebody quash it straight off. And they didn't. And I am cheerin'."
Masters hammered his fist on the table.
"I admit we overlooked it, sir!" he said. "But what's the importance of it? I don't see it's necessarily important just because we overlooked it. The important thing is that the dog was locked up after one-thirty."
"Uh-huh. We're goin' on to examine the possibilities of that. Well, let's take it rapidly, Comrade Thompson. Now you went to bed — when?"
"After I had finished polishing the silver, sir. About one o'clock. Mr. Maurice gave me permission. I left the sandwiches for Mr. John, as I told the inspector; and I did not come downstairs again until one-thirty when Tempest barked and Mr. Maurice rang." He swallowed suddenly, as though he had made a slip of speech, and peered again at his employer.
"More of Thompson's associations-of-ideas, I fancy," Maurice observed. "And this is when your good lady saw the mysterious figure leaving the house? Either my niece Katharine or the Honorable Louise Carewe?"
Thompson swiftly touched his wife's arm. But she refused to be checked. She fluttered like a black chicken, and verbal gravel flew.
She cried: "Sir, and you too, sir, and you, I cannot, as I keep telling you, be pinned down and hanged by that statement! Sir, I do not know if it was a lady. That was a Impression, sir, and I will not be 'anged and pinned down by a Impression. Which as for saying it were Miss Kate, I would die sooner, and that is all I 'ave to say."
"Quite right, ma'am, quite right, rumbled H. M., with a voice and stolid bearing which somehow suggested the elder Weller. He sniffed. "Um, yes. You told us all that, didn't you? Well, I think that's all. You can go."
When they had gone out, treading softly, H. M. sat for som time ruffling his hands across his head.
"Now, sir-r, prompted Masters.
"You," said H. M., peering over towards Maurice and extending one finger with a malevolent expression. "Suppose you do some talkin' now, hey?"
"I am entirely at your service, Sir Henry. And I feel sure you will have no reason to complain of my frankness."
H. M. blinked. "Uh-huh. I was afraid of that. Son, frankness is a virtue only when you're talkin' about yourself, and then it's a nuisance. Besides, it's an impossibility. There's only one kind of person who's ever really willing to tell the truth about himself, and that's the kind they certify and shove in the bug-house. And when a person says he intends to be frank about other people, all it means is that he's goin' to give 'em a kick in the eye… Lemme see now. After you and Willard and Rainger came back from the pavilion last night, you and Rainger sat here in the library. How long did you stay here?"
"Until just after I summoned Thompson and told him to have them lock up the dog."
"I see. Half-past one. Why did you break up then?"
Maurice was watching him warily, like a duellist, but H. M. seemed uninterested. Maurice went on: "It was Mr. Rainger's wish. I thought it was my brother John returning then, and said so. I confess I was curious to see the effect of a meeting between Mr. Rainger and John, who did not know (I think you were told that?) of Mr. Rainger's presence. They had been having trouble, shall I say?"
"Well, say something. Your mean you thought it 'ud be good fun to see whether John took a swing at Rainger's jaw? What they call a Psychological Study? And Rainger wasn't having any, and made his excuses to get away. Why'd you let him go, then?"
Maurice rubbed his palms slowly together. His forehead was ruffled.
"I should have been most unwise, sir, to take the least chance of incurring Mr. Rainger's ill-will. It was therefore politic to accept as genuine his somewhat clumsy excuses, and let him go upstairs."
"You didn't go up to bed yourself, then?"
Maurice's smile glittered. "You jump at conclusions, I fear. I went to bed. But my room is on the ground floor."
"Now here's another thing that strikes me. This must be a very rummy family you got here, ain't it? You thought it was your brother returnin' at half-past one after a long stay in America; and yet you didn't even go out to say howdy-do-welcome-home to him?"
The other seemed puzzled. "I see nothing very strange, my dear sir, in all that. I am what is known as the head of the house. If my brother had anything to say to me, I am always happy to hear it; but I really cannot put myself out or be expected to bother my head over him. My habit has always been, Sir Henry," he lifted his eyes blandly, "to let people come to me. Hence I am respected. Ah — where was I? Oh, yes. I was aware that he knew where I was. Hence…"
"That's all I wanted to hear," said H. M., closing his eyes.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Go ‘way, will you?" said H. M. irritably.
Maurice began to speak in a rapid monotone. "I will go away with the utmost pleasure, if I receive absolute assurance from you that the Queen's Mirror will remain inviolate. I have been very patient, sir. I have endured much that is against my physical comfort and even against my peace of mind. But when your insulting subordinate suggested that such a desecration might have to be performed — tearing to pieces an almost sacred edifice in search for a nonexistent secret passage-then… then…"
"Then you got the wind up," agreed H. M. composedly. "All right. You can hop it. I promise; there'll be no search."
Maurice was so intent that he never saw the two figures standing by the door when he hurried out. It was the first time he had hurried; Bennett saw that there was sweat on his forehead and that he seemed to be singing to himself. Bennett's own suspicions seemed to be caught up in Masters' voice.
"Excuse me, sir," the chief inspector growled, "but what the devil did you want to make a promise like that for? Not search for a secret passage?"
"Because there ain't any," said H. M. He added querulously: "Shut up, will you? That finicky old maid is scared green that you'll lay a finger on his beautiful ghost-house. If there'd been a secret passage, he'd have told you about it in a second rather than let you sound one panel lookin’ for it. Yah!"
"I'm not so sure of that, sir," returned Masters. "What if the secret passage led to his own room?"
"Uh-huh. I thought of that too. Well, if it does, we still got him in a corner. But I think that secret-passage idea is o-u-t." H. M. scratched his head. For the first time something like a grin disturbed the Chinese-image austerity of his face as he rolled round to look at Masters. "That locked-room situation has got you bothered as hell, ain't it? Your sole and particular hobgoblin. Seems as though murderers take an especial pleasure in givin' Chief Inspector Humphrey Masters the fits-and-gibbers by refusin' to keep to the rules of cricket. Only this time it's a little bit worse. If you had only the locked-room situation, you could carry on with a cheerful heart. Everybody knows several trick ways of locking a door from the outside. Bolts can be shot with a little mechanism of pins and thread. Key-stems can be turned with a pair of pliers. Hinges can be taken off the door and replaced so that you don't disturb the lock at all. But when your locked-room consists of the simple, plain, insane problem of half-an-inch of unmarked snow for a hundred feet round… well, never mind. There's worse than that, Masters."
"Worse?
"I was thinkin' about something to do with John Bohun's attempt to kill Lord Canifest, when he didn't succeed but thought he had…"
In the gloom beside him, Bennett felt the girl stiffen. She stared up at him uncomprehendingly; but he gestured her fiercely to be silent. They were eavesdroppers, but he was afraid to speak up-afraid to move now. He regretted coming down here, when something in Katharine's restless brain seemed impelling her to talk. He pressed her arm.
"But we'll skip all that for a minute," continued H. M. drowsily, "and look at this impossible situation. The first thing is to determine the murderer's motive. I don't mean his motive for murder, but for creating an impossible situation. That's very important, son, because it's the best kind of clue to the motive for murder. Why'd he do it? Nobody but a loony is goin' to indulge in a lot of unreasonable hocus-pocus just to have some fun with the police. And there are enough motives for Tait's murder flyin' about already without our needin' to explain the mess by simply saying that the murderer is crazy. Well, then, what reasons could there have been?"
"First, there's the motive of a fake suicide. That's fair enough. I go to your house, shoot you through the head, and shove the gun into your hand. Say it's a house like this one, with little panes in the windows. Uh-huh. I lock and bolt the door of the room on the inside. I've got with me a bag containing a piece of glass cut just right, I've got tools and putty. I remove one of the panes of glass in the window nearest the catch. Then I climb out the window, reach through, and lock it on the inside. Afterwards I replace the old pane with my new little one; I putty it round, smear it with dust so nothing shows, and walk away. And so the room's all locked up, and they'll think you shot yourself."
Masters peered at him uncertainly.
"It strikes me, sir," he said, "that you know every dodge-"
"Sure I know every dodge," H. M. grunted sourly. He stared at the fire. "I've seen so many things, son, that I don't like to think of 'em at Christmas. I'd like to be home at my place drinkin' hot punch and trimmin' a Christmas tree. But let's sorta poke and prod at this thing. If it's a new wrinkle in the art of homicide, I want to know all about it. First, the suicidefake is barred. Nobody tries to stage a fake suicide by beatin' a woman's head.
"Second, there's the ghost-fake, where somebody tries to make it look like a supernatural killing. That happens seldom; it's a tricky business at best, and. entails a long careful build-up of atmosphere and circumstances. And obviously that's out of the question in this murder too, since nobody's ever tried to foist any suggestion of the kind or so much as intimated that the pavilion's haunted by a murderous spook.
"Finally, there's accident. There's the murderer who creates an impossible situation in spite of himself, without wantin' to. Say you and Inspector Potter are sleepin' in connectin' rooms, and the only outside door, which is to his room, is barred on the inside. I want to kill you and throw suspicion on him. I come in during the night, workin' my pane-and-putty trick on the window; I stab you in the dark, and get out after replacin' the pane. Yes. What I forget or don't observe is that the door connecting your room with his is also locked on your side — and I've got an impossible situation again. Ayagh!
"Now that's the last and final refuge. But burn me," said H. M., suddenly turning round the glare of his small eyes, "can you see how that last and final refuge can be applied to this mess? Accident, hey? What kind of accident is it where a person DON'T make tracks in the snow?"
Masters scowled. "Well, sir, I'd call that last one just about, the only reasonable assumption. Like this. X, the murderer, goes out to the pavilion while it's still snowing…"
"Uh-huh. Still thinking about Canifest's daughter?"
The chief inspector had the grim and concentrated bearing of a man trying to hold his ideas steady like a pail of water on his head; and he went on doggedly:
"Wait a bit, sir! Now just wait. We were on the `accident' side of the theory. Well, X goes out there before it stops snowing. Eh? Then, after X kills Miss Tait, she discovers-"
"Gal?" inquired H. M. "Yes, you're gettin' devilish definite now."
"Well, why not? If Miss Bohun's telling the truth about seeing Rainger upstairs in the gallery at one-thirty, when Rainger was leaving the library, that eliminates her. But I'm thinking of the one woman with a motive. Miss Carewe goes down there; there's a row; she kills the other woman, and afterwards discovers that the snow has stopped and she's trapped in the place! — So there's your accident, sir. She didn't intend to have an impossible situation, but there it was.”
H. M. rubbed his forehead. "Uh-huh. And how did she get back to the house again without leaving any tracks? Also by accident?"
"You're not," said Masters, with several adjectives, "very helpful. This young lady, by the testimony I read you, was lying out in the gallery in a faint, with blood on her wrist, at close to four o'clock in the morning. "
H. M. nodded and scowled at his pipe.
"I know. That's another thing I wanted to ask. How was she dressed?"
Bennett saw the net begin to close. He saw it a moment before Katharine loosed her arm from his grasp and walked quickly towards the group about the fire.
"May I tell you how she was dressed?" she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady. "She had on a nightgown and dressing-gown, with an outdoor coat over it."
Masters got up from the table. He blocked the light in the direction of the fireplace, so that Bennett could not see H. M.
"But no shoes," said Katharine. She opened and shut her hands. "Don't you see, Mr. Masters? No shoes; only mules. She couldn't have gone out there without shoes — overshoes something. And if she took them off afterwards they must have been wet, and they'd still be wet. Wouldn't they? Well, I went to her room this morning..:'
"Steady, Miss," said Masters quietly. "You didn't tell us this before."
"I never thought of it before! But this morning I went to her room after the smelling-salts. She always carries smelling-salts; that's the-well, that's how Louise is. And I noticed all the shoes and things she'd brought down with her: I'm sure of it, because yesterday she showed me all the new things she got in the States, you see? And none of them were even damp; because I was looking for a pair of warm slippers for her… You believe me, don't you?"
The fire crackled and popped during a silence, and Bennett could see flakes of snow sifting past the gray windows.
"I believe you, Miss," said Masters quietly. "It would be easy enough to hide away — a pair of galoshes, say. And I think it would be just as easy to find 'em again. Thanks, Miss, for calling it to my attention. Potted"
"Sir?"
"Got a couple of men here? Good! You heard it; you know what to look for. Any kind of damp shoes, any pair of overshoes or galoshes, in any room: No objection to looking in your room, Miss?"
"Of course not. But don't disturb-"
"Hop it, Potter," said Masters. When the inspector's heavy footfalls had died away he gestured towards a chair and stared at the girl again. "Will you sit down, Miss? I've made a good many fool omissions in this case, and I admit it, but this comes pretty close to the limit. Miss Carewe didn't go out at all last night, did she? Neither did you. Finding men's damp boots won't mean anything. But if we find anything else. "
There was a growl from behind him. "Stand out of the light, will you?" protested H. M. "Don't obstruct the witness, dammit. Every time a man asks a rational question around here, you go up in the air. Humph. I say, look here! You are a good-looking-nymph, burn me if you're not!"
He lumbered to his feet as Masters moved aside, and a genuine admiration showed in his dull face. Bennett noticed now that he was wearing a vast overcoat with a moth-eaten fur collar, its pockets stuffed with Christmas packages tied in gaudy ribbon.
"Oh, and you're here too?" he added, his expression changing as he saw Bennett. "It seems like you started a hare, son. And now all you want me to do is catch it for you.”
Now, now, there's no need to be upset, Miss Bohun. Just wait till the old man gets to work. Point is Masters there hasn't got any tact. Sit down, everybody, and be comfortable."
"It occurs to me," said Masters, "that… what the devil's the matter with you, Potter?"
The chief inspector's own nerves were growing jumpy. But he had reason for it. Potter had not meant to bang the door when he came back into the room. But it echoed with a dull crash across the vault of the library, where the fire was dying now.
"Excuse me, sir," said Potter heavily, "but will you come here a moment?"
"Well?" demanded Masters. For a moment he seemed incapable of getting up. "Not more-?"
"I don't know, sir! It's reporters. Dozens of 'em, and there's one I thought was a reporter; only 'e's crazy, sir, or something. Says he killed Miss Tait, or something like that.
"What?"
"Yes, sir. Says he sent her a box of poisoned chocolates. His name's Emery, sir; Tim Emery."