“Have you a working model of it?”
“In my laboratory workshop in Godalming I’ve a good full-sized job, ready to fly. All I have with me here are the blueprints, if you’d care to see them.”
Gossage smiled and shook his head. “No thanks, Mr. Bride, I’ll take your word for it. But why did you intend to apply to Mr. Darnworth? Surely the air ministry is the proper opening for a helicopter?”
“Quite right, but getting the air ministry interested is no job for a chap like me. I’ve precious little influence and no business sense whatever. I was aiming to have Mr. Darnworth fix things up for me. We had a financial arrangement that was to have operated if the air ministry took up the idea. I didn’t need ready cash finance this time as in other cases, since I have the test machine made. That is why, when Mr. Darnworth—er—died, I went back home quickly and sent a letter to the air ministry to open preliminary discussions on my own account.”
“I see…. Well, Mr. Bride, thanks for all you’ve told me. I shan’t keep you any longer. Mrs. Darnworth will be expecting you in the lounge, I suppose.”
Bride left the music-room and Gossage remained there until Sergeant Blair came in.
“They’re all gathered for the fray, sir,” he announced. “Brakestone just arrived. That leaves us on our own—for a while, anyway.” He paused and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Did you get anything out of Bride? I passed him in the hall.”
“Bride,” Gossage answered, “is a fellow with dozens of bright ideas and his range of scientific invention seems to have no limit. His latest masterpiece—which brought him here this weekend and the development of which was cut short by Darnworth’s death—is a one-man helicopter, which can move and presumably become stationary beside a building. Added to that it is practically noiseless.”
“Helicopter!’ Blair repeated. “Why, it puts him right in line as having had the means of getting into and out of the boxroom. When he was missing for that two hours and five minutes he could perhaps have gone to his home in Godalming by bus, got into the helicopter, flown it here noiselessly in the dark, done the deed, and then brought the machine down in some deserted spot. Then he could have joined Elaine in the ordinary way. At the first reasonable opportunity—the following day no doubt—he probably flew the helicopter home again.”
Gossage said: “I think the best thing we can do is go up to the boxroom and see if that window could be opened and shut from the outside. Then we’ll have a last look for that rifle.”
“Won’t be any good, sir, if Bride put it in the helicopter, as he probably did,”
“We’ll look, just the same. Come on.”
As they reached the top of the stairs Gossage said: “You’ve still got the key, Harry. Go ahead.”
Blair unlocked the boxroom door and they stepped inside and moved over to the window.
“As a matter of fact, sir,” Blair said, “I had a good look at this yesterday while you were out on your ramble. There’s no question but what it could be opened and shut from the outside, and here’s how.”
He tugged out his penknife and snapped open the smallest blade.
“Being the sash variety, with a horizontal catch which simply pulls into the slot of the adjoining sash, makes it easier,” he went on. “My blade, as you see, when I insert it from above goes easily between the two sashes You can see the point of it through the lower window glass. And gentle pressure snaps the catch back—so!”
The catch clicked back with hardly a sound.
“Pushing it from the top is equivalent to pushing it from below,” Blair added. “The only difference is that from this side of the window it can’t be pushed up from below because the glass is in the way.”
“How about closing the catch?”
“That’s easy too. You fasten a double length of string round the centre of the catch-bar—double length so you can withdraw it when finished—and have the two ends hanging down between the sashes: A very long piece of string, of course, so you can allow for raising the lower sash. You then close the window and jerk the string sharply and diagonally, holding both lengths at once. There is just enough central leverage to pull the catch forward, and this catch moves very easily. Snap she comes into position! Withdraw the string and off you go.”
“Yes, That’s plain enough. Have you tried to prove your idea?”
“Only from the inside. I’d need a ladder to do it from the outside and I haven’t tackled Preston about it. I thought you would perhaps do it: you can deal with him better than I can. Just the same, sir, I’m pretty sure it could be done.”
“Of course it could be done,” Gossage agreed. “But what I want to know is how the killer did it without a ladder? The window sill is too narrow to balance upon, and it would require very steady positioning for a moment in order to pull the string at exactly the right angle. Otherwise the pull would be lost and the string might snap. That of itself, the sudden break, might conceivably precipitate the person concerned into the drive.”
“The helicopter, sir! I’m sure that’s the answer.”
“Is it?” Gossage asked moodily. “I can’t imagine a helicopter being that steady. I could imagine some robot control gadget on the helicopter keeping it outside the window while Bride—if it was he—came inside this room. I can imagine him getting out again and into the helicopter, but I can’t see him getting enough steadiness to pull the catch back in place. “No, Harry, it doesn’t fit in place properly. It isn’t a neat job like the rest of the murder. There was some way by which the killer had perfect security on the narrow ledge.”
Blair flung the window up with a touch of exasperation.
“Not getting on very fast, sir, are we?” he asked bitterly. I’d forgotten the fact, too, that it would mean he could hardly get in and out of the window without leaving a trace of some kind, from shoes I mean. Yet look at this ledge and the woodwork. Not a sign of a shoe-scrape.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE INSPECTOR GETS A SHOCK
Sergeant Blair completed his own part of the investigation and. came back to the study to find Gossage already there, seated in the swivel chair by the desk, smoking complacently.
“Not a thing in the way of a weapon in the basement,” Blair reported.
“Same with me. I’ve looked in the unlikely places. Not a complete examination of everywhere because I trust Craddock. All I have done is go over the same ground again, but I ignored floorboards and behind cupboards and such like. I’m pretty sure that the rifle isn’t in the house. And that being so, I’ll hop to the next stepping-stone and have Morgan’s Deep dragged. I’m pretty sure now we’ll find the rifle there.”
He looked at two cellophane envelopes as Blair put them on the blotter.
“What are these, Harry?”
“I don’t know, but it might be worth sending to the forensic department for analysis, unless you want to have a shot at it yourself with your own stuff—”
“Not for me,” Gossage said firmly.
“I thought not, sir. Anyway, it’s ash and clinkery stuff from the cellar grate, together with a few bits of hair—which may have come from the plaster somehow—and a few charred bits of a label. Here it is in this separate envelope. You can still see the number even though the stuff’s been burned. Must have been gilt letters and figures originally, I’d say. Same as you can read the letters on the gold-lettered cigarette packet when you burn it.”
Gossage peered at the charred remains of the label carefully. Then he looked at the leaf of Blair’s notebook on which he had written the serial number—CGF469.
“Good work, Harry. I think the best thing you can do is jump in the car and take the stuff back to the laboratory. Tell ’em to ’phone me the moment the analysis is complete”
“I’ll do that right away,” Blair agreed. “There’s just one other thing, too—about Crespin and Miss Sheila.”
“Oh? What about ’em?”
“They came down in the cellar while I was there. I kept out of sig
ht. Sheila said something about ‘it not mattering any more’ and then she pulled a big yellow envelope from behind some loose bricks in the wall. I couldn’t make out what it was. Then she and Crespin went back upstairs. They didn’t know I watched them. I switched the light off when I heard their feet come along the ball towards the cellar steps.”
“All right, Harry, thanks,” Gossage said. “I’ll try to find out the significance behind the incident. Anything else?”
“No; that seems to cover everything for the moment.”
“Okay. Off you go to London with that stuff and be back as soon as you can.”
Blair picked up the envelope and left. His eyes narrowed in thought, Gossage refilled his pipe and lighted it. By the time he had ended this operation be seemed to have come to a decision. Pipe comfortably between his teeth, he departed from the study, locked it behind him, and strolled to the lounge. Only Mrs. Darnworth was present, gazing out absently on to the driveway. As Gossage entered she turned her head.
“Hello, Mr. Gossage,” she greeted quietly.
“Nobody else about?” he asked in surprise, glancing round.
“Not at the moment. Elaine has gone to Mr. Findley’s and Mr. Bride has gone with her—part of the way, anyway. Sheila is in the summer house and Mr. Crespin is upstairs in his room, telephoning London on the extension to make arrangements for his indefinite absence.”
“I see. I think I’ll pop over to the summer house later and have a word with Miss Sheila. There’s a small matter on my mind.” Gossage paused and looked at the woman’s pale, set face thoughtfully. “I suppose they all know by this time?”
“About my recovery?” She smiled faintly. “Yes, they all know. The two men just took it in stony silence and regarded me with something of the contempt that I suppose, I deserve. All Elaine said was that she presumed I knew my own business best, and after that she left me without another word. Sheila was the most generous. She seemed really glad that I’ve recovered, and, generous child that she is, she wants me to stay on here as though nothing had ever happened. She’s prepared to forgive the way I’ve behaved towards her.”
Gossage nodded slowly. “And. what are you going to do, Mrs. Darnworth?”
“As yet I don’t quite know. I’m trying to make up my mind. As I had already been informed, the will leaves everything to Sheila—To Elaine and myself there are a few hundreds which, considering my husband’s financial resources, may be classed more as a gesture of contempt than anything else.”
“Sheila,” Gossage said, “is a remarkably generous type of girl, isn’t she? The forgiving sort?”
“No doubt of it.”
“Has she always had such a happy temperament?”
“Always, yes. Only a girl with a spirit like she has could have risen above the veiled abuse of her father, her sister—and myself.”
“And how has she taken the fact that she inherits everything?”
“Quite calmly. In fact, she wants to share it between herself, Elaine, Mr. Crespin, and me. Since she’ll be marrying him soon that is quite understandable, but he is against sharing, and I can’t say I altogether blame him.”
“There’s one point which I find a little puzzling, Mrs Darnworth,” Gossage said. “As I see it, Mr. Darnworth had more contempt for Miss Sheila than for anybody else. He ridiculed her work, you say, and took every chance he could to make her embarrassed and uncomfortable. Yet he willed everything to her! That, to me, seems odd.”
Mrs. Darnworth turned to look at him, a thin smile on her lips.
“You don’t know the conditions attendant on her inheritance, Mr. Gossage—the last grand gesture of scorn. It is a proviso that only became apparent when the will was read this morning. Before she can touch a penny Sheila must have published at least three novels—in a period of two years from the proving of the will, otherwise everything will be disposed of in other directions.”
“Well, Sheila has published more than three novels. I’ve read four Harper books myself.”
“Exactly, and that fact can be proved to Mr. Brakestone’s satisfaction. Actually, the inheritance is Sheila’s to use from now on because she can fulfill the demands of the will. But my husband was not aware—nor were any of us except Mr. Crespin—that Sheila had been accepted. She has admitted since that she kept it quiet for fear of further ridicule. Do you not see the cynical viciousness behind such a clause?”
“I believe I do,” Gossage admitted. “Your husband did not really want any of you to have it, so he left it to the one whom he considered the least likely to conform to the conditions—the daughter whom he considered had no literary ability whatever. I gather be expected her to give up the fight or else work herself to bits to fulfill the clause. But she has the laugh on him, because she achieved success without him knowing it!”
“Just that,” Mrs. Darnworth assented. “When he felt generous enough to reveal that he was leaving everything to her he merely mentioned a proviso, but of course did not say what it was in case it gave her the chance to fight hard for success. As I’ve told you repeatedly, Mr. Gossage, my husband was a hard, ruthless, cynical man. Only he could have thought of such a thing.”
Gossage grinned admiringly. “Good for Sheila! I think I’ll go and have a word with her. See you again.”
When he neared the brick summer house be knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put it in his pocket, finally gained the door of the small but neat building and rapped.
From within the clicking of a typewriter ceased, then Sheila opened the door. Her mouth broke into a smile.
“Oh, Mr. Gossage! Want to see me?”
“If you don’t mind? Just a word—”
“By all means. Come in.”
Gossage followed her slender figure into a one-room building, lighted by two big windows on either wall, with a table in the centre of the mat-adorned floor. On the top of the table was a litter of papers and at one edge of it a typewriter. In one corner a feminine angle peeped out in the shape of a bowl of artificial flowers. On the rough walls were paintings and drawings, and beside the door an oil stove glowed.
“Nice place you have,” Gossage commented, settling in one of the tube-type chairs as the girl motioned to it
“I like it,” she said. “It’s quiet, anyway.”
Gossage’s eyes moved to the sketches and. paintings and her sleepy grey eyes followed the action.
“They’re mine,” she explained. “Don’t think too harshly of them, will you?”
“Hardly! I was just thinking that they’re darned good. So you write books and get them published, play the piano brilliantly, and now I discover you paint and draw really well. You have many enviable talents, Miss Darnworth.”
“I feel sure you didn’t drop in here just to tell me that, Mr. Gossage.”
“No, Miss Darnworth. I had a much more definite reason. I’d like to know what you took from behind the wall of the basement this morning.”
“What I took from….” She stopped, her grey eyes wide open. “Great Caesar, how do you know?” she gasped.
“I do, and that’s all I can tell you. What’s the explanation?”
“Oh, there’s no mystery about it. Here it is.” Reaching out her hand to the centre of the table she picked up a big envelope and from it tipped a wad of manuscript.
“A story?” Gossage questioned.
“Yes—rejected! My own fault, really: I made it too short. Can’t think how I miscalculated. Anyway, back it came to roost about a week ago. The only big rejection I’ve had recently, and I didn’t dare let my father know, or mother either, as circumstances were then. I managed to intercept it before it got to the house. I can see the postman come up the drive from here, you see.”
“Then you hid it?”
“In the only place I could feel was safe until I had the time to lengthen it. Barry has promised to help me stretch the technical part. He hasn’t even seen this one. I tried it out all on my own. I suppose I had the technical details too cramped somewh
ere. Anyway, there is no sinister secret about it as you can see.”
“Of course not,” Gossage chuckled. “I was merely checking up. What’s it about—this story of yours?”
“A murder. Just another of my mechanical crime mysteries. You wouldn’t be interested, though. You know all about crime, whereas I cull most of my facts from textbooks and films.”
“Why not try me? Perhaps I can help. If I turn in some useful information you can lengthen the book and then dedicate it to ‘The Crimson Rambler’.”
“Well, all right….” The girl laughed, then turned her gaze towards the ceiling as she gathered together the threads of the plot. “It’s about a man who gets murdered in a room where there isn’t a window and the door is bolted on the inside. He gets a bullet through his heart. Actually, though, the murderer fired the shot through the electrolier tube in the ceiling, which happened to be right above the dead man…. No, that’s a bit wrong. It was a bit in front of him, so it could aim at his heart. All the killer had to do was make experiments as to position and then shoot to kill…. And there it is.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PATTERN OF MURDER CLEARING
Gossage sat motionless, staring at the girl. Her eyes had lowered now from their scrutiny of the ceiling and she was smiling in a way that was vaguely wistful. As the chief inspector still studied her in blank astonishment she wrinkled her overlong nose and sighed.
“Not too good, is it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s possible, of course. In fact I’d say it’s watertight for a sealed room problem. I take it, then, that the murderer did this from the room above?”
“That’s right. He has his bedroom up there.”
Gossage said: “Miss Darnworth, have you shown this manuscript to anybody?”
“Oh, no!” She raised a hand in momentary consternation. “Only the publishers have seen it. Don’t I keep saying I’m keeping it a secret because it was rejected?”
The Crimson Rambler Page 10