by Mike Ashley
“That’s all right!” Golbourne jumped out and handed the astonished driver half-a-crown. “I don’t want you any longer. Come on,” and he took the clergyman’s arm, “I’ve got an idea, a wild, freakish sort of idea, but I’m going to sleep on it and try an experiment in the morning. It’s too late to-night, the shops aren’t open.”
After breakfast the next morning, Golbourne said to his friend at the hotel where they were staying:
“I’m going down to Guildford Street, Tom. I shan’t be more than a few minutes. You wait here till I come back.”
In less than a quarter of an hour Golbourne returned, and, placing a small, square cardboard box on the table, asked Mr Bowen to take off his coat and roll up his shirt sleeves.
“Don’t look so surprised,” said the professor, smiling, “for here’s something else to make you still more puzzled. Hold out your arm, there’s a good fellow.”
From the cardboard box Golbourne took what at first sight appeared to be a wrist-watch, encased in the usual strap. This he proceeded to fasten round Bowen’s forearm, just below the elbow.
“I’ll tell you all about it in a minute,” he said, settling himself in his chair.
“Now take a penholder, or pencil, or ruler, or anything you like, off that side-table over there, and then stand over me and stab downwards at my heart. You needn’t dig the deadly weapon into me, let it just touch me, that’s all. Just stab downwards and then check it.”
Puzzled, Bowen did as he was directed. Then Golbourne got up and consulted the little round dial in the wrist-strap, and scribbled a figure or two on a scrap of paper.
“All right,” he said. “And now, Tom, you can help me if you’ll just go down to the hall and ring up The Wire office, and ask for Brinsley or Crimp if, with the influence of The Wire, they could communicate with Scotland Yard and ascertain the weight of that weapon which was found in Sir George’s body. Also, I want the height of Sir George’s car from the floor to the roof, and I should like to know whether all the windows in the car, which, I understand, was a large one, were open. Just a minute! What height are you, Tom?”
“Five foot eight and three-quarters.”
“And your length of arm?”
“About two and a half feet, I suppose. I’m pretty long in the arm.”
“Right! I’ll get to work while you’re at the ‘phone. I think I’m just beginning to see a little bit of daylight. I should like to see Sir George’s car, if possible, and measure it myself, but get The Wire people to communicate with Scotland Yard as soon as they can, will you? And ask them to ring us up here. Say that we’ll be down at The Wire office to see Mr Brinsley later on.”
While the clergyman was downstairs at the ‘phone in the hall, Golbourne sat and figured away busily, covering sheet after sheet with figures and geometrical symbols, and was still busy with his calculations when Bowen returned.
“Just a moment, Tom,” he said, without turning round. “Don’t talk for a second or two. I’m in the middle of a most intricate bit of work.”
“There, that’s done for the present,” said the professor a minute later, laying down his pencil with a sigh of relief. “Just let me get the weight and the length of that piece of steel, and things may begin to move. What’s the news? Did you get on to The Wire all right?”
“Yes, I spoke to Crimp. He said Brinsley will be down there before twelve this morning, and he’ll ring up as soon as possible and let us know about the weight and the length of that piece of steel, etc. As regards Sir George’s car, he thinks there’ll be no difficulty in our seeing it. Of course, the police have taken charge of it, but—”
“I suppose he wouldn’t know whether all the windows were open or not?” asked Golbourne.
“No,” answered Bowen, “but the police will be sure to keep it in exactly the same condition as when the body was found in it. Crimp tells me it’s in the police station yard at Bow Street.”
“Good! Then we can look in there on our way down to The Wire office. Ask Crimp whether that can’t be arranged. Perhaps we may represent ourselves as belonging to The Wire, which, indeed, we do while we are investigating this case. Pop along now, Tom, and wait for the answer. Put the figures down carefully, won’t you?”
Bowen returned in a few minutes with a scrap of paper in his hand.
“The length of the piece of steel, including the cork handle,” he read from the paper, “is nine and a half inches, and the weight is exactly one ounce.”
Golbourne turned to the table and again figured away busily.
“There’s something wrong, something funny somewhere,” he said at length.
“A piece of steel of the thinness and the evident suppleness of the weapon which killed Sir George couldn’t possibly weigh an ounce; at least, I don’t think so; but we’ll see after we’ve been to Bow Street, and when we get to Scotland Yard, for that’s where I want to go to see that steel. What about our seeing the car? Will that be all right?”
“Yes, they said at The Wire that the police would be only too glad to show it to us if we mentioned that we were working for the paper.”
“Come along, then.”
They hailed a taxi as soon as they got outside, and were soon being shown the motor-car of the late Sir George Borgham in the yard at Bow Street Police Station.
It was one of the very latest makes, with long sliding, lifting windows in front and at the sides. The two side windows were open; and the one at the left of the driver’s seat was lowered also, the one in front of which the driver sat being closed.
“Is that exactly how it was found when the car arrived at the Law Courts?” asked Golbourne of the officer who was with them.
“Exactly,” was the reply. “The old gentleman always liked plenty of fresh air, so his chauffeur said, and almost invariably had the windows open.”
“If there’s no objection to having one of the doors opened,” said Golbourne, “I should like to take a measurement. I suppose there are no finger-marks on the door handles?”
“No, there are none. That’s one of the first things we do – try for finger-prints,” smiled the officer.
Golbourne produced a tape-measure, and with the assistance of Bowen took just one measurement – the height of the car from the floor to the roof. Then, after thanking the police for their courtesy, the two members of the Murder Club left.
“Tom,” said Golbourne when they were outside, “there’s a quiet little eating-house close by, which I believe boasts of excellent beer and sandwiches, both of which are things of delight. Let us go and lunch while I make certain observations.”
At the little table to which their orders were brought, Golbourne again used his pencil and paper. At length he slipped them back into his breast pocket, and with an air of triumph, almost pointed a finger at Bowen.
“Tom,” he said, “I think I’ve discovered how Sir George Borgham was killed!”
The Rev. Thomas Bowen drew in his breath with a gasp of surprise.
“But by whom,” continued the professor, “and where, it’s at present impossible to say. We’ll go down to the office of The Wire now and get Brinsley to take us to Scotland Yard, where the inspector in charge of the case will, no doubt, allow us to examine the steel which was found in Sir George’s heart.”
“You’ve found out something!” was Brinsley’s greeting when they arrived at The Wire office. “I’m sure, professor, I can see a glint of triumph in your eye. What have you to say?”
“With the powerful resources of The Wire, Mr Brinsley,” said Golbourne, smiling pleasantly, “could you tell us at what rate the wind was blowing in the neighbourhood of the Strand, between twenty minutes and five minutes to ten on the morning of the day on which Sir George Borgham was killed? Do you think they would tell you at the Meteorological Offices in South Kensington?”
“Surely!” said Brinsley. “I’ll get them on the ‘phone myself at once . . . Hallo – hallo! Meteorological Society? . . . Yes, it’s the editor of The Wir
e speaking. Could you tell me at what rate the wind was blowing in London at between twenty and five minutes to ten? . . . Thanks – just a minute, please . . . Here, professor, I think you’d better come. It’s a bit too technical for me – something about pressure and weight and atmosphere, and all sorts of strange things.”
Golbourne went to the telephone, listened, and jotted down some notes.
“Give me five minutes to myself,” he said when he’d finished and put back the receiver, “and then I’ll get you to take us to Scotland Yard, Mr Brinsley, if you will.”
In a few minutes Golbourne looked up from his calculations.
“I think,” he said, “that I’ve got at the way in which Sir George was killed. Shall we go to Scotland Yard now and see the weapon? Then I can tell better.”
Inspector Mirch, who had charge of the case, received them with the usual courtesy extended by the police to the Press. The researches of the Murder Club were familiar, and, indeed, had been exceedingly useful, to the authorities, and the inspector willingly produced every exhibit in connection with this latest murder mystery looking with obvious curiosity at the silver-haired, white-moustached, elderly man who asked if he might be allowed to handle the deadly piece of steel.
“But a strip of steel of that length and width,” said Golbourne, “wouldn’t weigh an ounce, but about three-quarters of an ounce.”
“How do you know that, sir?” asked the inspector.
“I should be a poor professor of mathematics if I couldn’t measure and weigh things with my eye,” smiled Golbourne. “Now let us see if the cork weighs the other quarter to make up the full ounce?”
Scientific appliances of every kind are in use at Scotland Yard, including delicate scales which will weigh a thread of silk or a woman’s hair. And after experimenting the inspector said:
“Forty grains under a quarter of an ounce.”
“Of course! I was wrong. I forgot the steel!” Golbourne spoke with excitement. “Gentlemen, I can now tell you how Sir George Borgham was killed!”
The silence in that large square room overlooking the Embankment was only broken for a second or two by the rumble of the traffic outside, and then Golbourne spoke again.
“I think, Mr Inspector,” he said, “that if you cut open that cork, you’ll find that it is weighted inside to make up the exact quarter of an ounce, minus the fraction of weight given by the steel inserted into it.”
Mirch hesitated for a second, and then cut the cork across, severing it in two pieces. The inside proved to be slightly hollowed, and out rolled four or five little round shots of lead.
“Ah! I thought it was weighted,” cried Golbourne triumphantly. “Put these in the scales and you will find that it is they which brought the cork up to a quarter of an ounce, an unusual weight for one of its size.”
Further experiments proved that Golbourne’s calculations were correct.
Then the professor took up one of the pieces of cork, and probed and pricked at it with a pocket knife, and gradually eased the pieces into two.
“You see,” he said, taking up the other half and performing the same operation on it, “the cork was cut in two lengthways, the inside hollowed, the shot inserted, and the cork fastened together again with a strong adherent. It was cleverly done, too.”
“What else have you to say about it, sir?” asked the inspector.
“This,” Golbourne spoke solemnly. “Sir George Borgham was killed with this weapon from a distance of ten feet and a height of eight feet.”
Silence, and again silence, broken after a few tense seconds by Inspector Mirch, who said, without any idea of sarcasm:
“Who was the murderer, then?”
“I don’t know. At least, I’m not sure,” answered Golbourne thoughtfully. “But could you, Inspector, obtain from the Admiralty the address of Sebastian Sanchez? He’s a Spaniard by birth, a naturalized Englishman now. We might call on him. He came over from Brazil just before the War, and was employed at the Admiralty during hostilities. I worked with him there.”
Scotland Yard can obtain any information it wants, and within a minute, over the ‘phone, Inspector Mirch was answered.
“Forty-two Kentish Square, Camden Town, is where Mr Sanchez lives, or did live at any rate, during the time he was employed at the Admiralty.”
“Right! Then we’ll go and call on him, Inspector, if you can spare the time. But, first of all, I’d like to have a chat with Sir George’s chauffeur. I suppose you know where he is?”
“Yes, we’re keeping an eye on him, of course. I told him not to be far away from his garage. We’ll go down there and see him.”
“Good! Come along, Bowen, you’ll see this through with me, won’t you? We’ll come back to The Wire office, Mr Brinsley, if we’ve any news for you.”
At the garage near Sloane Square, Golbourne put a few searching questions to Edward Morris, the chauffeur.
“No, the car didn’t stop anywhere during the journey from Piccadilly to the Law Courts,” said the man. “There was just a little bit of a hold-up at Wellington Street, not enough to actually stop the car, but we had to go very slowly.”
“Ah! Now, can you tell me what sort of a vehicle was exactly in front of you during that block?”
“Yes, sir; it was a van, a fruit van, full of empty orange-boxes. I’ve often seen that same van coming back from Covent Garden at just about the same time when I used to drive my master down. I’ve noticed it for a long time, because it was always so very badly driven and used to get in my way, like it did yesterday morning, when it nearly shaved my front off-wheel when it sneaked in just ahead of me, as it had no right to do.”
“Oh! And was there any name on the car – a covered van I suppose it was, open at the back?”
“That’s right, sir, and the name on it was Sanchez. I remember that quite well, because I vowed once that I’d write to Mr Sanchez and tell him about the nuisance his driver so often was.”
“You didn’t notice anything extraordinary during that little temporary slowdown, did you?”
“No, sir, nothing.”
“Did you turn your head at all?”
The chauffeur considered for a minute.
“Well, I do remember turning round.” Morris allowed himself a little smile. “Because I heard a mate – a pal of mine – toot his horn in a comic way he often does. I meet him most mornings, and I just looked round to give him a nod, but that was all.”
That finished the interview with the chauffeur, and when Mr Bowen, the professor, and the inspector were in the cab again, Golbourne spoke very seriously.
“I’m going to take a risk with this man, Sanchez, Inspector,” he said. “That’s why I want you with me, in case there should be unpleasantness afterwards, or that I am mistaken. I’m only carrying out an idea of my own. Anyway, you’ll keep your eye on the gentleman we’re going to visit, won’t you? I’m not much good at self-defence, or anything of that sort.”
“All right, sir, I’ll keep my eye on him.”
Sebastian Sanchez, a tall, slim, swarthy man of about sixty-five years of age, received Golbourne with out-stretched hand and a smile, and bowed, with the courtesy of his race, to Inspector Mirch and Mr Bowen.
“And to what am I indebted for the pleasure of a visit from my old colleague, Professor Golbourne?” he asked in a smooth, even voice.
“Well, Sanchez, this is going to be a business talk, so why shouldn’t we sit down?” began Golbourne affably. “Mr Sanchez and I,” he said, turning to the others, “were working together at the Admiralty during the War. We were engaged on certain experiments.”
“Yes,” Sanchez smiled a little. “You, the professor of mathematics from the north of Scotland; I, by virtue of my experiments in the same line in Brazil, and as a naturalized Englishman. We worked well together, too, eh? But why—”
“Why am I here now?” Golbourne’s foot went out and touched Mirch’s, who imperceptibly edged his chair a little closer to the Spaniard’s. �
�Well, I was thinking about that invention which was put before us concerning the discharge of missiles by means of compressed air. You remember it?”
Mirch moved a little in his chair and Bowen bit his under-lip.
“Yes.” Sanchez’s eyes narrowed and then turned to a corner by his desk where stood against the wall what looked like a long, black walking stick with a crutch handle. “Yes.”
His hand stretched out a little as if to reach for the stick, but instinct and training impelled Mirch to snatch at it himself, and Sanchez rolled his eyes, the whites showing, tinged with yellow.
“These are strange proceedings in a gentleman’s house!” he said at length. “I await your explanation, professor.”
“In an interview such as this, Sanchez, witnesses are necessary. This is Inspector Mirch of Scotland Yard, and this is the Rev. Thomas Bowen, a very old friend of mine. Both are gentlemen of repute, whose evidence would be accepted in a court of law as to what took place at this interview.”
Mirch placed the black stick on the floor between his own chair and Mr Bowen’s. Then, leaning over, with professional dexterity, he patted Sanchez on the body from head to foot.
“That’s all right,” said the inspector, “no guns, or anything of that sort! Go on, Mr Golbourne.”
“As I was going to say,” continued the professor, “it occurred to me, Sanchez, that you might know something about the death of Sir George Borgham. In fact, I believe that it was you who killed him.”
Sanchez looked at the carpet, then at the ceiling, then straight at Golbourne.
“Yes, I killed him!” he said very quickly, “and I will pay. So you found it out, I suppose, Professor, and considered it your duty to, well, as you English say, give away. I don’t blame you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I took the risk. And perhaps you’re justified in tracking out an old colleague, though I don’t know whether I should have done it myself.”
“Sir George Borgham was a great and a good man.” Golbourne’s face flushed a little. “And it was my duty to make use of such memory and such powers as I have.”