Duddington went to Haviz hastily.
“It’s all right,” he said soothingly. “It can’t be helped, now, you know. Buck up; don’t let yourself go.”
“A stab wound in the back!” said Haviz. He shook his head, his eyes upon Lynch. “In the back! I knew it would happen someday. It had to.” He began to laugh, and Duddington suddenly realized he was quite drunk. “But I never thought it would be like this,” said Haviz. “Not stabbed in the back. I thought it’d be his throat.”
“I say, now,” said Duddington anxiously. “Pull yourself together.” Then he spoke to Lynch. “It’s the whisky he’s been taking. He’s tight, and not at all fit for questioning.”
Lynch hesitated for a moment; then he said:
“Perhaps you’re right. At any rate, we’ll give him a little time and maybe he’ll come around.” A policeman was called in. “Sober him up,” said the inspector. “I’ll want him here again for examination.” And when Haviz had disappeared, Lynch said to Duddington with satisfaction, “I like this lead, next to young Gregory’s. It’s got the stuff in it. Custis was killed by a knife; and the knife is a ‘natural’ for a South American. Also, Haviz is the sort, if properly wrought up, to use one.”
“I don’t know,” said Duddington; “but it would take a good deal to convince me he used one, here, tonight. He’d left the building, as I’ve already said, and he could not return without Slade letting him in.”
Lynch smiled and reached for one of his sheets of notes.
“I’m afraid you’re using the argument I used for Sheerness in favor of Haviz. But,” and he took his eyes from the paper, “their cases are not quite the same. There was no way for Sheerness to get into the building except by way of the front door; but with Haviz it’s different: there is a back door opening from the storeroom, next here, and Slade told me in my first examination of him that Haviz had a key to it.”
“There are three keys to it,” said Duddington. “Each of the trustees had one. But what does Haviz’s possession of a key to the rear door indicate to you?”
Lynch looked at him, surprised.
“Why, that he could unlock the door and enter when he was so disposed.”
“It is evident,” said Duddington, “you have not yet had the rear door open.”
“No, we were unable to unlock it, as Custis, so we were told, kept his key in the office safe, and the combination was on.”
“Well, when you finally do open the back door,” said Duddington, blowing out his cheeks, “you’ll find one thing. It cannot be unlocked except from the inside. So no matter how much Haviz might have desired to enter, that door was closed to him. His key was useless.”
“I see,” said Lynch. He nodded and tapped his pencil upon the edge of the desk. “I see.”
“That back door is necessary for the bringing in of pictures, statuary, and such things,” said Duddington, “but old John Gregory only permitted its being put in with the greatest reluctance. He suspected doors. He saw in them only possible places for the entry of thieves. As you no doubt have noticed, there are only two doors in the building—the entrance door for visitors is the other. The locks for these were specially contrived; and the matter of the rear door keys being held only by the trustees was set down in the old man’s will.”
“Well, you’ve got me blocked,” admitted Lynch good-humouredly. “But it’s all right; the matter is only in its second hour, and I’ll get even with you before I’m done.” He looked at Duddington smilingly. “You still think there are indications of Sheerness having had something to do with this thing. That’s going to trip you in the end. I’m sure to win over you on that alone.”
“As I’ve said, I don’t know that Sheerness is guilty of this murder,” said Duddington. “But, and right in line with your own reasoning, I do know that Billy Gregory and Haviz are not guilty.” And then as Lynch, his attention caught by the speaker’s emphasis, stared at him, Duddington went on: “If Billy killed Custis, what would his motive have been? Hate, revenge! If Haviz killed him, what the motive? Again: hate, revenge! And if the crime was the watchman, Slade’s? Once more: hatred, revenge!” The fat young man drew in a deep breath; his colossal proportions seemed to double, and he fixed Lynch with his eye. “All hatred and revenge. Isn’t that your idea?”
“Yes,” said Lynch quietly.
“Very well. I’m going to show, and without speaking more than a half dozen words, that you are wrong. The murder of Custis wasn’t that sort of crime at all.” He beckoned Lynch and went into the outer office; opening the door into the main picture gallery he waited for the inspector to follow him. At places the walls were hung with heavy black curtains, and Duddington pointed to these. “Slade said, after all the visitors left, his first duty was to close the doors to the corridor and draw the curtains. These are the curtains he meant; they are intended to save certain valuable paintings from the morning sunlight. Here,” and he indicated a curtained spot, “is where the Hals masterpiece hung.” With a sharp fling Duddington threw the curtain aside: Lynch saw an empty frame staring at him from the wall; the painting had been cut from it and was gone!
XII
INSPECTOR LYNCH stood frowning and silent before the empty frame; and after a few moments he said to Duddington:
“How did you know of this, and how long have you known it?”
“I thought of it while you talked with Marsh the first time,” said the fat young man. “It suddenly worked into my mind. It must have been something Marsh said about Custis standing here all alone and laughing. I knew it must be something about the picture that made him laugh—something about Sheerness. So the idea popped into my mind: ‘I wonder if the picture is safe!’ So I came in to see.”
“You didn’t mention the matter to me,” said Lynch. “Why was that?”
“I wasn’t convinced you did not already know it,” said Duddington. “I am not very well acquainted with the methods of the police, and didn’t care to risk a faux pas. It has only been during the last ten minutes I’ve felt sure you didn’t know it was gone.’
“I see,” said Lynch. He still frowned at the blank frame. “Of course,” he said, “we’d have finally come to it in the course of our routine. But, as I’ve said more than once, the case is only a little more than an hour old, and our work hadn’t got this far.”
“Well, at any rate,” said Duddington. “We know it, now. A picture valued at a quarter of a million dollars has been stolen. What does that indicate to you? Do you still think the killing of Custis was a thing actuated by personal hate? Or does it look to you like a crime which was, perhaps, the accidental result of a robbery?”
Lynch shook his head.
“It alters the face of the matter; there is no doubt about that,” he said. “But it is too early to make up one’s mind about it. A case like this has many ramifications; the police, unless they go carefully, are apt to be led astray.” He looked at Duddington, his prominent jaw stuck out. “I’ve seen murder cases with robbery attachments before this, and later on it’s been found that the robbery was only added to throw the police off the track of the real motive.”
“Well,” said Duddington, “of course, I don’t know what you have in mind. But the thing I’m thinking of is this: What’s become of the painting? It’s been stolen, but how did the thief get it out of the building?”
Lynch nodded.
“I’ve been considering that myself,” he said. He pushed open the door leading into the corridor and spoke to Sergeant Brace; then, reclosing the door, he went with Duddington into the inner office. “At a venture I’d say the painting is still in the museum,” he said. “You see what the windows are like”—pointing to one—“grated, and with apertures too small to permit the passage of even much less bulky things than this picture, even if rolled. I’ve sent for Slade; we’ll find out what he has to say about the chances at the front door.”
Slade was brought in. He was sullen looking and regarded Lynch with no very favoring eye. It w
as very plain he resented being at the beck and call of the police.
“Slade,” said the inspector, “from what you’ve said, three people left the building after closing time. Marsh was the first of these. He went out about five-fifteen, and you spoke to him as he went out. Was there a good light at the door at that time?”
“There is full daylight at five-fifteen,” said Slade. “And if you’ll look you’ll see there’s a large window at each side of the front door.”
“Was Marsh carrying anything when you spoke to him?”
“No.”
“No parcel, or package, or anything of that sort?”
“No.”
“What about Gregory and Miss Rogers?”
“Neither had anything,” said Slade. “I’d seen it if they had.”
When the watchman went out the inspector said to Duddington:
“As you’ve seen, this man is by no means free of suspicion himself; and as he had the means of opening the door there is, of course, the possibility of his having done so and handing the painting to a confederate on the outside. But, fortunately, I am able to check up on that.”
Moore brought in a gray-haired policeman, ruddy and good-humored and with the appearance of having been on the force for many years.
“Patrolman Monaghan, Inspector,” said Moore. “He’s the man who was on duty outside.”
“From one o’clock on, Inspector, I’ve been sitting outside on the museum steps. There is a house over the way under quarantine, and I was detailed to watch it.”
“I’m told you had occasion to notice when the museum closed?”
“Yes, sir, at five o’clock. The watchman spoke to me just before he put the lock on the door.”
“Did you notice who came out after that?”
“I did. Two men and a girl, with a little time between them.”
“Did any of them carry anything? A parcel? A roll? Any large-sized package?”
“No, sir.”
“You are sure of that?”
“I am.”
“Did the watchman open the door at any time after five o’clock and pass a bundle to anyone outside?”
“No, sir.”
“You were constantly there at the door of the museum until the alarm was given of the murder and the police detail arrived?”
“I was, sir. From five o’clock until just now, when I was called in to speak to you, I was near the front door. Only the three I’ve mentioned came out; and none of them had a bundle.”
“That’s all. Thank you, Monaghan.” Lynch looked at Moore. “Now, let me see Haviz.”
“O. K.,” said the precinct detective.
“And what about Newman?” asked Lynch.
“He’s on his way.”
Haviz came in a few minutes later, still disheveled and white. His hands fumbled with his hat rim, but he seemed much calmer than he’d been a while before.
“Mr. Haviz,” said Lynch, “I understand it was written in the will of John Gregory that each trustee of the museum be provided with a key to the rear door and that there be no others.”
“That is true,” said Haviz.
“You have your key, I suppose?”
There was a pause; then Haviz shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I have not. I gave that key up some three months ago.”
“You gave it up? To whom?”
“To Mr. Custis.”
“Do you mind saying why that was?”
“I had some words with him. There was something I objected to in his management. I was angry. I said if I had no voice in the regulation of the museum’s affairs I’d prefer to have none of the responsibilities. I then gave him the key. It was a sort of gesture. He put it in his safe with his own saying if I wanted it, it was there for me.”
“You did not have the key today?”
“I tell you,” said Haviz passionately, “I have not had it for three months.”
Lynch was still engaged with Haviz when a thin young man with red hair and keen gray eyes, carrying a leather bag, came in.
“How are you, Inspector?” he said, easily. He put down the bag and, taking off his hat, mopped his face. “Is this the box?” pointing to a safe at one side.
“Yes,” said Lynch. He told Haviz he had no further questions for him just then, and Haviz paused in the doorway to the outer office and talked with Duddington.
The red-haired young man turned the knobs on the safe door and listened.
“The burglar’s friend!” he said. “It’s a wonder some of these places don’t keep their valuables in cracker cans. They’d be just as safe. These tumblers act like educated dogs: you just whistle and they fall into place.”
In a short time he swung the safe door open. Lynch opened the inner compartments, in one of them he found two delicate steel keys, flat, and of a peculiar cut, lying side by side.
“The keys to the rear door,” said Duddington when they were shown to him. “Yes, sir; I’m sure of it.”
“If there is any doubt about whom they belonged to,” said Haviz, “look at the shaft of each. You’ll find Custis’s name on one and mine on the other.”
XIII
SOME ten minutes later Lynch and Duddington were in the storeroom next Custis’s office, watching the red-haired young man as he shot and reshot the lock on the back door.
“I’d say,” said the red-haired young man, “that there was only one of this lock made. And it didn’t come from a factory. Somebody made it by hand, keys and all; and whoever it was,” admiringly, “was a workman.”
“An old Welsh mechanic made it, at the special request of John Gregory,” said Duddington. “And you are quite right,” to the locksmith, “it is the only one of its kind.”
“There is no hole in the door, and so it can’t be opened from the outside,” said the red-haired young man. “The lock has not been tampered with at any time. Everything is as right as it was the day it was put on.”
After the lock expert had taken his bag and said good-night, Duddington Pell Chalmers sat in a chair in the inner office and smoked a cigarette. Lynch was out in the corridor; the place was filled with rummaging policemen, upstairs and down; everything must be opened and looked into! The Hals masterpiece was still in the building, the inspector said, and must be found. Still in the building! Duddington nodded and blew out a cloud of smoke. Well, maybe so. To get it out would seem impossible.
“But the person who took the picture managed to make away,” said Duddington. “So why couldn’t the picture itself be slipped out, somehow?”
He smoked until he’d burned the cigarette far down; then he lighted another, shaking his head, a puzzled frown between his eyes. To steal a picture like that. A world-known masterpiece. No one would have stolen it but a fool! For after it had been stolen, what could be done with it? It couldn’t be sold. No one would buy it. To offer it for sale would mean instant arrest. The thief would not even have the satisfaction of displaying it; he’d not dare tell anyone he had it.
“He can do nothing but hide it,” said Duddington. “What an ass! What stupidity!” There was the theft of the celebrated Gainsborough portrait from a London gallery. It had been missing twenty years when the thieves, unable to do anything with it, gave it back to the owners through a go-between. The Mona Lisa itself had been stolen only a few years before, and returned. “With two examples of that sort before him, someone now turns his hand to this! It’s really preposterous,” said Duddington. “It is, indeed.”
When Inspector Lynch came in, alert and quick of glance, Duddington spoke what was in his mind.
“Crime is always stupid,” said the inspector in reply. “Even when intelligent people turn to it, as they sometimes do, they usually fumble with it and in the end destroy themselves. However,” and he shook his head, “this matter of the picture is not necessarily a sign of dullness.”
Duddington sat looking at him through a haze of smoke.
“I think I see what you mean. I’ve considered
that, too. Your idea is, perhaps the person who cut the picture from the frame never had it in his mind to sell it, nor show it to anyone. That he’d be content with the mere possession of it.”
“Yes,” said the inspector.
“That man,” said Duddington, “would be a collector.” He threw the cigarette end into a tray and lighted a fresh one. “And don’t forget, I’ve mentioned a collector to you in this matter. And one that has had a singular interest in this very picture.”
“You mean Sheerness. I remember,” said Lynch. “But frankly, I’m still not interested in him. And I’ll tell you why. A thief steals a thing because that’s the easiest way, to him, of getting it. Sheerness’s easiest way of getting a thing is to buy it.”
“But here,” said Duddington, “is something he desired very much, and it was not for sale.”
Lynch shook his head.
“Well, when money fails, a man of Sheerness’s sort brings pressure to bear.”
“Nothing once in the Gregory collection can be sold. It’s so stipulated in the old man’s will. And no pressure, no matter how great, could operate against that.”
Lynch sharpened a pencil with a small knife. He sat down at the desk and drew a fresh sheet of paper toward him.
“Sheerness and his possibilities will receive their due share of police attention before we have finished,” he said. “But just now there is a trail more heavily marked and a good deal more possible. And that’s the one we mean to follow first.”
“Billy Gregory’s!” said Duddington. He sat up straight in his chair; he hated the cold insistence of Lynch in this direction; for all the man appeared a decent enough sort, there was a ruthlessness about him that was almost detestable. It was, possibly, a police color, taken on by years of contact. He felt Billy to be weaker than Sheerness; he’d seen Billy break on two occasions and almost go to pieces. And this had excited the hound in him; he wanted to bare his fangs, to leap upon the fallen one and tousle, and gnaw, and worry him. “It’s an infernal shame, Inspector, to grind at the idea of that young man the way you do. As I see it, of all the people who might have had a hand in this affair, Billy Gregory is the least likely.”
The Museum Murder Page 10