‘Well,’ admitted Monty, ‘it seems funny, the way the criminal carefully knocked grandpa over, just as if he was going out of his way to provide evidence against himself. It doesn’t seem natural. Praise with discretion; purchasers are quick to distrust those who lay it on too thick, as it says in The Salesman’s Handbook.’
‘We’ll soon see,’ said the Inspector, advancing upon the clock. ‘Wait a bit, though; we’d better try the case for fingerprints.’
The arrival of a photographer and an apparatus for bringing up and recording finger-prints led to the discovery of so many signs of handling, both on the clock and on the bottle, as to prove that the use of dusters and furniture polish must have been abandoned for a very long time at the Royal Oak. Eventually the photographs were taken, and the Inspector and a constable lifted the clock back into place. It appeared to have suffered no great shock, but only to have stopped when the pendulum came up against the side of the case, for on being righted and started it ticked away merrily. Mr Birch lifted a thick forefinger to the minute-hand; then he checked himself.
‘No,’ he said, ‘we’ll leave grandpa to himself. If there’s been any jiggery-pokery, there might be something to be found on the hands, though they’re a bit narrow to carry a print. But you never know. I suppose he’ll run all right for an hour or two.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Egg, opening the case and peering in. ‘The weights are rather near the bottom, especially one of them, but I should say he had another twelve hours or so in him. What’s today? Saturday? They probably wind him on Sunday morning.’
‘Probably,’ agreed the Inspector. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Egg. I don’t think we need detain you any longer.’
‘No objection to me having a spot of ale in the bar, I suppose,’ suggested Monty, ‘it’ll be open in half an hour or so, and I didn’t have much breakfast.’
‘I didn’t have any,’ said Inspector Birch, wistfully.
From this point, the procedure was obvious. The Inspector was just finishing a large mound of bacon and eggs when a commotion at the door announced the arrival of a police sergeant with the absconding Mr Slater. The latter was a large, angry-looking man who, as soon as he entered the room, began to protest violently.
‘Cut that out, my lad,’ said Mr Birch. ‘How many bags did you find with him, Sergeant?’
‘Only one, sir – his own.’
‘I tell you,’ said Slater, ‘I know nothing about all this. I left Wagstaffe here in the bar-parlour at twenty past eleven or thereabouts, and he was all right then – only drunk. I drove away at half-past, or it might be a quarter to twelve. I brought one bag and I took one bag, and here it is, and anybody who says anything else is telling a lie. If I’d been doing a murder, do you think I’d have gone straight off to Pettiford and sat eating my breakfast in the Four Bells, waiting for you to catch me?’
‘You might and you mightn’t,’ said Mr Birch. ‘Did you know this man Wagstaffe?’
The angry eyes shifted uneasily.
‘I’d met him,’ said Slater.
‘They say you were quarrelling with him.’
‘Well – he was drunk, and made himself unpleasant. That’s one reason why I pushed off.’
‘I see.’ The Inspector glanced through the correspondence taken from the dead man’s pocket.
‘Your name’s Archibald, isn’t it? Have you got a sister Edith? … No, you don’t!’
Slater had made a quick grab at the letter in Birch’s hand.
‘Well,’ he admitted sulkily, ‘I don’t mind telling you that that swine Wagstaffe was a dirty scoundrel. Thome’s the name we knew him by, and my sister’s his wife – or thought she was, till it turned out he was married to somebody else under another name, the skunk. They got married while I was away up North, and I knew nothing about it till I came into this district, and he’s been careful to keep out of my way – till last night. Not that there was anything I could do to him, except try and get maintenance for the kid, and in the end he said he’d pay. I – look here, Inspector, I quite realise that this looks bad, but –’
‘Hi!’ exclaimed Monty. ‘Don’t forget the clock. It’s just going to strike.’
‘Yes,’ said the Inspector. ‘Ten past eleven that clock marked when it was knocked over in the struggle. You were out of here by twenty past. If it strikes one now, we’ll know it’s been put back – if it strikes twelve, then it’s telling the truth, and you’re for it.’
The case stood open. As the first stroke of the hammer fell, they watched, fascinated, while the striking weight moved slowly down from where it hung, three or four inches below the other.
The clock struck twelve.
‘That’s something, anyway,’ said Mr Birch, grimly.
‘It’s not true!’ cried Slater wildly. Then he added, more soberly, ‘The man might have been killed after I left, but still before midnight, and the hands put back three quarters of an hour.’
And while the Inspector hesitated:
‘Half a minute,’ said Monty. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Inspector, I’ve just thought of something. Twelve o’clock is the longest run that weight ever does, and it’s only dropped something under half an inch. Now, how does it come to hang so far below the driving weight? You see what I mean? During the long hours from six to twelve, the striking weight gets ahead of the driving weight and hangs below it, but during the short hours, the driving weight catches up on it, so that – in my experience, anyhow – there’s never more than half an inch or so between them in an eight-day clock, and they finish up level. Now, how did this fellow here get all this long start of his chum?’
‘Wound up carelessly,’ suggested the Inspector.
‘Either that,’ said Monty, ‘or the clock’s been put on eleven hours. That’s the only way to put back a striking clock, unless you have the sense to take the striking weight off altogether, which most people haven’t the wits to think of.’
‘Whew!’ said Mr Birch. ‘Now, who’d know about that, I wonder? Who winds this clock? We’d better ask Rudd.’
‘I wouldn’t ask him, if you’ll forgive me putting myself forward,’ said Mr Egg, thoughtfully.
‘Oh!’ said Mr Birch. ‘I see.’ He pulled at his moustache. ‘Wait a minute. I’ve got it.’
He plunged out, and presently returned with a boy of about fourteen.
‘Sonnie,’ said he, ‘who winds up the grandfather-clock?’
‘Dad does, every Sunday morning.’
‘Did you see him do it last Sunday?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Can you remember if he wound the two weights up to the same height – or were they apart, like this?’
‘He always winds them up tight – fourteen winds – that’s two turns for every day – and when the weight’s wound up, it goes bump.’
The Inspector nodded.
‘That’s all – run away. Mr Egg, it looks as if you’d got hold of something right enough. Here, Sergeant!’
The sergeant gave him an understanding wink and went out. Half an hour elapsed, marked only by the almost imperceptible descent of the driving weight and the solemn ticking of the clock. Then the sergeant came in again, with a bag in his hand.
‘Quite right, sir – under a heap of sacking in the hen-house. It must be either Rudd or the barman, George.’
‘They must both be in it,’ said the Inspector. ‘But which of them did the job, damned if I know. We’ll have to wait for those finger-prints.’
‘Why not ask them for the key of the clock?’ put in Mr Egg.
‘What for?’
‘Just an idea of mine.’
‘All right. Send Rudd in. Rudd, we want the key of this clock.’
‘Oh, do you?’ said the landlord. ‘Well, I haven’t got it, see. I don’t know where it’s gone, and you can put that in your pipe and smoke it. A nice job this is, in a respectable house.’
‘All right,’ said the Inspector, ‘we’ll ask George. Where’s this clock-key, George?’
The barman passe
d a hand across his dry mouth. ‘It’s in that there pot on the chimbley-piece,’ he said.
‘It’s not there,’ said the Inspector, peering into the pot.
‘No,’ said Monty. ‘And how did Rudd know it wasn’t there, if he wasn’t hunting for it last night to wind that weight back to the right place, after he’d put the clock eleven hours forward? No wonder the place is turned upside-down.’
The landlord turned a dirty green colour, and George broke out into a whimper.
‘Please, sir, I never knew nothing about it till it was all over. I didn’t have no hand in it.’
‘Put the bracelets on ‘em both, Sergeant,’ said Inspector Birch. ‘And you, Slater, remember your evidence will be wanted. Much obliged to you, Mr Egg. But it’s a funny thing where that key can have gone to.’
‘Better ask young Hopeful,’ said Mr Egg. ‘It’s surprising how a little thing like that will trip a man up. As The Salesman’s Handbook says: Attend to details and you’ll make your sale – a little weight will often turn the scale.’
The Professor’s Manuscript
A MONTAGUE EGG STORY
‘SEE HERE, MONTY,’ SAID Mr Hopgood (travelling representative for Messrs Brotherhood, Ltd) to Mr Egg (travelling representative for Messrs Plummett & Rose); ‘while you’re here, why don’t you have a go at old Professor Pindar? I should say he was just about in your line.’
Mr Egg brought his mind back – a little unwillingly – from the headlines in his morning paper (‘SCREEN STAR’s MARRIAGE ROMANCE PLANE DASH’ – ‘CONTINENT COMB-OUT FOR MISSING FINANCIER’ – ‘COUNTRY-HOUSE MYSTERY BLAZE ARSON SUSPICIONS’ – ‘BUDGET INCOME-TAX REMISSION POSSIBILITY’), and inquired who Professor Pindar might be when he was at home.
‘He’s a funny old bird that’s come and settled down at Wellingtonia House,’ replied Mr Hopgood. ‘You know, where the Fennels used to live. Bought the place last January and moved in about a month ago. Writes books, or something. I went along yesterday to see if there was anything doing in our way. Heard he was a retired sort of old party. Thought he might be good for a case of Sparkling Pompayne or something else in the soft drinks line. Quite rude to me, he was. Called it “gut-rot”, and spilled a piece of poetry about “windy waters”. Shouldn’t have expected such strong expressions from a brainy-looking old gent like him. Apologised for taking up his time, of course, and said to myself, “Here’s where young Monty gets in with his matured spirits and fine old fruity.” Thought I’d give you the tip, that’s all – but suit yourself, of course.’
Mr Egg thanked Mr Hopgood, and agreed that Professor Pindar sounded like a useful prospect.
‘One gets to see him all right, then?’ he asked.
‘Yes – only you have to state your business,’ said Mr Hopgood. ‘Housekeeper’s a bit of a dragon. No good trying on the old tale of being sent round by his dear friend Mr So-and-so, because, for one thing, he’s got no friends round here and, for another, they know that one.’
‘In that case –’ began Mr Egg; but Mr Hopgood did not appear to notice that he had said anything odd, and he felt it was hardly worthwhile to start an argument, especially as the morning was getting on, and he had not yet read about the film-star’s marriage dash or the country-house arson suspicions. He turned his attention to these, discovered that the romance was the lady’s fifth marriage and that the fire was thought to be yet another ramification of the insurance ramp, went on to ascertain that the person detained the day before in Constantinople was not, after all, the absconding head of Mammoth Industries, Ltd, and that the hope of sixpence off the income-tax was little more than the Daily Trumpet correspondent’s dream of wish-fulfilment, and then embarked upon a juicy leader-page article headed ‘CAN COMMERCIAL TRAVELLERS BE CHRISTIANS? – by One of Them’, which interested him, not so much because he had any doubts about commercial morality as because he fancied he knew who the author was.
Before very long, however, his own commercial conscience (which was sensitive) reminded him that he was wasting his employer’s time, and he went out to inquire into a complaint received from the landlord of the Ring of Bells that the last case of Plummett & Rose’s Superior Old Tawny (full body, fine masculine flavour) was not up to sample, owing to alleged faulty corking.
Having disposed of this little unpleasantness, and traced the trouble to the fact that the landlord had thoughtlessly run the main pipe of a new heating installation behind the racks housing the Superior Old Tawny, Mr Egg asked to be directed to Wellingtonia House.
‘It’s about five miles out of the town,’ said the landlord. ‘Take the road to Great bindings, turn off to the left by the tower they call Grabb’s Folly and then it’s down the lane on the right past the old water-mill. Biggish place with a high brick wall right down in the hollow. Damp, in my opinion. Shouldn’t care to live there myself. All right if you like peace and quietness, but I prefer to see a bit of life myself. So does the missis. But this old chap ain’t married, so I suppose it’s all right for him. Lives there alone with a housekeeper and a handy-man and about fifty million tons of books. I was sorry to hear he’d taken the house. What we want there is a family with a bit of money, to bring some trade into the town.’
‘Not a rich man, then?’ asked Mr Egg, mentally substituting a cheaper line for the Cockburn 1896 (a grand ancient wine thirty-five years in bottle) with which he had hoped to tempt the Professor.
‘He may have,’ replied the landlord; ‘must have, I suppose, since he’s bought the place freehold. But what’s the odds if he don’t spend it? Never goes anywhere. No entertaining. Bit of a crank, by what they tell me.’
‘Butcher’s meat?’ inquired Mr Egg.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the landlord, ‘and only the best cuts. But what’s one old gentleman’s steak and chop when you come to think of it? That don’t make a lot of difference in the week’s turn-over.’
However, the thought of the steak and chops comforted Mr Egg as he drove by Grabb’s Folly and the old water-mill and turned down the little, winding lane between high hedgerows starred with dog-violets and the lesser celandine. Grilled meat and wine went together almost as certainly as nut-cutlets and home-made lemonade.
The door of Wellingtonia House was opened by a middle-aged woman in an apron, at sight of whom Mr Egg instantly dismissed the manner he used for domestic servants and substituted the one reserved for persons ‘out of the top drawer’, as he phrased it. A pre-War gentlewoman in a post-War job, he decided. He produced his card and stated his business frankly.
‘Well,’ said the housekeeper. She looked Mr Egg searchingly up and down. ‘Professor Pindar is a very busy man, but he may like to see you. He is very particular about his wines – especially vintage port.’
‘Vintage port, madam,’ replied Mr Egg, ‘is a speciality with us.’
‘Real vintage port?’ asked the housekeeper, smiling.
Mr, Egg was hurt, though he tried not to show it. He mentioned a few of Messrs Plummett & Rose’s choicer shipments, and produced a list.
‘Come in,’ said the housekeeper. ‘I’ll take the list to Professor Pindar. He may like to see you himself, though I can’t promise. He is very hard at work upon his book, and he can’t possibly spare very much time.’
‘Certainly not, madam,’ said Mr Egg, stepping in and wiping his boots carefully. They were perfectly clean, but the ritual was part of his regular routine, as laid down by The Salesman’s Handbook (‘Be clean and courteous; raise your hat, And wipe your boots upon the mat: Such proofs of gentlemanly feeling Are to the ladies most appealing.’) ‘In my opinion,’ he added, as he followed his conductress through a handsome hall and down a long and thickly-carpeted passage, ‘more sales are lost through being too persistent than through not being persistent enough. There’s a little verse, madam, that I try to bear in mind: “Don’t stay too long; the customer has other things to do than sitting in the parlour and listening to you; And if, through your loquacity, she lets the dinner burn, She will not soon forget it, a
nd it does you a bad turn.” I will just show the Professor my list, and if he is not interested, I will promise to go away at once.’
The housekeeper laughed. ‘You are more reasonable than most of them,’ she said, and showed him into a large and lofty room, lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. ‘Wait here a minute, and I will see what Professor Pindar says.’
She was gone for some time, and Mr Egg, being left to contemplate, with awe and some astonishment, the array of learning all about him, became restless, and even a little reckless. He walked about the library, trying to ascertain from the titles of the books what Professor Pindar was professor of. His interests, however, appeared to be catholic, for the books dealt with many subjects. One of them, a stout, calf-bound octavo in a long row of calf-bound octavos, attracted Mr Egg’s attention. It was an eighteenth-century treatise on Brewing and Distilling, and he extended a cautious finger to hook it from the shelf. It was, however, too tightly wedged between a bound collection of Pamphlets and a play by Ben Jonson to come out easily, and he abandoned the attempt. Curiosity made him next tiptoe over to the formidable great desk strewn with manuscripts. This gave more information. In the centre, near the typewriter, lay a pile of neatly-typed sheets, embellished with footnotes and a good many passages of what looked to Mr Egg like Greek, though it might, of course, have been Russian or Arabic, or any other language with a queer alphabet. The half-finished page upon the blotter broke off abruptly with the words: ‘This was the opinion of St Augustine, though Clement of Alexandria expressly declares –’ Here the sentence ended, as though the writer had paused to consult his authority. The open folio on the table was, however, neither St Augustine nor Clement of Alexandria, but Origen. Close beside it stood a metal strong-box with a combination-lock, which Mr Egg judged to contain some rare manuscript or other.
The sound of a hand upon the door-handle caused him to start guiltily away from the table, and when the door opened he had whisked round with his back to the desk and was staring abstractedly at a shelf crammed with immense tomes, ranging from Aristotle’s works to a Jacobean Life of Queen Elizabeth.
The Nine Tailors Page 9