"I confess I scarcely follow you," replied the bishop. "I cannot conjecture that it was in some fashion propped up so that it would fall into the socket at the required moment…"
"No. But what about rubber gloves?" inquired Dr. Fell.
There was a pause.
"H’mf. I'm only theorizing now, of course," the doctor rumbled, "yet, when you ally it with a few other points I shall indicate in a moment, it is an alluring theory. That's the only way the trick could have been worked. Yet again the total adds up to foolishness if we conceive that — as a part of this intricate design— Depping provided himself with a pair of rubber gloves to put out his own lights, when (as I have insisted) other and simpler methods were at hand… Nevertheless, there is another connotation of rubber gloves. If a man desires to leave no fingerprints, and yet have a free and delicate use of his hands, rubber gloves are the best sort of protection."
The bishop made a massive gesture. "My dear Dr. Fell," he intoned, almost sepulchrally, "you are getting into the realm of fantastic nonsense. Why should the late Mr. Depping have cared whether or not he left fingerprints in his own study?"
Letting out a gust of smoke, Dr. Fell leaned forward with a sort of fierce intensity and pointed his pipestem. His wheezing breath grew louder. He said:
"Exactly! Why should he? There's another, Why should he for this incredible collection. Why should he at least not make a pretense of wondering why the lights went out? Why didn't he play his part like an artist, and come out of his room to ask Storer what was wrong? Why didn't he show himself? Why did he help the visitor burn his clothes? — And last of all," said the doctor, lifting his stick and jabbing it towards the dinner tray, "why did he sample everything on that tray except his favorite soup?"
"I say, this bears a curious resemblance to the classic history of the three bears. 'Who's been sitting in my chair? Who's been drinking my porridge? Who—' Gentlemen, I think you are beginning to perceive by this time that the man in this room was not Depping at all."
The bishop muttered something to himself. A sudden dazzling suspicion seemed to make him wheel round and look at the smirking face of the dead man…
"Then Depping—" he said. "Where was Depping all this time?"
"Why, I’ll tell you " responded the doctor, and made a hideous pantomime face by way of emphasis. "He was decked out in an eye-splitting check suit, bogus jewellery, a wig, a false moustache, and actor's cement behind his ears to make them protrude. He was ringing his own doorbell and paying a call in his own house… There it is, you see. In this masquerade the roles were simply reversed, and that's what I meant by saying we should have to tear apart the facts as they seemed, or we should never understand the truth. It was X, the mysterious stranger, who posed as Depping in this room. And it was Depping — eh?"
"Can you—" said Morley Standish, "can you prove this?" He was breathing hard, and his heavy dark face, with its absurd-looking moustache, had a sudden look of relief.
"I rather think I can," said Dr. Fell modestly.
"But — ah," observed the bishop, "I — that is, I am bound to remark that this fresh approach would seem to make the matter quite as complicated and incomprehensible as it was before."
"Eh? No. No, I don't agree. Give me this reversal of roles," urged Dr. Fell, with a persuasive air, "and I undertake to simplify it. Heh. Yes."
"I can understand," pursued the other, "how Depping's appearance could have deceived Storer with only one candle burning. The very clothes alone would have had the effect of distracting his eye much as a conjuror does; which is — ah — the first principle of disguise, and, I am told, the only really effective one." It was a struggle for the bishop to include that "I am told"; but he did it. He brooded. "I can even understand the change of voice, allied to the American accent… But there is a more difficult imposture to account for. How do you account for the voice of the man in this room, imitating Depping's? Surely Storer would have known it was not the same?"
The doctor chuckled, and spilled ashes down his waistcoat.
"He would," the doctor agreed, "if he had heard it anywhere else but through a speaking tube." He pointed to the wall. "Of all the ghostly and disembodied effects in the way of communication, commend me to the speaking tube. You yourself would sound like a spirit-voice. Have you never used one? — It isn't like a telephone, you know. Go downstairs, and let each of us speak to you in turn; and I will defy you to identify your own son.
"And, you see, it was only over the speaking tube that the bogus Depping spoke to Storer. The Visitor' went upstairs, entered this room, and the door closed. Afterwards, of course, the real Depping spoke, and there was no deception to puzzle our observant valet."
"For the present," said the bishop, "let's accept the hypothesis… I must insist that we still have as inexplicable a situation as before. Why should Depping and X have put up this imposture between them?"
"I don't think they did."
The bishop remained calm. He said: "Most extraordinary, doctor. I was under the impression that you said-"
"I do not think they put it up between them, confound it," snorted Dr. Fell. "Remember, if you please, that we have only got a reversal of roles. It doesn't alter any of the circumstances. If you say there was collusion between those two, you must explain the same riddles as before. The queer behavior of the man in this room isn't greatly altered because his name is X instead of Depping. Why, if X is working with Depping from the beginning of a carefully conceived plan, does he want the rubber gloves? If Depping brought a disguised X through the front door instead of smuggling him up the balcony, why didn't X do the same for a disguised Depping?… Be calm, my dear sir; I know you yourself pointed out those difficulties. So let's begin with the dinner. Depping didn't eat it, but X did. Whispering to the inner ear, echoing through the halls of consciousness," said Dr. Fell with relish, "comes the sinister question: Why didn't Depping eat his dinner?"
"Maybe he wasn't hungry? said Morley Standish, after considering the problem.
"Brilliant," said Dr. Fell testily. "The helpfulness of my colleagues is inspiring. Surely, gentlemen, your innate shrewdness, your native cunning, can provide a better answer than that—? It must have occurred to you that he didn't eat his dinner because he wasn't here, and X did eat it because he was here. The dinner was brought up at half-past eight. Depping was.here then, resdess and nervous, I think the report was. And he must have left the house shortly after that, in his fancy disguise. He must, therefore, have gone out the balcony door. Eh?"
"Quite" said the bishop. "And — that provides us, it is obvious, with an important piece of evidence. He had the key to the balcony door."
"Good. We progress. So what follows?"
"I do not agree with your statement that no plot was arranged beforehand between Depping and X," said the bishop. He was stalking about now, in a fervor of enlightenment. "Everything points to that. While Depping was away—"
"For nearly an hour and a half—"
"— for nearly an hour and a half, then, X was in this room. Doctor, every detail fits into place. Depping, in disguise, left here for a nefarious purpose, an illegal purpose…"
Dr. Fell stroked his moustache. "It is considered so. Yes. He took his gun along, you see… Are you beginning to have a nebulous idea as to what happened to the missing bullet?"
"Oh, my God!" said Morley Standish suddenly.
"Ghosts of the past will now gather round" continued Dr. Fell, "to gibber that crusty old Depping was a very, very dangerous man on whom to try any games. I expect his use of American words, when drunk, came naturally to him… It occurs to me that poor old Louis Spinelli will never try any blackmailing tricks again. If he isn't as dead as Garibaldi at this moment, I am very much mistaken."
They all looked at the dead smirk on Depping's face; at the neatness of his clothes, the orderly books, and the silver bowl of roses on the dinner table.
"My friend," declared the bishop, as though he were beginning a speech, "on
the admirable completeness with which you have conjured a case out of evidence which does not exist and facts which have not been demonstrated, I must offer my sincerest congratulations… Hem. On the other hand, you must be aware that everything you have said indicates a plot between Depping and X. Depping was going out to commit a murder. It is simplicity itself. He left a colleague here to prove him an alibi."
Dr. Fell ruffled the hair at his temples. For a long time he blinked across the room. A new, disturbing idea seemed to strike him.
"You know…" he said. "By the Lord, I believe it would be better, if for the present, we agreed on that. I don't believe it is precisely true; and yet my own idea— which is not so very different from yours in essentials— is open to such an overpowering objection that… Yes, let's assume what you say. Let's say Depping left somebody here, to growl something through the door in case he should be approached—"
"And this person," interposed the bishop grimly, "came here determined to kill Depping just as Depping meant to kill Spinelli."
"Yes. Now we are on safe ground. Gentlemen, no more beautiful opportunity for murder ever presented itself with a proof of innocence attached. Look at it! If Depping thought he was safe to kill Spinelli, then X must have roared with mirth to see how safely he could kill Depping..
"Don't you see," he demanded, pounding his fist on his knee, "how it would work out? It explains our problem as to why Depping walked through the door in disguise. In the original plan, Depping had never intended to do that. To do that, after he had killed Spinelli, would have been idiotic and dangerous. His alibi was planted in his study. He should have returned there as he left— by the balcony door, unseen, to shed his disguise. A suspicious man in loud clothes, with a mysterious manner and an American accent, who deliberately walked in his front door… why, it would have started every tongue in the countryside wagging. If Spinelli were discovered dead — another suspicious American— then inquiries would lead straight to Depping to ask what he knew about it. They might not prove him guilty of murder, but your respectable, studious country gentleman would be in for an uncomfortable lot of explaining."
Morley Standish cleared his throat. "Then, hang it, why did he?" he asked.
"That's the infernal beauty of X's scheme… Depping came in the front door because he couldn't get in any other way. Do you see it? X caught him in the neatest kind of trap. Depping had gone out the balcony door, leaving the key in it; instructing X to lock it behind him, and admit him when he returned… Remember, that's your theory; I told you that in many features mine is different… but, anyway, Depping returns just as the thunderstorm breaks, and he can't get in-"
"Because X won't let him in," said the bishop.
"Well, it can scarcely have been so crude as that. That's where your hypothesis wobbles a bit; to keep Depping unsuspicious, X would have had to spin some yarn about losing the key. It would sound improbable. I think I have a better explanation, but it works out on the same principle… And there you are. There's the door locked, and bars on every window. There's Depping fairly caught out in a heavy storm, in a disguise he can't possibly explain!
"The stiff and scholarly Mr. Depping known hereabouts," he went on musingly, "wearing a music-hall suit… Where can he go? How can he dispose of that garb? Picture yourself, Bishop Donovan, caught in an English village at night and in a storm, dressed up as Charles Chaplin just after having committed a murder
… Depping was fairly in the soup. He'd got to get into his house unsuspected, and all the windows were barred. And he had to get in quickly; every minute his accomplice remained there increased the danger of detection both for himself and his accomplice. He could even talk to his accomplice, through the bars of the balcony window, but he couldn't get in…
"And here's X with a suggestion — you know what it was. Lights short-circuited, American visitor enters, identities are restored. It was a dangerous risk, but the lesser of two bad positions for Depping. For X it was the boon of an American visitor who would be supposed to have shot Depping when, later on, Depping was found murdered. And it very nearly succeeded."
The bishop went over the desk, and for a time he looked down at the dead man with an expression in which were mingled compassion and disgust.
"The Lord gave—' " he said, and stopped. When he turned again, there was a quizzical expression in his eyes.
"You are a persuasive speaker, doctor," he said. "An unusually persuasive speaker. All this has been explained so coherently that I have been forgetting the basis on which all the assumptions rest: that is, the death of Spinelli. I have read of brilliant pieces of deduction to unravel crimes. But I must compliment you on your brilliance in unravelling a murder we don't know has been committed"
Dr. Fell was not abashed. "Oh, I'm a bit of a charlatan," he acknowledged affably. "Still, I’ll wager you two junior mathematics masters against a curate that it took place as I've indicated. That door over there leads to Depping's bedroom. If you care to make a search, you'll probably find evidence to support me. Personally, I'm lazy…"
"Look here," said Morley Standish. There's something you've got to promise. You say old Depping was a crook in the past, and probably worse; that's what you believe, anyhow…"
His big stride brought him to the side of Dr. Fell's chair, and his face was painfully earnest; he had the uncertain look of a man who feels that showing an emotion would be an incorrect thing, but is determined to force it over by lowering his voice and speaking very fast.
"Well, to tell you the truth. I'm not surprised. I’ve been thinking things, myself. You'll say that's disloyal-"
Tut," grunted Dr. Fell. "Why?"
"— but there it is. Now do you realize what a mess well all be in when this gets out? Scandal, publicity, slime… My God, don't you see it? They may even try to stop my marriage; they will try, if I know my mother. They won't succeed, but that's not the point. Why does everybody have to be subjected to this? Why…" His puzzled expression as he glanced at each of them, puzzled and baffled and rather desperate, seemed to demand the reason for the injustice of having criminals in the world just when he was on the point of matrimony. "What good purpose will it serve to drag all this out? Can you tell me that?"
"I take it, my boy," said the bishop, "that you do not care whether your fiancée's father had been a criminal? Or a murderer?"
Two muscles worked up the sides of Morley’s jaws. His eyes were puzzled.
"I don't care," he said simply, "if the old swine committed every murder in Chicago… But why does it have to be made public?"
"But you want the truth to come out, don't you?"
"Yes, I suppose I do," admitted Morley, rubbing his forehead. "That's the rules. Got to play fair. But why can't they just catch him and hang him quietly, without anybody knowing…? Tm talking rot, of course, but if I could make you understand what I mean… Why do the damned newspapers have a right to splash out all the scandal they like just because a man's been murdered? Why can't you administer justice in private, the same as you make a law or perform an operation?"
"That, Mr. Standish," Dr. Fell said, "is a problem for discussion over half-a-dozen bottles of beer. But for the moment I don't think you need worry about scandal. I was coming to that: I mean our plan of campaign… Do you see what we've got to do?"
"No," said Morley hopelessly. "I wish I could."
"It's an ugly thing to face, then, but here it is. The murderer of Depping — X— the decidedly brainy person who worked out this design — is here. He's no fanciful gangster. He's a member of the community in an English village, and probably not a mile away from us now. That's why Fve gone through this laborious explanation: so that we could center our activities. As it stands now—"
He leaned forward, and beat his finger slowly into his palm.
"— as it stands now, he thinks he is safe. He thinks we have laid the murder on Louis Spinelli. That's where we have the advantage, and the only way we shall be able to trap him unawares. Therefore, for
the time being, we shall keep silent about everything we know, including our suspicions as to Depping's past. I shall have to report it all to Hadley, and the past can be investigated from London. But our information we will keep to ourselves.
"Besides, gentlemen, we have several valuable clues. The murderer made one or two mistakes, which I needn't outline at the moment, but his greatest mistake was leaving the eight of swords. It supplies a direction in which to look for the motive."
"Are you at last prepared, then," said the bishop, "to tell us what this eight of swords means?"
"Oh, yes. I don't know whether you've noticed on Depping's shelves a number of works dealing with—"
From outside the house there rose a murmur a voices and a trampling of feet. Morley and the bishop, who were near the windows, glanced out.
"Here comes a whole procession," said the former. "My father, and Inspector Murch, and my sister, and Dr. Fordyce, and two constables. I—"
Apparently the colonel could not restrain himself. Through the quiet of the coppice, eager and jubilant, his hoarse voice came floating from below.
"I say! Come down here! It's all up, you know; all up!"
The bishop tried to peer out through the rounded bars. He hesitated, and then called: "Kindly refrain from yowling like that, Standish. What's all up?"
"Why, we've got him, you know. Murch has got him.
Make him talk now/’ "Got who?"
"Why, Louis Spinelli, demmit! He's down in the village, and Murch has got him under technical arrest."
"Whoosh!" said Hugh Donovan, and turned to stare at Dr. Fell.
CHAPTER VIII
At the Chequers Inn
At this point, the chronicler of Dr. Fell's adventures should, strictly speaking, apologize for introducing that luscious little ginch, Patricia Standish. "Ginch," Hugh Donovan has frequently assured the chronicler, is the word that best describes her; a mysterious term whose definition will presently be made clear. It is pronounced to rhyme with "cinch," for more reasons than one.
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