Play was resumed, but another hitch soon occurred, which was explained by Dr Westruther, who came up from the library to say that they were held up there by Seaton-Carew's absence. "Called away to the telephone in the middle of a hand," he said. "They're waiting to finish it."
"Still telephoning?" said Mrs. Haddington. "Nonsense! He can't be. Or, if he is, he oughtn't to be!" she added, with a perfunctory laugh. "It's really very naughty and inconsiderate of him, and I shall scold him severely! Roddy, do go and remind him that he's holding everyone up! In my boudoir: you know where it is!"
"I'll soon have him out of it," said Sir Roderick, who disliked him, and had already confided to Dr Westruther that the fellow was a bounder.
He then stumped out of the room, colliding in the doorway with Sydney Butterwick. He glared, his sapient eye taking in the fact that this weakheaded young man had been fortifying himself a little too liberally. "Now then, now then, look where you're goin', young fellow!" he growled, and went off down the stairs to the boudoir.
A minute later he came back into the drawing-room, breathing rather hard, and looking very much shaken. He seemed to find some difficulty in speaking, and it was seen that his hand was trembling. Everyone stared at him; and Lady Nest, perceiving his pallor, jumped up from her chair, exclaiming: 'Roddy, are you feeling ill?"
He gulped, and made a gesture waving her aside. "Westruther!" he said. Job for you! Go down there! That fellow - Seaton-Carew!"
"What is it?" Mrs. Haddington demanded sharply. "Roddy, what's the matter? Where's Dan?"
Sir Roderick tottered to a chair, and sat down. "He's dead," he said bluntly. "Turned me up a bit. Nasty shock. No, no, Lilias, you stay where you are! Job for Westruther, not you. The fellow's been strangled!"
Chapter Seven
The insistent clamour which had been intruding for some time into Chief Inspector Hemingway's dreams at last woke him. He swore, raised himself on one elbow, and groped for the lamp beside his bed. A moment later a voice said in his ear: "Chief Inspector Hemingway?"
It was a brisk, official voice: the Chief Inspector recognised it as one that belonged to his superior, and life-long friend, Superintendent Hinckley, of the Criminal Investigation Department. He said, with great correctness: "Yes, sir."
"Sound sleeper, aren't you? Easy conscience, I expect. There's a job waiting for you."
"Now, look here, Bob!" said the Chief Inspector, abandoning the official manner. "If you're having a joke with me -"
At the other end of the wire, Superintendent Hinckley grinned unseen. "I'm not lying in my nice, warm bed! I'm on duty, and I'll thank you to remember it, my lad!"
Chief Inspector Hemingway, around whose exposed shoulders an icy draught was blowing, replied to this sally in terms which caused his superior to inform him severely that he wanted to hear no more of his lip. "Wake up!" he said. "This is a job after your own heart."
"At this time of night?" said Hemingway indignantly. "Don't tell me another Pole has gone and got himself knifed by one of his pals, because I'm not as young as I was, and if I've got to go off at this hour and listen to a lot of highly excitable foreigners, all jabbering different lies at me, I'm chucking the Force right now!"
"It isn't anything like that," replied the Superintendent. "Didn't I tell you it was after your own heart? Some bloke's been strangled in a house in Charles Street. Very classy joint: what you call good decor!"
In spite of himself, Hemingway was interested. "You don't say! What's-it all about? Robbery with violence?"
"No, nothing of that sort, as far as I can make out. In fact, no one knows rightly what it's all about. It happened in the middle of a Bridge-party, that I can tell you!"
"Ah!" said the Chief Inspector. "Daresay the chap led his partner a heart after he'd signalled he wanted a club. Well, I've got no sympathy for him!"
"Look here!" interrupted the Superintendent, in whom this suggestion awoke galling memories. "If I have much more from you, Stanley, you'll know it! Get up and dress! I'm putting you in charge!"
"What's C Division done?" demanded Hemingway, swinging his legs out of bed, and groping with his bare feet for his slippers. "Don't they do night-duty these days?"
"You'll find Inspector Pershore waiting for you at the house," said the Superintendent, with some relish.
"Oh, I will, will I? Well, isn't that a bit of luck for me? Of course it would have to be him, wouldn't it? He'll tell me all about it, I expect, and give me a few hints and tips as well, if I speak nicely to him! Hold on, while I shut this damned window, Bob!" He laid down the receiver, pushed the sash up, shrugged himself into a dressinggown, and sat down again on the edge of the bed. "All right: go ahead! Who's the murdered chap?"
"Man called Seaton-Carew."
"Anything known about him?"
"Nothing known about any of them."
The Chief Inspector groaned. "Any line on it at all?"
"Might be, might not. Doesn't sound like a cinch, from the first report. There were forty-nine people in the house at the time -"
"What?"
"Fifty-five, counting the servants," said the Superintendent.
"And I suppose any one of them could have bumped this chap off! You know, Bob, I believe I've got an attack of 'flu coming on, or maybe it's scarlet fever!"
The Superintendent laughed. "That's all right: it isn't as bad as that! Pershore has established that most of them couldn't have had anything to do with it. Not counting the servants, there seem to be seven people who might have had the opportunity."
"Is that all! It's too easy, Bob!"
"According to Pershore, it's easier still. He says it's a clear case against one person - young fellow, name of Butterwick."
"Well, if that's what he says, I've only got six people to interrogate - not counting the servants," said the Chief Inspector unkindly. "In fact, he may as well send young Butterwick off home to bed at once. I'd better get round there before he gets us all into trouble jugging a lot of innocent people. Let me have Sandy Grant, will you, Bob? Setting aside he knows my ways, once you get used to his silly habit of never giving you a straight yes or no, I'd sooner have him with me than any of the rest of them."
"I've already detailed him, and Sergeant Snettisham, to you."
"That's fine, but you don't have to go dragging Snettisham out of his bed at this hour: he's a married man, and I shan't need him tonight. Besides, I've got some consideration for other people, even if there are some that haven't."
"All right, all right! I'll send a car round to pick you up.:
"You're spoiling me!" said Hemingway, and rang off.
It was shortly before two in the morning that the police car drew up behind two others, and an ominous ambulance, outside Mrs. Haddington's house in Charles Street. Chief Inspector Hemingway, followed by the wiry, redheaded Inspector Grant of the CID, got out, and were admitted into the house by a uniformed constable, who saluted, and said that Inspector Pershore was awaiting them in the dining-room. Inspector Pershore came out of this room to greet them. He was a large, hard-faced man, with a consequential manner that had never yet failed to annoy the Chief Inspector. He took himself and his duties very seriously; and if Hemingway disliked him it was only fair to say that this dislike was cordially reciprocated. The higher Hemingway rose in the Department, the more important the cases that were entrusted to him, the less could Inspector Pershore understand the rules governing such promotion. He could not be brought to believe that anyone as incorrigibly flippant as the Chief Inspector could be what he called an efficient officer. He had been heard to express his astonishment at what the Chief Inspector's superiors put up with, and would certainly have been staggered to learn that no less a personage than the Assistant Commissioner had once said: "Put Hemingway on to it! He'll threaten to resign - but he'll bring home the bacon!"
"Good-evening, Chief Inspector!" said Pershore punctiliously. "Superintendent Hinckley informed me that he would be despatching you to the scene of the crime. I trust
-"
"Well, there's no need for you to start talking like a newspaper report!" said Hemingway irritably. "What he told you was that he'd be sending me along, because nobody ever heard him talk in that silly style - not outside the witness-box, that is!" He put his hat down on the table under the gilded mirror, and struggled out of his overcoat. A glance round the eau-de-nil hall out of his bright, birdlike eyes made him nod approvingly. "Very classy!" he said. "Where can we go where we shan't be interrupted?"
"I have made the dining-room my headquarters, Chief Inspector. The staff has not yet cleared away the refreshments intended for the party that was earlier assembled -"
"You couldn't have hit on a better place," said Hemingway, walking into the dining-room, and warming his hands before the electric radiator. "I daresay we shall need some refreshment before we're through. Now, what's all this about, Pershore?"
Pershore, clearing his throat rather pompously, glanced at his voluminous notes, and replied: "I should say, Chief Inspector, that it is a clear case. At first sight, it may seem impossible that the crime could have been committed under the circumstances in which it was done; but, pursuant upon my interrogation of several of the persons present in the house, I reached the conclusion that this is a case that presents few difficulties -"
"What you want to do is to hire a hall, and give a series of lectures on police work," interposed Hemingway. "You'll probably make a lot of money: people will pay to listen to anything! I wouldn't, of course, but that's because I have to listen to you, and even the Department wouldn't expect me to pay for doing what I can't help. Now, you stop trying to annoy me, and tell me what's been happening here without any trimmings!"
The Inspector glared at him, but the exigencies of discipline prevented him from uttering a retort. He said stiffly: "The house is rented by a Mrs. Lilias Haddington, of whom nothing is known. She resides here with her daughter, Miss Cynthia Haddington, and a staff of six persons. There is also a young woman who is her secretary. She was on the premises at the time, but does not reside here. The murdered man was a Mr. Daniel Seaton-Carew, address Haughton House, Jermyn Street. I understand him to have been a close friend of Mrs. Haddington. He was one of forty-four persons invited to take part in some sort of a Bridge-game, and had previously dined here in company with Mrs. and Miss Haddington, Miss Birtley, who is the secretary, Lord Guisborough, and a Mr. Harte. There were two other guests, acting as scorers, one of whom is Dr Theodore Westruther, who was the first to inspect the body. The murdered man was called to the telephone, which is situated in the room known as the boudoir shortly after eleven pm; and some minutes later, nobody being able to state with certainty how many, Mrs. Haddington saying about ten, and Miss Birtley putting it rather higher, and no one else admitting to any knowledge of the exact hour at which Mr. Seaton-Carew was called to the telephone, which is, of course, possible, if they hadn't happened to look at the clock -"
"Take a breath!" advised Hemingway.
The Inspector found that he had lost the thread of his narrative, and was forced to refer to his notes.
"The murdered man was called to the telephone," Hemingway prompted.
"Some minutes later," resumed Pershore coldly, "Mrs. Haddington requested Sir Roderick Vickerstown to go down to the boudoir, and remind Mr. Seaton-Carew that they were all waiting for him. Sir Roderick complied with this request, and discovered the body of the murdered man as you will see for yourself, Chief Inspector. I come now to the persons whose movements during the period when the murder may be assumed to have been committed are unaccounted for."
"No, you don't. First things first is my motto! I'll see the body before I get any more confused than what I am already. Take me to the boudoir you talk of!"
"Of course, it is just as you wish, Chief Inspector. I will lead the way," said Pershore, suiting the action to the word. "Sergeant Bromley arrived shortly before yourself, and is engaged in photographing any finger-prints in the room which may have a bearing on the crime, but nothing, I need hardly say, has been touched since I was called in, and arrived at 11.53 pm'
Since it would have been extremely improper for anything to have been touched before the arrival of a representative of Scotland Yard, this unnecessary assurance exasperated the Chief Inspector. He cast a fulminating look at Inspector Pershore's back, but was interrupted before he could utter the words trembling on his tongue.
"Whisht, now, whisht!" said Inspector Alexander Grant soothingly.
"I don't say you're not right," retorted Hemingway, "but if you're telling me to shut up, which I think you are, I'll put in an adverse report about you, my lad!"
The Inspector smiled in the way that gave him an odd resemblance to one of the shy stags of his own Highlands, and said no more. They had by this time mounted the stairs to the half-landing. Inspector Pershore opened the door into Mrs. Haddington's sitting-room, and stood aside for Hemingway to enter.
There were several people in the room. All that remained of Dan Seaton-Carew was seated in the chair beside the telephone-table in the angle between the door and the first of the two long, curtained windows, his face most horribly distorted, and with two strands of picturewire protruding at the back of his neck. His head had fallen forward on his breast; both his arms hung slackly beside him; one leg was stuck stiffly out before him, its foot under the fragile table which held the telephone; the other bent, so that its foot was against the leg of the chair.
The Chief Inspector observed him without blenching, glanced round the room, and said cheerfully: "Evening! No, I mean, good-morning! How's the kid, Tom?"
The photographer grinned at him. "Going on fine, sir, thank you. Out of quarantine this week."
"That's good." Hemingway turned from him, and surveyed the still figure in the chair. "Well, well!" he said, scrutinising every detail. "The things people will get up to!"
He spoke in an absent tone, and all but one of his subordinates waited in respectful silence, well-aware that whatever inanities he might utter, his quick brain was anything but inane.
"The murder, as you will see, Chief Inspector," said Pershore, "was committed by means of a length of ordinary picture-wire, twisted about the neck of the victim by means of a tourniquet, supplied by some instrument unknown. As I see it, the murderer held one end of the wire, and this instrument, or implement, in one hand, say, right, quickly passed the other round the neck of the victim, standing behind him, of course, caught this end under the thumb of the left hand, so that the implement was held, as it were, between the two strands of the wire, and gave the said implement a couple of twists, or maybe more, thus producing death by asphyxiation within -"
"Och, hasn't he eyes in his head?" interrupted Grant. "Will you not hold your peace, you silly man?"
"- a matter of seconds!" ended Pershore, swelling with indignation. "You'll observe, Chief Inspector, that the wire is twisted hard up against the neck of the murdered man, and again just below where the strands part, showing that between these two places some implement has been inserted, and later withdrawn."
"Found?" asked Hemingway, who did not appear to be paying much attention.
"It has not so far been discovered, Chief Inspector," owned Pershore.
Hemingway's glance flickered round the room. "Nothing here likely to be suitable. Might be almost anything, and won't do us any good if we did find it. I fancy I see this bird leaving his prints on it! Gone over the wire, Tom? You won't get anything off it, of course, but we've got to try everything." He nodded to the photographer. "Now then, I want a shot of the whole of this corner of the room first, taking it from about where you are."
For the next few minutes, he was fully occupied with the photographer; and when this worthy, having taken all the photographs which were demanded, began to pack up his impedimenta, he stood still for a moment or two, still studying the unpleasant scene.
"The ambulance, Chief Inspector, is waiting to remove the body, if you have finished," said Pershore.
"Is this exactly
how he was found?" Hemingway asked. "Nothing been moved?"
"According to the evidence given by Sir Roderick Vickerstown and Dr Westruther, which I have no reason to doubt, neither of them touched the body at all. I questioned the doctor very particularly, thinking he might have tried to resuscitate the murdered man, but he states that he saw at a glance that life was extinct; and he did not disturb the body. Later, the Divisional Surgeon, of course -"
"Yes, I'm not worrying about him. Nothing in the room been touched?"
"Nothing, barring the telephone-receiver, which I found hanging on the end of the wire, having apparently been dropped by the murdered man. It was replaced," said Inspector Pershore grandly, under my supervision, and has since been photographed for finger-prints."
"All right. Have the body taken away," said Hemingway. "Did Dr Yoxall say - No, never mind! I'll see him myself."
The Inspector relayed the order to remove the body, saw that Hemingway had pulled the heavy brocade curtain away from the window behind the telephonechair, and said: "There's no doubt the murderer was concealed behind that curtain, Chief Inspector."
"There's a lot of doubt," responded Hemingway tartly. "And if you go on calling me Chief Inspector every time you open your mouth, you and me will fall out. It's getting on my nerves. I don't say the murderer wasn't concealed: he may have been; but from the look of things it seems highly probably he wasn't concealed at all."
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