“Well . . . you don’t seem to miss much,” the doctor confessed. “I suppose it was what I repeated to you about Mrs. Silverdale looking queer when she came out of the drawing-room—that put you on the track? You were thinking of drugs, even then?”
“That was it,” Sir Clinton answered. Then, after a moment he added: “And I’ve got a fair notion of what drug was used, too.”
Chapter Six
THE NINE POSSIBLE SOLUTIONS
The police machinery under Sir Clinton’s control always worked smoothly, even when its routine was disturbed by such unpredictable events as murders. Almost automatically, it seemed, that big, flexible engine had readjusted itself to the abnormal; the bodies of Hassendean and the maid at Heatherfield had been taken into its charge and all arrangements had been made for dealing with them; Heatherfield itself had been occupied by a constabulary picket; the photographic department had been called in to take “metric photographs” showing the exact positions of the bodies in the two houses; inquiries had ramified through the whole district as to the motor-traffic during the previous night; and a wide-flung intelligence system was unobtrusively collecting every scrap of information which might have a bearing on this suddenly presented problem. Finally, the organism had projected a tentacle to the relief of Inspector Flamborough, marooned at the bungalow, and had replaced him by a police picket while arrangements were being made to remove Mrs. Silverdale’s body and to map the premises.
“Anything fresh, Inspector?” Sir Clinton demanded, glancing up from his papers as his subordinate entered the room.
“One or two more points cleared up, sir,” Flamborough announced, with a certain satisfaction showing on his good-humoured face. “First of all, I tried the lever of the window-hasp for finger-prints. There weren’t any. So that’s done with. I could see you didn’t lay much stress on that part of the business, sir.”
The Chief Constable’s nod gave acquiescence to this, and he waited for Flamborough to continue.
“I’ve hunted for more blood-traces about the house; and I’ve found two or three small ones—a track leading from the room to the front door. There was less blood than I expected, though.”
He produced a blood-soaked handkerchief.
“This was picked up near the corner of Lauderdale Avenue, sir, this morning after the fog cleared away. It has an H in one corner. You remember we found no handkerchief on Hassendean’s body. Evidently he was using this one to staunch his wounds, and he probably let it drop out of the car at the place where it was found. The doctor said there might be very little external bleeding, you remember; and the handkerchief’s mopped up a fair amount of what happened to ooze out.”
Sir Clinton again acquiesced, and the Inspector proceeded.
“I’ve taken the finger-prints from all three bodies, sir. They’re filed for reference, if need be. And I’ve had a good look at that side-window at the bungalow. There’s no doubt that someone must have been standing there; but the traces are so poor that nothing can be done in the way of a permanent record.
“One can’t even see the shape of the man’s boot, let alone any fine details.”
“Anything more?” Sir Clinton inquired. “You seem to have been fairly putting your back into it.”
Flamborough’s face showed his appreciation of the compliment implied in the words.
“I’ve drafted an advertisement—worded it very cautiously of course—asking Mr. Justice to favour us with some further information, if he has any in stock. That’s been sent off already; it’ll be in the Evening Observer to-night, and in both the morning papers tomorrow.”
“Good! Though I shouldn’t get too optimistic over the results, if I were you, Inspector.”
Flamborough assented to this. Putting his hand into his breast pocket he produced a paper.
“Then I’ve got a report from Detective-Sergeant Yarrow. I sent him down to the G.P.O. to find out about Mr. Justice’s telegram. It’s impossible to get a description of the sender, sir. The telegram wasn’t handed in over the counter: it was dropped into a pillar box in the suburbs in a plain envelope, along with the telegraph fee; and when it was taken to the G.P.O. they simply telegraphed it to our local office round the corner.”
“H’m!” said Sir Clinton. “There doesn’t seem much likelihood of your advertisement catching much, then. Mr. Justice is obviously a shy bird.”
“He is indeed, sir, as you’ll see in a moment. But I’ll finish Yarrow’s report first, if you don’t mind. When he heard this story at the G.P.O., he asked for the postman who had brought in the envelope and questioned him. It appears the thing was dropped into the pillar-box at the corner of Hill Street and Prince’s Street. That’s nowhere near the Lizardbridge Road, you remember—quite on the other side of the town.”
“Five miles at least from the bungalow,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “Yes, go on, Inspector.”
“The postman made his collection, which included this envelope, at 7 a.m. this morning. The previous collection from the same box was made at 8 p.m. last night, Yarrow elicited.”
“Then all we really know is that the thing was dropped into the box between 8 p.m. and 7 a.m.”
“Yes, sir. Yarrow secured the original telegram form,” Flamborough continued with a glance at the paper in his hand. “The envelope had been torn open carelessly and dropped into a waste-basket; but Yarrow succeeded in getting hold of it also. There’s no doubt about its identity, sir. Yarrow ascertained through whose hands the envelope and the enclosure had passed while they were in charge of the Post Office; and he persuaded all these people to let him have their finger-prints, which he took himself on the spot. He then brought all his material back here and had the envelope and its enclosure examined for finger-prints; and the two documents were photographed after the prints had been brought up on them with a powder.”
“And they found nothing helpful, I suppose?”
“Nothing, so far, sir. Every print that came out belonged to the postman or the sorter, or the telegraphist. There wasn’t one of them that could belong to Mr. Justice.”
“I told you he was a shy bird, Inspector.”
The Inspector put his paper down on the desk before Sir Clinton.
“He’s all that, sir. He hasn’t even given us a scrap of his handwriting.”
The Chief Constable leaned forward and examined the document. It was an ordinary telegram despatch form, but the message: “Try hassendean bungalow lizardbridge road justice,” had been constructed by gumming isolated letters and groups of letters on to the paper. No handwriting of any sort had been used.
Sir Clinton scanned the type for a moment, running his eye over the official printed directions on the form as well.
“He’s simply cut his letters out of another telegram blank, apparently?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rather ingenious, that, since it leaves absolutely no chance of identification. It’s useless to begin inquiring where a telegraphic blank came from, even if one could identify the particular sheet that he’s been using. He’s evidently got one of these rare minds than can see the obvious and turn it to account. I’d like to meet Mr. Justice.”
“Well, sir, it certainly doesn’t leave much to take hold of, does it? Yarrow’s done his best; and I don’t see how he could have done more. But the result’s just a blank end.”
Sir Clinton looked at his watch, took out his case and offered the Inspector a cigarette.
“Sit down, Inspector. We’re talking unofficially now, you’ll note. I think we might do worse than clear the decks in this business as far as possible before we go any further. It may save time in the end.”
Inspector Flamborough thought he saw a trap in front of him.
“I’d like to hear what you think of it, sir.”
The Chief Constable’s smile showed that he understood what was passing in Flamborough’s mind.
“I’d hate to ask a man to do something I didn’t dare to do myself,” he said, with a faint twinkl
e in his eye. “So I’ll put my cards on the table for you to look at. If the spirit moves you, Inspector, you can do the same when your turn comes.”
The Inspector’s smile broadened into something like a grin.
“Very good, sir. I understand that it’s purely unofficial.”
“On the face of it,” Sir Clinton began, “two people got their deaths at the bungalow last night. Young Hassendean didn’t actually die there, of course, but the shooting took place there.”
Flamborough refrained from interrupting, but gave a nod of agreement.
“Deaths by violence fall under three heads, I think,” the Chief Constable pursued—“accident, suicide, and homicide, including murder. Now at the bungalow you had two people put to death, and in each case the death must have been due to one or other of these three causes. Ever do permutations and combinations at school, Inspector?”
“No, sir,” Flamborough confessed, rather doubtfully.
“Well, taking the possible ways of two people dying one or other of three different deaths, there are nine different arrangements. We’ll write them down.”
He drew a sheet of paper towards him, scribbled on it for a moment or two, and then slid it across the table towards the Inspector. Flamborough bent over and read as follows:
HASSENDEAN
MRS. SILVERDALE
1.—Accident...................
Accident
2.—Suicide.....................
Suicide
3.—Murder....................
Murder
4.—Accident..................
Suicide
5.—Suicide.....................
Accident
6.—Accident..................
Murder
7.—Murder....................
Accident
8.—Suicide....................
Murder
9.—Murder....................
Suicide
“Now, since in that table we’ve got every possible arrangement which theoretically could occur,” Sir Clinton continued, “the truth must lie somewhere within the four corners of it.”
“Yes, somewhere,” said Flamborough in an almost scornful tone.
“If we take each case in turn, we’ll get a few notions about what may have happened,” Sir Clinton pursued, unmoved by the Inspector’s obvious contempt for the idea. “But let’s be clear on one or two points to start with. The girl, so far as one can see at present, died from poison and was shot in the head after death. Young Hassendean died from pistol-shots, of which there were two. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Flamborough conceded without enthusiasm.
“Then let’s take the cases as we come to them. Case 1: The whole thing was accidental. To fit that, the girl must have swallowed a fatal dose of poison, administered by mischance either by herself or by someone else; and young Hassendean must either have shot himself twice by accident—which sounds unlikely—or else some third party unintentionally shot him twice over. What do you make of that?”
“It doesn’t sound very convincing, sir.”
“Take Case No. 2, then: A double suicide. What about that?”
“These lovers’ suicide-pacts aren’t uncommon,” the Inspector admitted. “That might be near the truth. And I suppose he might have put a bullet through her head before shooting himself, just in case the poison hadn’t worked.”
He drew a notebook from his pocket.
“Just a moment, sir. I want to make a note to remind me to see about young Hassendean’s pistol license, if he had one. I think he must have had. I found a box and a half of ammunition in one of the drawers when I was searching the house after you’d gone.”
Sir Clinton paused while the Inspector made his jotting.
“Now we can take the third case,” he continued, as Flamborough closed his pocket-book. “It implies that Mrs. Silverdale was deliberately poisoned and that young Hassendean was shot to death intentionally, either by her before she died or by some third party.”
“Three of them seems more likely than two,” the Inspector suggested. “There’s the man who opened the window to be fitted in somewhere, you know, and there were signs of a struggle, too.”
“Quite true, Inspector. I suppose you can fit the shot in Mrs. Silverdale’s head into the scheme also?”
Flamborough shook his head without offering any verbal comment on the question.
“Then we’ll take Case 4,” ’the Chief Constable pursued. “Mrs. Silverdale deliberately poisoned herself, and young Hassendean came by his end accidentally. In other words, he was shot by either Mrs. Silverdale or by a third party—because I doubt if a man could shoot himself twice over by accident.”
Flamborough shook his head again, more definitely this time.
“It doesn’t sound likely, sir.”
Then his face changed.
“Wait a bit, though,” he added quickly. “If that’s what happened, she must have had a motive for suicide. Perhaps someone was on her track, somebody pretty dangerous; and she saw the game was up. I don’t profess to know how that could happen. But if the man on her heels was the fellow who did the work with the tourniquet at Heatherfield last night, she might have thought poison an easier way out of things. It’s a possibility, sir.”
“It leaves us hunting for the clue to a purely hypothetical mystery, though, Inspector, I’m afraid. I don’t say you’re wrong, of course.”
“I daresay it’s complicated enough already,” Flamborough admitted without prejudice. “Besides, this Case 4 of yours has another flaw in it—several, in fact. Unless you take the idea I suggested, it’s hard to see why the girl should have had a supply of poison handy at all. It sounds a bit wild. And you’ve got to assume that a third party shot young Hassendean twice by accident, if a third party came into the business at all. To my mind, that won’t wash, sir. It’s not good enough. Whereas if it was a case of Mrs. Silverdale shooting him by accident, there was no need for her to commit suicide because of that. No one knew she was here. She could simply have walked out of the front door and got clear away with no questions asked. And if she’d already taken poison, she wouldn’t need to shoot herself in the head, would she?”
“Grave objections,” Sir Clinton admitted. It amused him to see the Inspector entering so keenly into the game. “Now we proceed to Case 5.”
“Oh, Case 5 is just bunkum,” the Inspector pronounced bluntly. “She gets accidentally poisoned; then she gets accidentally shot; then young Hassendean suicides. It’s too thick altogether.”
“I like the concise way you put it,” Sir Clinton answered with simulated admiration. “So we go on to No. 6, eh? She was deliberately murdered and he was accidentally shot. What about that?”
“I’d want to see some motive for the murder, sir, before accepting that as a possible basis. And if she was deliberately poisoned, what was the good of young Hassendean dragging her off to the bungalow? That would throw suspicion straight on to him if he poisoned her. . . .”
Flamborough broke off and seemed to think hard for a moment or two.
“That’s a fresh line,” he exclaimed suddenly. “I’ve been assuming all along that either she or young Hassendean used the poison. But it might have been a third party. I never thought of it in that light, sir.”
He pondered again, while Sir Clinton watched his face.
“It might have been someone else altogether, if the poison was a slow-acting one. Someone at Heatherfield perhaps.”
“There was only one available person at Heatherfield just then,” Sir Clinton pointed out.
“You mean the maid, sir? Of course! And that might help to account for her death, too. It might be a case of Judge Lynch, sir. Somebody squaring the account without bothering us about it.”
New horizons seemed to be opening up in the Inspector’s mind.
“I’ll admit there’s something in this method of yours, after all, sir,” he conceded gracefully.
&nbs
p; “I like your ‘after all,’ Inspector. But at any rate you seem to find the method suggestive, which is something, at least.”
“It certainly puts ideas into one’s mind that one mightn’t have thought about otherwise. What about the next case?”
“Case 7? That’s the converse of the last one. He was shot deliberately and she died by accident. What about it?”
“That would mean, sir, that either she took an overdose of the drug by mistake or someone gave her a fatal dose, ditto. Then either she or a third party shot young Hassendean.”
“Something of the sort.”
“H’m! It’s no worse than some of the other suggestions. I wonder, now. . . . She didn’t look like a dope-fiend, so far as I could see; but she might have been just a beginner and taken an overdose by accident. Her eye-pupils were pretty wide-open. That wouldn’t fit in with her snuffing morphine or heroin, but she might have been a cocaine addict, for all we know. . . . This method of yours is very stimulating, sir. It makes one think along fresh lines.”
“Well, have another think, Inspector. Case 8: he suicided and she was murdered.”
“That brings us up against the missing motive again, sir. I’d like to think over that later on.”
“Case 9, then: He was murdered and she committed suicide. What about that?”
“Let me take it bit by bit, sir. First of all, if he was murdered, then either she did it or a third party did it. If she did it, then she might have premeditated it, and had her dose of poison with her, ready to swallow when she’d shot young Hassendean. That’s that. If a third party murdered young Hassendean, she might have suicided in terror of what was going to happen to her; but that would imply that she was carrying poison about with her. Also, this third party—whoever he was—must have had his knife pretty deep in both of them. That’s one way of looking at it. But there’s another side to the thing as well. Suppose it was one of these suicide-pacts and she took the poison as her part of the bargain; then, before he can swallow his dose, the third party comes on the scene and shoots him. That might be a possibility.”
The Case With Nine Solutions (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 8