Dark of the moon - Dr. Gideon Fell 22

by John Dickson Carr

  "If only to demonstrate that my memory at least is unimpaired," Dr. Fell suggested rather ghoulishly, "may I supply the ending?"

  "Well?"

  "Mr. Beale's final move," said Dr. Fell, "was to return by way of the French window into the weapons-room. It had been pitch dark for some time. He groped across the room, switched on the light, and was confronted by that jeering message on the blackboard."

  "Oh, the message. Sure! Sure! Sure! You were sayin'?"

  "Sir, what do we know of the message?"

  "I know it makes me mad. It makes me so mad—"

  "Gently!" begged Dr. Fell. "And let not your wrathful passions rise. There are times, Captain, when you sound amazingly like an old friend of mine, former Superintendent Hadley. You don't mind a throat being cut, but you can't stand a leg being pulled."

  "Who says I don't mind a throat bein' cut? Or a head bein' smashed in either? That makes me madder still. IT MAKES ME SO GODDAMN MAD"

  "No doubt. At the same time, if you will indulge me, I asked what we know of the message and not how it affects you emotionally. May I explain?"

  "Course you can explain! I'm from South Carolina, and I'm an even-tempered fellow. You just go ahead and explain!"

  Dr. Fell took out a meerschaum pipe and began to fill it from a fat pouch.

  "We have postulated two persons: (a) the murderer and (b) some joker affecting to be the ghost of Nathaniel Skeene. About five o'clock this afternoon an anonymous phone-call in a voice unidentified and unidentifiable informed you that the tomahawk had been taken. This call did not come from Maynard Hall. There seems little doubt that the phone call and the message on the blackboard originated in the same brain. And yet, unless a sinister Chinaman from the camp of Ho Chi Minn crept in and printed those words at some time this evening, they must have been printed by somebody very much here at the Hall. How do we explain this apparent contradiction?"

  For a moment Captain Ashcroft looked at him. Then, wheeling round, he stalked to the door of the weapons-room and threw it wide open. Alan on the piano bench could see him cross to the easel with the blackboard. On the ledge of the easel lay a stick of chalk and a length of grimy rag. Captain Ashcroft picked up the rag. Carefully he erased the printed words, so that the surface of the blackboard shone damply under overhead lights. Afterwards, with a sort of bursting dignity, he stalked back to confront Dr. Fell.

  "Yancey Beale," he said, "can't remember whether there were any words on it when he went out through there the first time. The curtains were closed and he can't be sure, but he thinks not The likeliest time for somebody to 'a' printed that stuff was in the uproar after Miss Maynard fainted.

  "For the only evidence we've got, you heard what George Dyson said. The blackboard was set up in there when Henry gave a talk to some high-school kids on April 30th. The chalk and the old washrag have been there ever since; the washrag's been as dry as a bone for two weeks. But it's not dry now. Somebody damped it for this very funny caper tonight; maybe for more capers too. Explain it, you say? Explain it, for God's sake? I'd kind of hoped you could help out there. Can you?"

  "I was pursuing the Socratic method. If you don't want me to pursue it—"

  "Not now I don't, and I'll tell you why. We've got ourselves sidetracked! The one with the sense of humor," declared Captain Ashcroft, hunching his shoulders ominously, "can wait till I get my hands on him later on. Our subject was Yancey Beale.

  "That's the story Yancey tells; I believe it; I think you believe it too. There's no confirmation, but does it need any? How he behaved was how I'd 'a' behaved my own self, in the days when I was young enough to go court in'. He's really gone on that little blonde daughter of Henry's, and I'm just sentimental enough to hope he gets her when this is all over."

  "Continue!" Dr. Fell had lighted his pipe, and was blowing smoke and sparks like the Spirit of the Volcano. "At the moment, sir, no comment from me is either needful or desirable. Continue!"

  "Next," said Captain Ashcroft, "there's Big-League Pitcher Hillboro."

  "What do you make of him?"

  "I'm not keen on him: he's too smart for his own good. With him it's the big T; what he thinks, what he knows. Practical experience, eh? He don't know B from bull's foot! And there's nobody as bad as a smart Yankee who won't shut up. But—"

  In one corner of the library was a big globe-map on its wooden stand. Captain Ashcroft strode to the globe-map, struck it and set it spinning, after which he turned back once more to Dr. Fell.

  "Hillsboro says he was at the pool-table the whole time, until he heard the young lady scream and ran downstairs. He didn't look out the window before then, but wouldn't have seen anything if he had. He'd put the lights on, as I can testify myself. With lights on in a room, you can't see out the window when it's started to get dark. There's no confirmation of his story either, but is there any good reason for us to doubt it?"

  "You answer."

  "No, there's no reason to doubt it! Hillboro had his eye on the girl, all right. If you ask me, he had his eye on Henry's money too. Still! Both he and Yancey Beale had what my old grandmother would 'a' called honorable intentions. Even if you could figure out how he committed the murder, he wouldn't endear himself to Madge by knockin' off her old man. I can't pin a murder on somebody just because the guy gripes me. Finally . . ."

  "Yes?" prompted Dr. Fell.

  "Finally," said Captain Ashcroft, "there's Bob Crandall and Mrs. Huret."

  "Both of them interesting personalities, don't you think?"

  "Yes, you can say that again—specially 'bout the ex-newspaperman with the fund of anecdote! Make every allowance for the fact that he'll talk your ears off; still and all, he's a pretty good sort when you come right down to it. What's more, for somebody who professes to be such a cynical so-and-so he's not very suspicious-minded."

  "The man is a romantic," said Dr. Fell, "like other newspaper folk on both sides of the Atlantic."

  Captain Ashcroft opened his notebook and leafed through it.

  "There's no need to remind you what Mr. Crandall says. He claims Henry told him to come up to the top floor for one game of chess before dinner, and you and young Grantham confirm that. At about six-ten or six-fifteen, just before I arrived, he went up to his own room and didn't leave it until the young lady screamed an hour later.

  "His room's on the second floor front, the end room on the left-hand side as you face front. He says he went up

  there to wash his hands and (quote) 'prepare.' That's all he did say until Mrs. Huret chipped in.

  "He didn't know she was on his track and following him. She went up and hung around outside the door, which is where I saw her. She never left that corridor; she was never very far from the door the whole time. All he did, she says, was pace back and forth looking at a very thin book with a bright cover, called How to Win at Chess. She knows this, Mrs. Huret says, because she looked through the keyhole and watched him. He'd pace past the keyhole to the other side of the room, and then pace back again. Remember?"

  "Perfectly."

  "The only thing that flustered him, it seems, was the notion he'd take any special pains for a chess-game with Henry, who always beat him. Afterwards he said to Mrs. Huret, 'The door wasn't locked,' he said; ‘why the hell didn't you open it and come in?' She said that wouldn't have been 'nice,' or 'right,' or some word I didn't catch."

  The burly detective wheeled towards Camilla.

  "Now, Miss Bruce, I let you stay for the questioning. Maybe I had a reason; maybe I'm a craftier devil than anybody takes me for. Sometimes a woman's what-is-it —intuition—will jump through to the truth where a man can't see at all. What's your opinion of Mrs. Huret?"

  "I like her!" Camilla said instantly. "You'll get all sorts of views from other people, I know. They tell you she's 'obvious' or 'blatant' or other terms that only mean they won't say what they mean. I say she's natural, which is how a lot of us would like to behave if we just had the nerve. And I believe her; don't you?"

  "
Yes, ma'am, that's just what I do. 'Pears like I'm ar-guin'," declared Captain Ashcroft, lifting the notebook with an oratorical flourish, "wasn't anybody at all did this murder. But that's how I see it, right or wrong. We can say, of course, those two were in cahoots together. But I don't see a woman concerned in this, and Dr. Fell agrees. I don't see Crandall killing Henry because Henry beat him at chess, or for any other reason either. He's not the type; I just don't believe he did it."

  "As a matter of fact, I didn't," said a new voice.

  They faced round at Bob Crandall himself, in hard-leather slippers, and with a lightweight dressing-gown over pajamas. Tousle-haired drawn of expression but quench-lessly vital and alive, he clacked down the four steps into the library, shying a little as he saw Camilla.

  "Excuse these duds, my dear. The captain's right; I couldn't sleep. On the other hand, it's nearly midnight; I can't take late hours as I used to. In about two minutes, if they don't kick me out before then, I'm going to get a big drink of liquor from the dining-room; and that'll do the trick of sending me off. You know, Captain Ashcroft, being on the receiving-end of a police investigation is very different from just reporting it. Do you want me to tell my story again?"

  "I don't think we'll need that, Mr. Crandall."

  " 'For this relief much thanks.' And I didn't kill Hank, so help me Jinny I didn't! Hank and I never quarreled because we always argued, if you'll accept the paradox. I can't even get used to the idea that he's dead. At any minute I expect to see him walk in here and freeze to an icicle when I recite the limerick about the young girl from Detroit, who, when asked how she liked it, said, 'Quoite.'"

  "Sir," suggested Dr. Fell, "may we hear the whole limerick?"

  "Just once, believe it or not, I've got no taste for limericks; Hank's ghost would haunt me. Also, believe this or not, I liked the old bastard and I'm sorry he's gone.

  "Then there's another thing," pursued Mr. Crandall, lifting an admonitory forefinger. "I heard you people talking about Valerie Huret and me; I couldn't help hearing you. That's some woman, that is, even if she does look through keyholes. Now so far there's been a good deal of discussion about backgrounds, and where this or that person came from. Captain Ashcroft, what's her background?"

  "Before she married the late Gilbert Huret, she was a schoolteacher in North Charleston. Any special reason for asking?"

  "Well! No special reason, maybe. But that's quite a woman, I repeat. She grows on you; you don't think she will, but she grows on you. 'What's she thinking?' you say to yourself. 'Is she thinking what I think she's thinking?

  Because, if so—' Be very funny, wouldn't it, if at my age and at my state of congealed cynicism and distrust . . . oh, never mind! Forget what I'm saying; the hell with it!"

  "Mr. Crandall," interposed Dr. Fell, "your customary loquacity seems considerably diminished. Now I, for my sins, used to know something of newspaper work in England. If we may not hear a limerick, may we at least hear another anecdote?"

  "At this hour of the night? Nary an anecdote, I'm afraid. But I'll tell you something about your English papers, Dr. Fell," Bob Crandall said in his surprisingly youthful voice, "that you must know only too well already. Bar the Times, bar the Telegraph and one other —it's morning papers, mostly—they'll dish out more sensationalism and muck-raking than any paper in this country has ever printed or would dare to print. If the story's good for a scarehead and it's not too libellous, they'll shoot the works on anything.

  "This afternoon, here in the library, I quoted one short verse from a screed written in England more than fifty years ago. It likens Fleet Street, home of your own Fourth Estate, to the old Fleet Prison for debtors in Dickens's day. And it's true of the present Fleet Street; every word is gospel truth! You didn't hear that one verse, Dr. Fell; if you think I've blown my stack I won't deny it; but in sheer journalistic honesty I think I'll give you the rest.

  "They did not break the padlocks,

  Or clear the wall away.

  The men in debt that drank of old

  Still drink in debt today;

  Chained to the rich by ruin,

  Cheerful in chains, as then

  When old, unbroken Pickwick walked

  Among the broken men.

  "Still he that dreams and rambles

  Through his own elfin air,

  Knows that the street's a prison,

  Knows that the gates are there;

  Still he that scorns or struggles

  Sees, frightful and afar,

  All that they leave of rebels

  Rot high on Temple Bar.

  "All that I loved and hated,

  All that I shunned and knew,

  Clears in broad battle lightning

  Where they, and I, and you,

  Run high the barricade that breaks

  The barriers of the street,

  And shout to them that shrink within,

  The Prisoners of the Fleet.

  "And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes our entertainment this evening. Now a big slug of whisky for your obedient servant; then bed and dreamland before I say something I'll regret. Good night."

  With a curious kind of dignity he ducked them a little bow, turned, clacked up the four steps and across the hall to the dining-room opposite.

  "Ahem!" said Dr. Fell, whose pipe had gone out. "The man's right, you know," he added rather inconsequentially. "Whether or not it is an unprovoked attack on the press of Great Britain, I fear he's right. But journalistic reflections are hardly to our purpose now. The time has come . . ."

  "Well?" prompted Captain Ashcroft.

  Imbued suddenly with volcanic energy, Dr. Fell dropped the pipe into his pocket and towered to his feet on the leverage of the crutch-headed stick.

  "Captain, I need your help. You have an authority denied to me, and resources beyond my command or ken. The time has come, I say, to clear away certain mists and obfuscations which cloud the glimmering landscape to our sight. If the others will excuse us, I suggest a conference a deux in the weapons-room. Do you dig?"

  "Oh, I dig!" Captain Ashcroft made a kind of pounce. "This is what I've been waitin' for: the moment in any case, as Carlo Spinelli would say, when Old King Cole unlimbers the heavy artillery and lets fly. Give me one hint, just one hint, of how the murderer did this . . . !"

  "Now, there," said Dr. Fell, "there, I fear, I can be of no assistance whatever. With regard to the mechanics, by all the archons of Athens, I am so far in my usual dull state: bewildered, benighted, bamboozled! But there are other aspects equally fetching and fascinating; I would point them out. You say you see no sign of a motive anywhere. If you had been here earlier this afternoon, if you had seen and heard certain things it was given us to see and hear, then indications of a motive, believe me, would have shone like the village drunkard's nose on a brisk Saturday night at the pub. I.wish we could question Miss Maynard. I wish we could learn who was with her under the magnolias on the night of May 2nd. Since we can't question her and we don't know, we must remember Mendelssohn and do the best we can with him."

  "All right, all right! At least," proclaimed Captain Ashcroft, throwing open the door of the weapons-room, "I can get SOME sense out of a business that don't seem to make any sense at all. Now we're goin' in here," he continued to Alan and Camilla, "and, whatever happens, don't anybody disturb us till we come out again. Don't anybody disturb us (you hear?) or I'll show myself a lot less easy and indulgent than I've been so far. This way, Dr. Fell."

  Dr. Fell ruminated.

  "Thank'ee." He looked at Camilla. "Indulge your instincts, madam!" He looked at Alan. "And you, my dear fellow, always remember that somebody asked the Sergeant's wife. Now pray excuse us; I shall not long detain the captain from his labors."

  The door closed.

  In the night stillness, side by side on the piano bench, Alan and Camilla looked at each other. The latter, as though reminded of something, got up suddenly but rather uncertainly and wandered to the middle of the room, where
she started to turn back. There was not far to turn; Alan had risen and followed her.

  "Mendelssohn again!" Camilla said. "And I'm to indulge my instincts, am I? What was that all about, do you think?"

  "Except for the cryptic point about the Sergeant's wife —it's not the first time he's mentioned her—I may have more than a glimmer of an idea. Also, from something Captain Ashcroft said when he kept hammering at ways of cornmitting murder without leaving a trace, it's just

  possible even a no-detective and anti-mathematician like myself can see how the thing might have been done. But you wouldn't believe that, I suppose?"

  "I've called you many things, Alan; I've never called you stupid. How might it have been done?"

  "That's the trouble: this whole case is too infernally personal. The idea I had, if it can be dignified with the name of idea, is in the abstract; it's not meant to apply to any particular person. But it won't seem abstract. As soon as I mention it, somebody will jump up and say, 'You mean So-and-so, don't you? You're accusing So-and-so of the murder?' So I'd better keep quiet, for the moment at least. And, anyway, that's not the main consideration."