by Molly Thynne
Miss Braid seemed to notice him for the first time. Her indignation at the mode of her grandfather’s death had steadied her nerves and she caught eagerly at his suggestion.
“There’s a man at Scotland Yard, an old friend of my father’s,” she cried. “I know he’d come if I could get hold of him.”
“I think we ought to notify the local police first,” said Webb, as he led the way down the passage. Now that he was out of sight of the bedroom he was experiencing a distinct thrill at the thought of being, as it were, in the heart of the drama. “I’ll ring up the police station, and then, if you’d care to call up your friend, Miss Braid, the telephone is at your service.”
He bustled her downstairs to his flat, introduced her to his sister, and leaving her to a cross-fire of questions from that voluble and deeply interested lady, glued himself to the telephone. Though he was a little hurt at the calmness with which the inspector in charge received his news, and never quite forgave him for hanging up the receiver just as his recital was getting into full swing, he had the satisfaction of knowing that his evidence was bound to be called for sooner or later.
Johnson, left alone in the flat overhead, stood in the doorway of Sir Adam’s bedroom, staring blankly after the departing figures of Webb and Miss Braid. He seemed too stunned to be capable of any definite action. Every now and then his nervous gaze would travel over his shoulder into the room behind him, and once he took a step in the direction of the still open front door as though to shut it, only to abandon the idea and fall back into his old position.
He had been standing thus for perhaps five minutes when the thing happened that made him clutch, in momentary panic, at the door to save himself from falling.
For the silence which had begun to weigh like lead on his tortured nerves was broken with an abruptness that would have startled even the most phlegmatic hearer.
The sound came from the study, the room which, only a short time before, he had declared to be empty, and, his first consternation over, it seemed almost as if the voice that spoke was one he recognized and might even have expected to hear.
With a furtive glance in the direction of the front door he hurried across the passage and into the study.
CHAPTER III
While Miss Braid was telephoning to New Scotland Yard, Webb, standing in the bow window of his flat, watching for the arrival of the police, gave his sister an account of what had happened. She was essentially a kind-hearted woman, and her first feeling was one of genuine pity for the old man, whom she had disliked heartily during his lifetime, and sympathy for his granddaughter. Then her practical mind reasserted itself.
“Does his money go to her, do you think?” she whispered, with a backward glance at the girl. “Though he lived so quietly, he must have been a rich man for an artist. His drawings used to fetch big prices.”
“I don’t know. He seemed to have no relations, and certainly never spoke of any. I don’t remember ever to have seen her before—do you?”
His sister shook her head decisively.
“If she’d been here often I should have seen her,” she declared, and she spoke nothing but the truth. Very little that took place in Romney Chambers escaped her eye. “There’s Dr. Gilroy, Everard, a little earlier than usual too! Don’t you think you’d better run and meet him? After all, he is a doctor.”
But Everard was already on his way. He had reached the stage when his whole being cried out for an audience.
He caught Dr. Gilroy as he was swinging up the stairs, two steps at a time. At the sound of Webb’s agitated summons he stopped and peered down at him through the thick lenses of his glasses with kindly grey eyes that held a twinkle of amusement in their depths. He had always regarded Webb as one of Nature’s more humorous efforts, and had, more than once, amused himself quietly by baffling the little man’s insatiable curiosity.
“Anything wrong?” he asked pleasantly.
The laughter died out of his eyes as Webb imparted his news.
“I’d better have a look at the poor old chap,” he said. “But it doesn’t sound as if there was anything I could do. Johnson’s there, you say?”
He found Johnson standing in the doorway of the flat and ran a professional eye over him.
“Sorry to hear this, Johnson,” he said. “Nasty shock, eh? Which way? The bedroom? Right. Don’t you come if you don’t feel like it.”
Johnson gulped. He was evidently badly shaken.
“You’ll—you’ll find him in there, sir,” he muttered.
He hesitated; then, as though his feet carried him involuntarily in the direction in which he least wished to go, followed slowly in the wake of the doctor, and stood watching him while he made his examination.
It did not last long.
“Must have died almost at once,” said Gilroy, as he rose to his feet. “From the look of it, that stab went clean through the artery. Mr. Webb tells me that he’s sent for the police. Anything missing?”
“I haven’t looked, sir. What with the shock of finding him—”
Gilroy nodded sympathetically.
“Don’t blame you. Got any whisky handy?”
Johnson led him into the study and produced a bottle and glass from the cupboard. Gilroy poured out a stiff dose and handed it to him.
“Drink this,” he said. “You look as if you needed it, and you’ll have a busy quarter of an hour when the police arrive. I shall be upstairs if they want to see me.”
He turned to leave the flat, only to be met in the doorway by Webb and the local inspector of police.
“I hear you’ve examined the body, sir,” said the latter. “The police surgeon will be here in a moment, but I’d like to hear if you’ve come to any conclusion.”
Gilroy shook his head.
“I only made a very cursory examination,” he answered. “Sir Adam was stabbed in the back of the neck, and probably died within two minutes. From the look of things, I should say that the carotid artery has been severed. But your own man will be able to tell you more.”
Gilroy gave the inspector his name and qualifications, adding the information that he had given up his practice, and was engaged in research work at the Lister Institute in Chelsea.
“By the way,” he said, as he turned to leave, “that man of Sir Adam’s has had a nasty jar. I understand that he was the first to find the body. I’ve given him a dose of his master’s whisky, and he should be all right, but you might go easy with him.”
“I shan’t trouble him much,” said the inspector, “except to find out if anything’s missing. He’ll have to see the detective-inspector, though, when he comes.”
Gilroy halted.
“Who’s that?” he asked. “I know some of the people at the Yard.”
“I understand that Chief Detective-Inspector Fenn is coming down with the superintendent,” answered the inspector, rather stiffly. “He will probably be in charge of the case.”
People with friends at the Yard were apt to be a nuisance, hanging about and asking questions, instead of answering them. Gilroy’s reception of the news only served to increase his gloom.
“Fenn? I’m glad he’s on it. Tell him from me that there’s cold supper and as much beer as he can drink waiting for him upstairs as soon as he’s through with his job here, will you?”
He peered at the other, and catching the look in his eye, gave a low chuckle.
“Cheer up, inspector,” he said blithely. “I’m not going to make your life a burden. My own job keeps me too busy! Bacteria hunting’s my line. I’d like to see old Fenn, though, if he’s not too busy running after his murderer.”
He strolled up to his flat, gave a glance into his little dining-room to make sure that his charwoman had laid a large enough cold supper for two, and then spread out his papers and settled down to work.
Within five minutes he had completely forgotten, not only his invitation to Fenn, but the tragedy that had occasioned it. Life was full of interest for him just then. For the past y
ear he had been doing work he really liked, which in itself was pure bliss after the drudgery of a poor and certainly not remunerative practice; and now at last it seemed as though the experiments on which he had been engaged for the last six months were about to bear fruit. So absorbed was he that he did not stir from his table until the sound of the front door bell brought him to the realization of his own hunger and the fact that it was past eleven o’clock.
He opened the door. On the other side he found a thickset, stolid-looking individual, who held a hard felt hat in one hand and thoughtfully stroked a grizzled moustache with the other.
“Am I too late?” he asked.
Gilroy stared at him.
“Good lord, it’s Fenn!” he exclaimed. “And I asked you to supper! My good chap, you’ve come just in time.”
Fenn’s good-natured smile broadened into a grin at the sight of the untouched food on the table.
“Thanks,” he said, “but I fed a couple of hours ago. If I didn’t know you so well I might be afraid you had waited for me, but I’m willing to bet that the thought of food had simply clean gone out of your mind. I’ll watch you eat, though.”
“Then you’ll watch something worth seeing,” announced Gilroy, pouring out a couple of glasses of beer. “I’m starving. Good thing you came when you did. You’ll hardly believe it, but I’d completely forgotten that poor old fellow downstairs and everything to do with him. And I liked the old chap, too, in spite of his infernal bad temper. He was a distinguished man, you know, in his own line. And he was still doing uncommonly good work.”
He fumbled for his tobacco pouch, and threw it across the table to Fenn before settling down to his supper.
Fenn took a good pull at his beer and began filling his pipe.
“That’s the sort of thing I want to hear,” he said. “It’s a bit of luck for me that you should be living here, Robert. Who are the people who live in these flats and what do they do?”
Gilroy glanced at him with a twinkle in his eye.
“You’ll get all that, with frills on, from little Webb downstairs,” he suggested.
Fenn laughed.
“I’ve had it, thanks. It’s the frills I object to. And the worst of it is, that those incurably inquisitive people very often do have information of real importance, only it’s so swamped by their own observations and theories that one’s apt to miss it. I know exactly what Webb and his sister think of all the people in this house, including the caretaker and most of his relations. What I want is a little first-hand information about them.”
“I’ll give you what I can; but I’m out a lot, you know, and neighbourliness is not one of my vices. There are the Smiths, on the top floor, just above this. He’s a quiet sort of fellow with a delicate-looking little wife. Then there’s Webb and his sister. You’ve seen him, and that should be enough. Works in an architect’s office. Most harmless little chap that ever lived. Even that infernal curiosity of his is largely due to genuine kind-heartedness. The same applies to the sister. What did they tell you about me, by the way?”
Fenn chuckled.
“Quite a lot that you don’t know yourself. You keep very late hours, but there’s no reason to believe that you’re anything but sober when you come in, among other interesting items. I’ll let you have the rest some day. Give me any points you can on Sir Adam.”
Gilroy considered.
“I can’t help you much there. You can get all I know from the newspapers. He was about the best known black-and-white man in England. Moved out of his studio about ten years ago and came here. He used to do a lot of book illustration and that sort of thing, but I fancy he’d given that up. I know he exhibited a series of drawings of London about a year ago, and sold the lot in the first two days of the show, so he was still working. Sort of old chap to work till he dropped, I should imagine. He had a kind of studio in the flat, and he took me in once and showed me a lot of his stuff. He lived very simply, and the caretaker’s wife and that chap Johnson looked after him between them.”
Fenn looked up sharply.
“What do you make of Johnson, by the way?”
“Never thought much about him. He’s an obliging enough fellow. Ready to take in a parcel for one or anything of that sort. I should say he led a dog’s life with the old man; but he looked after him well, I believe, and he certainly never complained to me: a quiet, secretive sort of fellow.”
“His nerves are badly on the hop now,” commented Fenn.
“Small blame to him. He’s not a cold-blooded policeman. You may be accustomed to clearing up the mess after a murder; it’s probably a new sensation to him.”
“All the same, I don’t understand his manner. I’ve got an impression the man’s more frightened than shocked. Was he fond of his master, do you suppose?”
“Speaking dispassionately, I should say it was very difficult to be fond of Sir Adam for long. He once told me he had out-lived most of his relations, and he spoke so bitterly about the few that remained that I concluded he had broken with them. I fancy the trouble was that they thought him a rich man and behaved accordingly, and, for some reason, he considered himself a poor one. As a matter of fact, he must have made a lot of money in his day. You don’t suspect Johnson, surely?”
Fenn shook his head.
“Johnson’s cleared all right. He left Sir Adam alone in the flat at six-thirty and went straight to his favourite house of call, ‘The Nag’s Head.’ He was there, gossiping in the bar, till about five to seven, when he went back to the flat. I sent one of my men up to ‘The Nag’s Head.’ His story holds good. He’s got a dozen witnesses.”
“But you don’t like the fellow. Fenn, I’m ashamed of you! Is this the official attitude? And you had the face, not so long ago, to sit at this very table, uttering words of wisdom. ‘What we want, my dear Gilroy, is facts, not fancies. Remember, private impressions, however strong they may be, cut no ice with a jury.’ Rather pedantic, perhaps, but quite sound, from the point of view of a scientist. Pull yourself together, man.”
Fenn laughed, but his colour deepened under Gilroy’s gibing. He placed his pipe on one side and leaned forward, his elbows on the table.
“I’ve got facts,” he said slowly—“plenty of them. And, for the first time since I entered the force, I don’t want to use them. Look here, Robert. I’ve given you inside information more than once when I’ve been on a job; in fact, from the official point of view, I’ve been thoroughly indiscreet: but I think I’ve been justified. I know that what I tell you in this room goes no farther. And you’ve got, as you say, a scientific mind. More than once you’ve helped to sort my ideas for me. Feel inclined to exercise your wits on this Braid business?”
Gilroy pushed away his plate and tossed down the last of his beer.
“Come into the other room,” he suggested, “and we’ll have it out over the fire.”
Fenn waited till Gilroy had made up the fire and propped a battered coffee-pot on the hob; then, from the depths of a roomy armchair, proceeded to unbosom himself.
“I’ll give you the facts first,” he began. “Sir Adam Braid was undoubtedly alive at five minutes to seven. Webb heard his voice and that of a woman through the door when he called at the flat at about a quarter to seven. According to him, Sir Adam was shouting at the top of his voice and the lady was in tears.”
“And friend Webb naturally stopped to listen,” put in Gilroy dryly.
Fenn nodded.
“He admits it. He stood outside for ten minutes or so, and the row was still going on when he left. That’s not all. If Miss Braid is to be believed, Sir Adam was alive at seven, still talking, but to a man this time. That is the last we know of him until his body was found by Johnson at ten minutes past seven.”
“The inference being that he was killed between seven and ten past. From the little I saw, that fits in with the state of the body when I reached it. Why do you cast a doubt on Miss Braid’s evidence?”
“Because her account of her own movemen
ts between seven and ten past is not very satisfactory. She claims to have arrived at Romney Chambers on the stroke of seven. Says she looked at her watch on entering the building, as she had meant to get there earlier and was surprised to find herself so late. Her story is that just as she was about to ring the bell she heard a man’s voice inside the flat. It was answered by another voice which she took to be her grandfather’s, but she admits that both voices were so indistinct as to make identification impossible. As her business with her grandfather was of a private nature she decided not to ring, but to wait until the visitor had gone; and not wishing to be found hanging about near the door, she went up on to the landing above, where she stayed for about a quarter of an hour. At the end of that time, hearing Johnson’s voice, she came downstairs and discovered what had happened.”
“Could she see the landing below from where she stood?” asked Gilroy.
“No. From her account she must have stood just outside the door of this flat. On the other hand, she could hear pretty distinctly. She says she heard Webb and Johnson come up the stairs, and waited deliberately, thinking that Johnson had met another of her grandfather’s visitors and was ushering him in. It was not till he and Webb had gone into the flat that she made up her mind to come down and interview Johnson. One thing she is emphatic about. If any one had left her grandfather’s flat while she was waiting on the landing she is certain she would have heard them. As she points out, that was the very sound she was listening for. And she heard no one; in fact, she is convinced that no one could have passed through the front door between seven and ten past. She is supported in this by Johnson, who declares that the wood of the front door is warped, and that it would be impossible to open and close it noiselessly. Webb, by the way, is convinced that the murderer slipped out of the building before Miss Braid’s arrival, while he was waiting in his flat downstairs for Johnson to return. He was standing in the window of his study most of the time, watching for Johnson; but the window is a bow, and he says that he was looking up the street, with his back to the front door of the flats. From where he stood he would not have seen any one leave the building.”