by Peter Main
“Miss Aspinall,” I said seriously, “I want to ask you one question, and I hope you can give me the answer. Quite a lot may depend on it.”
She looked suitably impressed by my solemnity and stood expectant.
“What I want to know is, have you ever noticed the astonishing resemblance between that miniature you have of Mrs. Rattigan and Miss Janet Morgan?”
I waited for a reply. She smiled as she thought before she spoke.
“Yes, of course I have,” she answered, “you see, Lottie, when she first encountered the girl remembered how she had looked when she was that age and she was impressed by the girl’s likeness to her. You must understand that Lottie had a very sentimental heart. I don’t think the girl, who took the greatest liberties, ever realised that she was employed and treated so gently merely because of her quite fortuitous resemblance to Lottie as a girl. There is nothing, Mr. Boyle, behind the resemblance but pure chance and it was pure chance which led to Lottie’s meeting the girl who might almost have been the double of herself.”
Phut! went my idea. I had been building up the most wonderful theories with it as a basis and now they all collapsed like a card-house when someone opens the door on a windy day. I might as well have stayed with the old man and played trains, I decided, as I followed the old lady on the way back to the hall. At least there was still an evening left to make up for the lost time. I guessed I’d have more success on the points than the old man did.
Chapter 15
Trouble Tumbling
THERE WAS no point in keeping my secret any longer. In rather an aggrieved voice I poured out the story of my bright idea. The old man, I must say, was very nice about it.
“Ye certainly had somethin’ there, Max,” he said sympathetically, “an’ I can’t say as I blame ye for goin’ huntin’ the answer by yerself. I often feel that way meself when I ha’ an idea which I’m not certain about, an’ then ye get hoppin’ mad wi’ me for not pouring out me undigested theories. Maybe now ye’ll understand me point of view?”
I had to admit that he was right. I had been so certain that I had stumbled upon something which might lead us to the solution of the mystery that I had not envisaged the possibility that I might be wrong. The fact that I had been wrong made me feel that I had been rather harshly treated by fate. I guess I must have looked a bit downcast.
“Cheer up, old cock,” Mr. Carr was cheerful himself. “Have a drink?”
He prepared to go down the corridor to collect a tankard for me.
“Where’s old Arthur?” I asked, idly, more for the sake of saying something than for any other reason. Mr. Carr shook his head sadly.
“The doctor’s been again this evening,” he said, very sombrely for him, “and I’m afraid that he isn’t too hopeful. He says that the old fellow is just cracking up completely, and that it’s a wonder that he kept going so long. I feel pretty sick about it myself, as I hoped the old boy would live to enjoy the little money he has come into. I think I told you that I had offered to help him any way I could, but he said he’d rather stay on here. Well, I’m afraid it looks as though he might die here. Maggie is doing all she can for him, and he is quite comfortable, but the doctor isn’t cheerful.” He began to brighten up again. “Oh well, I suppose he’s had a long and a good life, even if Aunt Lottie was a bit of a Tartar. When I go and see him he spends hours reciting her virtues and he seems to have quite forgotten her faults. Now I’ll buzz and get some more beer, cock. You must be thirsty.”
I was thirsty. While we waited for the return of Mr. Carr with the much needed refreshment, I tried my hand at running the railway against the old man. I had to admit that he was right when he declared indignantly that it was no child’s toy. It certainly was not. I found I was very nearly as futile as the Professor when it came to working three sets of points in different directions at the same time. I got them over all right, but forgot to put them back when the train had passed so that the other one, by this time following, got tied up with the one ahead when I slowed it down to go round a sharp curve.
The old man grinned at me evilly.
“Ye see, Max,” he crowed, “ye can’t do it either, so there was no dam’ need for ye to be so stinkin’ snooty about me failures.”
Mr. Carr reappeared carrying a load of beer. For the next hour we played trains as solemnly as if we had been in control of the G.W.R., or station-master at Liverpool Street.
We were interrupted by the sudden appearance of two men in the hall. One of them was a plain-clothes detective and the other an ordinary uniformed constable.
“Good evening, sir,” the plain-clothes man greeted the Professor. He looked at Mr. Carr and then spoke. “Mr. Carr. I’m afraid we’ll have to search your hotel. The constable has just seen a man go in by the back entrance.”
“Hell,” said Mr. Carr, “I knew I’d forget something once we got working on the trains. Who was it?”
The detective looked dubious for a moment. The old man grunted.
“It’s all right,” he rumbled, “he knows his cousin has done a bunk from durance vile an’ the rest o’ it. Was it Grimble?”
“Well,” said the detective, “I could not swear to that. But the description I have received from the constable leads me to think that, very probable, it was Roland Grimble.”
‘‘What would he come back here for?” Mr. Carr asked “He must have known that this place would be guarded.”
I noticed that the same idea occurred to the Professor at the same moment that it occurred to me.
“His gun,” I said slowly, and the old man nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “his gun.” He turned to the detective. “Are ye armed, son?”
The detective shook his head. “Good lord, no,” he said “There was no reason for me to apply for a gun. It’s a bit of a business getting them to issue you with a gun anyway, and I certainly never thought I’d need one here.”
The old man fished his little revolver out of his pocket and held it out to the detective.
“Here ye are, son,” he said, “it looks like a toy but ye’ll find it’s kinda deadly at a reasonable range.”
The detective shook his head and smiled tolerantly.
“No, thanks,” he said, “I don’t think there’s anything to fear. Now,” he turned to Mr. Carr, “if you’ve no objection I’ll get ahead with my search. I’ll go up the front stairs and you,” he looked at the uniformed constable, “can take the back. If you were right in thinking that Grimble came in here we’ll soon root him out.”
The constable left obediently for the back-stairs and the detective gave him a second or two’s start before he made for the short corridor that led to the front. He got to the bottom of the stairs and then stopped.
“Come on down,” he said, “I want you.”
“Like hell,” said Grimble’s voice. It sounded strained and harsh.
“All right, then,” the detective was not perturbed. “I’ll come up and get you.”
“You’d better not,” said Grimble, “I’ve got a gun and I’m desperate. I’ll shoot if you come one step nearer.”
The old man moved his bulk slowly round the table and stumped along towards the passage. He still held his gun in his hand. He offered it to the detective, who waved it aside with a gesture that was almost contemptuous.
“Get out of my way,” Grimble’s voice was slightly shrill. “I’m coming down and I’ll shoot anyone that tries to stop me.”
Following the old man I was close enough to hear Grimble’s feet coming slowly down the stairs. At the same moment the plain-clothes man, with a magnificent if foolish disregard of the threats, started up the stairs towards him.
“Stand back, you fool,” Grimble was almost screaming. “I’ve told you I’ll shoot, and I mean it.”
The detective went on. He was not hurried. He did not even seem to be aware of the revolver that Grimble was holding.
“Come on,” he said encouragingly, “it’ll be easier for you if you come
easy. You can’t hope to get away with this.”
“Can’t I?” Grimble was really screaming now. It was difficult to see what happened. He raised his gun and pointed it at the advancing detective. At the very moment that he fired I realised that the old man had let loose with his tiny gun. He was too late. The bullet from the .38 that Grimble held hit the detective and he fell back down the stairs.
I realised that Grimble had dropped his gun. The old man had shot him through the forearm.
“Come on, son,” the Professor spoke easily, “ye can’t get away wi’ it. Come on down.”
I went forward to pick up the detective, who was lying groaning at the foot of the stairs. As I bent down I realised that Grimble had done the same and had scooped up his gun with his left hand.
“Don’t be a fool, son,” the old man was still easy, “I don’t want to have to let you have it in the other arm as well.”
Grimble stood undecided. The old man stood like a statue of black basalt in the narrow corridor, seeming to block the way to freedom.
Behind Grimble I could see the figure of the uniformed constable approaching cautiously. Grimble seemed to hear something and half-turned. He looked down again at the Professor. Before anyone had time to do anything, he pushed the muzzle of the revolver into his mouth and there was a strangely muffled detonation. He came down the stairs all in a heap and landed against me.
I went on with my examination of the detective. It seemed that he would be all right at a guess, but he certainly had been a very lucky man. The bullet had just scraped through his ribs and, so far as I could see, had not touched anything vital.
There was no doubt, however, about Roland Grimble. He was as dead as he ever would be. A man does not live long when he has blown the top clean off his head, and the .38 bullet had certainly made a mess. He was not a pretty sight.
Used though I am to seeing corpses, I have always associated them with battlefields, and I had hoped that I would never see a battlefield again. There is something quite different about a corpse lying on the carpeted corridor of a Bayswater hotel. I found it quite repulsive.
The old man, who carries a degree in medicine in addition to his other degrees, trundled up and went down on one knee to examine the detective, who by this time was conscious and in some considerable pain.
He tore away the man’s clothing and examined the wound carefully.
“It’s all right, son,” he said finally, “you’ll do. But I hope that next time you meet a man with a gun you’ll be a bit more careful. If I hadn’t pinked him in the arm at the moment that he fired he’d ha’ got you in the ticker an’ yer life insurance would ha’ matured.”
“Thank you, sir,” the detective managed a wry smile. “I didn’t think he’d fire. They don’t as a rule, but just talk big and then come along quietly. I was wrong this time.”
“I’d darn well say ye were,” the old man replied. “I knew he’d fire an’ ye should ha’ known, too. Ye could ha’ guessed it from his voice. There was no tellin’ what he would do. He might very well ha’ killed ye if I hadn’t thought to bring me peashooter along wi’ me, an’ then, no doubt, he’d ha’ waded into Carr an’ meself an’ we’re none o’ us bullet-proof.”
He bent over Grimble’s body. I could hear Mr. Carr working at the telephone. The telephone system in The Boudoir was one that really would have driven the old man mad. The switch-board was antiquated and all the indicators had become separated from it many years before. However, Mr. Carr seemed to be making a job of it by working from some sort of intuition. I collected a cushion and shoved it under the detective’s head. I offered him a cigarette.
“I don’t suppose I’m on duty at the moment,” he said, with a grin, as I lit it. The constable was standing round, waiting for orders. I offered him a cigarette. He seemed doubtful, but the detective nodded so he took it, after removing his helmet.
Mr. Carr came down the corridor. He looked at the plainclothes detective critically.
“What you want, cock,” he said after a moment, “is a drink.”
He disappeared again and came back carrying a bottle of brandy and several glasses. I don’t know what I had done to deserve a glass of 1868 brandy, but I was glad of it. Mr. Carr managed to persuade the constable that he was taking it for medicinal reasons and the party seemed fairly well set, waiting for the arrival of the proper authorities. I thought that the only trouble with the party, as a party, was the presence of Grimble’s corpse lying on the floor.
Mr. Carr looked down at his cousin. He did not seem to be unduly upset by the fact of Grimble’s sudden decease, and I think he would have been stupid to have pretended to feel any remorse.
“Poor old Roland,” was all he said by way of an epitaph, “he never could do anything properly—not even shoot a copper.”
The wounded detective smiled grimly. “He had a damned good try,” he said tersely, “and if it wasn’t for the Professor here he would have done it.”
Somehow the game of trains seemed to have lost its attractiveness. We packed up the rails in their box and dismantled the trains of coaches and trucks and put them away.
The old man was carefully cleaning his revolver with the corner of his handkerchief. From the corner of my eye I could see a familiar figure looming up in the doorway. I said nothing. I thought I would let the thunderstorm burst of its own accord.
Chief Inspector Reginald F. Bishop inspected us with varying degrees of distaste, reserving the deepest and most heartfelt for the still unconscious form of the Professor.
“Well, John,” he said suddenly, and the old man looked up at him innocently, “I hear you’ve been getting into trouble again.”
“Me?” the old man put on quite a good act of appearing ignorant of what the Chief Inspector was talking about. “Me? Me, getting into trouble? Good Lor’, no. An’ if ye’re lookin’ at this little pop-gun o’ mine I’d like to tell ye that I have got a permit for it. All I was doin’ was kinda assistin’ the police in the execution o’ their duty, an’ I can’t be blamed if I had to pull the blinkin’ trigger. Let me tell ye that if I hadn’t pulled it ye’d ha’ bin issuin’ funds from the cash you got for widows an’ orphans.”
“Oh, I know,” the Chief Inspector had relapsed into his habitual weariness of expression. “You always have a perfectly legitimate excuse for everything you do. But, I went off early to-night. I thought I might have a quiet evening playing the gramophone. When the phone went to tell me what had happened, my first question was to ask if John Stubbs was on the spot. Of course he was.”
The old man gave a look which was meant, I think, to convey some sort of modesty. He took a short deep pull at his beer-mug.
“Well,” he said with becoming but false modesty, “ye see, Reggie, I kinda had an idea that there might be trouble, as ye told me yerself on the dam’ phone that there had bin no trace o’ the gun Roland Grimble was usin’. I kinda set me brain to work an’ thought out the answer, that Grimble might ha’ thought o’ collectin’ his gun if he was on the loose. A gun’s a kinda useful thing to have under these conditions, for it’s good as a means o’ threatening people, even if it ain’t so hot when ye actually get around to shootin’ them. So havin’ worked this out, I says to meself that I’d better take along a gun just in case Grimble has laid his hands on his one an’ wants to try any funny stuff as they call it in the American thrillers. So here I was, sittin’ as plump as a pigeon waitin’ to be shot, so when it looks as though Grimble was goin’ to try some shootin’, I thought I’d take a hand in the business. As shootin’ wi’ a thin’ this size goes it wasn’t bad, was it?”
The Chief Inspector agreed gravely that the shooting had not been bad. From his tone of voice one might have thought that he was discussing a morning on the moors on the Twelfth.
“O’ course,” the old man went on, “ye were askin’ for trouble by sendin’ unarmed men out to deal wi’ a man who might ha’ bin armed. If yer detective had had a gun and had known how to use the th
in’, he could ha’ shot that .38 out of Grimble’s hand as easy as winkin’. I thought o’ doin it meself, but then I thought o’ you, Reggie, an’ I kinda mentally quailed. Ye know yerself that, if Grimble had not fired an’ hurt one o’ yer men, ye’d ha’ bin pilin’ all hell on to me, sayin’ that I had no right to take a hand in what don’t really concern me an’ so on. So ye see I had to leave it to the last minute. Trouble there was that I kinda misjudged me tenths o’ a second an’ got in a fraction on the late side—soon enough to upset Grimble’s aim, but not soon enough to make him miss altogether. If I’d had a free hand, son, I’d ha’ blown his gun to blazes long before that. I got a feelin’, though, mind ye, I’ve never tried it out, that given a feller pointin’ a gun at me an’ him only about three yards away from me, I’d run a pretty fair chance o’ puttin’ one o’ me little bullets right down the muzzle o’ his gun. If he was pulling the trigger at the moment that I did that it would be kinda pretty to see what happened.”
The old man appeared sunk in contemplation of the results of his bullet hitting another bullet inside the barrel of that other person’s revolver.
“I think,” he said slowly, “there’d be the father an’ mother o’ a smash an’ that the barrel ’ud go crack.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Chief Inspector absently, “but you are really wandering away from the subject, aren’t you?”
“I suppose,” the old man was snooty, “that ye’re wonderin’ whether Roland Grimble was the murderer o’ Lottie Rattigan. Well, I tell ye flat that I don’t believe he was. Ye may argue till ye’re as blue in the face as a mandrill’s bottom, but ye still won’t convince me o’ that.”