by Annie Haynes
“What’s the good of that?” Spencer objected sensibly. “If he’s out it will make no difference. And if he is in and won’t answer at one door he won’t at the other.”
“Well, anyway, I shall try,” John Walls persisted. His rather florid face was several degrees paler than usual as he went through the clerks’ office. Man and boy, all his working life had been spent in the Bechcombes’ office, and he had become through long years of association personally attached to Luke Bechcombe. Within the last few minutes, though there seemed no tangible ground for it, he had become oppressed by a strange feeling, a prevision of some evil, a certainty that all was not well with his chief.
The private door into Mr. Bechcombe’s office opened into a passage at right angles with the door by which clients were admitted to the waiting-rooms and to the clerks’ offices.
John Walls knocked first tentatively, then louder, still without the slightest response.
By this time he had been joined by Spencer, who seemed to have caught the infection of the elder man’s pallor. He looked at the keyhole.
“Of course the governor has gone out. But I wonder whether the key is in its place?”
He stooped and somewhat gingerly applied his eye to the hole. Then he jerked his head up with an inaudible exclamation.
“What—what do you see?” Walls questioned with unconscious impatience. Then as he gazed at the bent back of his junior that queer foreboding of his grew stronger.
At last Spencer raised himself.
“No, the key isn’t in its hole,” he said slowly. “But I thought—I thought—”
“Yes, yes; you thought what?”
Both men’s voices had instinctively sunk to a whisper.
Spencer was shorter than his senior. As he looked up his eyes were dark with fear, his words came with an odd little stutter between them.
“I—I expect I was mistaken—I must have been. You look yourself, Walls. But I thought I saw a queer-looking heap over there by the window.”
“A queer-looking heap!” Without further ado the other man pushed him aside.
As he knelt down Spencer went on:
“It—there is something sticking out at the side—it looks like a leg—a leg in a grey trouser—do you see?”
There was a moment’s tense silence. Then Mr. Walls raised himself.
“It is a leg. Suppose—suppose it is the governor’s leg! Suppose that heap is the governor! He may have had a fit. We shall have to break into the room. Just see if Thompson has come back. If he hasn’t get hold of two of the juniors quietly. Send another as fast as he can go to the nearest doctor, and get some brandy ready. It’s a strong door, but together we ought to manage it.”
There was no sign of Thompson in the office, but one of the articled pupils was a Rugby half back. Spencer returned with him and one of his fellows and the Rugby man attacked the door with a vigour that had brought him through many a scrum. It soon yielded to their combined efforts, and then with one accord all the men stood back. There was something at first sight about the everyday aspect of the room into which they gazed that seemed oddly at variance with their fears. Then slowly all their eyes turned from Mr. Bechcombe’s writing-table with his own chair standing before it, just as they had seen it hundreds of times, to that ominous heap near the window.
John Walls bent over it, then he looked up with shocked eyes.
“He—I am afraid it is all over.”
“Not dead!” Spencer ejaculated; but one look at that ghastly face upon the floor, at the staring eyes, and wide open mouth with the protruding tongue, drove every drop of colour from his face. He turned to Walls with chattering teeth. “It—it must have been a fit, Walls. He looks terrible.”
“Is there anything wrong?”
It was a woman’s voice. With one consent the men moved nearer the private door so as to shut out the sight of that ghastly heap.
“Is there anything wrong?” There was an undertone of fear about the voice now.
John Walls turned.
“Mr. Bechcombe has been taken ill, Miss Hoyle—very ill, I am afraid.”
The sight of his white, stricken face was more eloquent than his words. Cecily Hoyle’s own colour faded slowly.
“What is it?” she questioned, looking from one to the other. She was a tall, thin slip of a girl with clear brown eyes, a nose that turned up and a mouth that was too wide, a reasonably fair complexion and a quantity of pretty, curly, nut-brown hair that waved all over her head and low down over her ears, and that somehow conveyed the impression of being bobbed when it wasn’t. Ordinarily it was a winsome, attractive little face, but just now, catching the fear in Walls’s voice, the brown eyes were full of dread and the mobile lips were twitching. “Can’t I do anything?” she questioned. “It must be something very sudden. Mr. Bechcombe was quite well when I went out.”
John Walls laid his hand on her shoulder.
“You can’t do anything, Miss Hoyle. We can none of us do anything. It is too late.”
Cecily shrank from him with a cry.
“No, no! He can’t be—dead!”
A strong hand put both her and John Walls aside.
“Let me pass. I am a doctor. What is the matter here?”
John Walls recognized the speaker as a medical man who had rooms close at hand.
“I think Mr. Bechcombe has had a fit, sir. I am afraid it is all over.”
“Stand aside, please. Let us have all the air we can.”
The doctor bent over the man on the floor, but one look was sufficient. He touched the wrist, laid his hand over the heart. Then he stood up quickly.
“There is nothing to be done here. He has been dead, I should say, an hour or more. We must ring up the police, at once. You will understand that nothing is to be moved until their arrival.”
“Police!” echoed John Walls with shaking lips.
“Yes, police!” the doctor said impatiently. “My good man, can’t you see that this is no natural death? Mr. Bechcombe has been murdered—strangled!”
CHAPTER IV
The first floor of 21 Crow’s Inn was entirely in the hands of the police. Two plain clothes men guarded the entrance of the corridor, others were stationed farther along. Both the big waiting-rooms were filled, one with indignant clients anxious to go home, the other with the clerks and employees of the firm.
Two men came slowly down the passage. Inspector Furnival of Scotland Yard was a man of middle height with a keen, foxy-looking face, at present clean-shaven, and sharp grey eyes whose clearness of vision had earned him in the Force the sobriquet of “The Ferret.” His companion, Dr. Hackett, carried his occupation writ plain on his large-featured face and his strictly professional attire.
Both men were looking grave and preoccupied as they entered the smaller office which had been little used since Mr. Bechcombe’s partner retired. Inspector Furnival took the revolving chair and drew it up to the office table in the middle of the room. Then he produced a notebook.
“Now, Dr. Hackett, will you give me the details of this affair as far as you know them?”
“I can only tell you that I was summoned about two o’clock this afternoon by a clerk—Winter, I fancy his name is. He told me that his employer was locked up in his office, that they thought he had had a fit and were breaking the door open, and wanted me to be there in readiness as soon as they had forced their way in. I hastily put a few things that I thought might be wanted into my bag and hurried here. I arrived just as the door gave way and found matters as you know.”
The inspector scratched the side of his nose reflectively with the handle of his fountain pen.
“Mr. Bechcombe was quite dead?”
“Quite dead. Had been dead at least two hours, I should say,” Dr. Hackett assented.
“And the cause?” the inspector continued, suspending his pen over the paper.
“You will-understand that you will have to wait until after the post-mortem for a definitely full and detailed opin
ion. But, as far as I can tell you after the examination which was all I could make this afternoon, I feel no doubt that the cause of death was strangulation.”
“It seems inconceivable that a man should be strangled in his own office, within earshot of his own clerks,” debated the inspector. “Still, it is quite evident even at a casual glance that it has been done here. But I cannot understand why Mr. Bechcombe apparently offered no resistance. His hand-bell, his speaking-tube, the telephone—all were close at hand. It looks as though he had recognized his assassin and had no fear of him.”
“I think on the contrary that it was a sudden attack,” Dr. Hackett dissented. “Probably Mr. Bechcombe had no opportunity of recognizing his murderer. The assassin sprang forward and—did you notice a sweet sickly smell that seemed to emanate from the body?”
The inspector nodded.
“That was the first thing I noticed. Chloroform, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said the doctor slowly. “I should say the assassin sprang forward with the chloroform, or perhaps approached his victim unobserved, and attempted to stupefy him, and then strangled him. That is how it looks to me. For anything more definite we must wait for the post-mortem.”
The inspector made a few hieroglyphics in his notebook, then he looked up.
“You say that death took place probably about two hours before you saw the body, doctor? and you were called in about two o’clock. Therefore, Mr. Bechcombe must have died about twelve o’clock. You are quite definite about this?”
“I cannot be more exact as to the time,” Dr. Hackett said slowly. “I should say about twelve o’clock—certainly not much after. More probably a little before.”
The inspector stroked his clean-shaven chin and glanced over his notes.
“Just one more question, Dr. Hackett. Can you tell me just who was in the room when you got there?”
Dr. Hackett hesitated a moment.
“Well, there was Mr. Walls, who seems to be managing things in Thompson’s absence, and three other men whose names I do not of course know, and the late Mr. Bechcombe’s secretary, whose name I understand to be Hoyle—Miss Hoyle.”
The inspector pricked up his ears.
“I have not seen Miss Hoyle. What sort of a woman?”
“Oh, just a girl,” the doctor said vaguely. “Just an ordinary-looking girl. I did not notice her much, except that I thought she looked white and shocked, as no doubt she was, poor girl!”
“No doubt!” the inspector assented. “How was she dressed, doctor?”
“Dressed?” the doctor echoed in some surprise. “Well, I don’t take much notice of dress myself. Just a dark gown, I think.”
“No hat?”
“No, I don’t think so. No, I am sure she hadn’t.”
“Do you know where she works?”
“Didn’t know such a person existed until this afternoon. I know nothing about her,” the doctor said, shaking his head.
The inspector coughed.
“Um! Well, that will be all for the present, doctor. It is probable that you may be wanted later, and of course possible that Mrs. Bechcombe may wish to see you.”
“I suppose she has been told?”
“Of course,” the inspector assented. “We phoned to the house at once, and I gather she was informed of the death, not of course of the cause, by a relative who was there—a Mr. Collyer, a clergyman. I shall go round to see her when I have finished here. I hear that she collapsed altogether on hearing of her loss.”
“Poor thing! Poor thing!” the doctor murmured. “Well, inspector, I shall hold myself at your disposal.”
Left alone, the inspector looked over his notes once more and then sounded the electric bell twice. One of his subordinates opened the door at once.
“Tell Moore and Carter to take the names and addresses of all the clients. Verify them on the phone and then allow them to go home. If any of them are not capable of verification, have them shadowed. Now send John Walls to me.”
The clerk did not keep Inspector Furnival waiting. He came in hesitatingly, dragging his feet like a man who has had a stroke. His face was colourless, his eyes were dark with fear.
“You sent for me, inspector?” he said, his teeth chattering as if with ague.
“Naturally!” the inspector assented, glancing at him keenly. “I want to hear all you know about Mr. Bechcombe’s death. But, first, has Amos Thompson returned?”
“N—o!” quavered Walls.
“Can you account for his absence in any way?” the inspector questioned shortly.
“No, I have no idea where he is,” Walls answered, gathering up his courage. “But then he is the managing clerk. I am not. I very seldom know anything of his work.”
The inspector did not answer this. He drew his brows together.
“When did you see him last?”
“About half-past twelve, it would be. He went out of the office, I have not seen him since. But he did go out to lunch early sometimes. And he may have gone somewhere on business for Mr. Bechcombe.” Walls wiped the sweat from his brow as he spoke.
The inspector looked at him.
“I understand that Mr. Bechcombe was heard to tell him to be in readiness to go with him to the Bank at one o’clock?”
“I—I believe Spencer said something about that,” Walls stammered. “But I did not hear what Mr. Bechcombe said myself. My desk is farther away than Spencer’s and I was busy with my work. All I heard was that Mr. Bechcombe was not to be disturbed on any account. He slightly raised his voice when he said that.”
“Did you gather that Mr. Bechcombe had business of an important nature with a mysterious client?”
“I didn’t gather anything,” said Walls with some warmth. “It wasn’t my business to. If Mr. Bechcombe did have an important client he must have admitted him himself by the private door. The last one that went to him in an ordinary way came out in a very few minutes.”
“Before twelve o’clock?” questioned the inspector sharply.
“Oh, yes. Some minutes before the clock struck—about a quarter to, I should say. I noticed that.”
“Because—” Inspector Furnival prompted.
“Oh, well, because I heard it strike afterwards, I suppose,” Walls answered lamely. “There are days when I don’t notice it.”
“Um!” the inspector glanced at him. “Do you know the name of the last client who saw Mr. Bechcombe?”
“Pounds—Mr. Pounds, of Gosforth and Pounds, the big haberdashers. He came about the lease of some fresh premises they are taking. I happen to know that.”
“Ah, yes.” The inspector looked him full in the face. “But you don’t happen to know why Mr. Anthony Collyer wanted to see his uncle, perhaps?”
The sweat broke out afresh on Mr. Walls’s forehead.
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“You know that Mr. Collyer came,” the inspector said with some asperity. “Why did you not mention it?”
Walls glanced at him doubtfully.
“There wasn’t anything to mention. Mr. Anthony wanted to see Mr. Bechcombe, and he couldn’t, so he went away. He talked to Mr. Thompson, not to me.”
“You did not hear what he said when he went away? Your desk seems to be most inconveniently placed, Mr. Walls.”
“I heard him talking a lot of nonsense to Mr. Thompson.”
“Such as—” The inspector paused.
“Oh, well, he said he must see Mr. Bechcombe and he said he would, and Mr. Thompson—”
“Be careful!” warned the inspector. “Don’t make any mistakes, Mr. Walls, I want to know what Mr. Anthony Collyer said.”
“He said—he said—if Mr. Thompson didn’t let him in he would go round to Mr. Bechcombe’s private door,” the man said, then hesitated. “But it—it was just nonsense.”
“Did he try to get into the room through the private door?”
“I don’t know,” Walls said helplessly. “I didn’t see him any more.”
&nbs
p; The inspector drew a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper from his breast pocket and, opening it, displayed to the clerk’s astonished eyes a long, white suede glove.
“Have you ever seen this before?”
John Walls peered at it.
“No. I can’t say that I have. It—It is a lady’s glove, inspector.”
“It is a lady’s glove,” the inspector assented. “Where do you imagine it was found, Mr. Walls?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Walls said, staring at him. “It—I think a good many ladies wear gloves like that nowadays, Mr. Furnival. I know Mrs. Walls—”
“This particular glove,” the inspector went on, “I found beside Mr. Bechcombe’s writing-table this afternoon.”
“Did you?” Mr. Walls looked amazed. “Well, I don’t know how it came there. All Mr. Bechcombe’s clients were men that came to-day.”
“Except perhaps the one that came to the private door,” suggested the inspector.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Walls said in a puzzled tone. “I never heard anything of a lady coming to-day.”
The inspector folded the glove up and put it away again.
“That will do for the present, Mr. Walls. I should like to see Mr. Thompson if he returns, and now please send Miss Hoyle to me.”
Walls looked uncomfortably surprised.
“Miss Hoyle?”
“Yes, Miss Hoyle—Mr. Bechcombe’s secretary!” the inspector said sharply. “I suppose you know her, Mr. Walls?”
“Oh, yes,” Walls stammered. “At least, I couldn’t say I know her. I have spoken to her once or twice. But she didn’t make any friends among us. And her office was quite apart. She didn’t come through our door, or anything. She is a lady—quite a lady, you understand, and her office is next to Mr. Bechcombe’s own.”
“Indeed!” For once the inspector looked really interested. “Well, I should like to see Miss Hoyle without delay, Mr. Walls.”
“Very well, I will tell her at once.”
Miss Hoyle did not keep the inspector waiting. He glanced at her keenly as he placed a chair for her.
“Your name, please?”
“Cecily Frances Hoyle.”