by Otto Penzler
“You knew him quite well, then?”
“So-so,” said Mr. Barton. “As well as anyone did, I daresay. He hadn’t a great many friends; he was a bit of a queer old cuss, and didn’t mind how much he was alone.”
Prendergast straightened himself. “That’s all I can do here,” he said. “The poor chap’s dead, of course—been dead about twelve hours, I should say, off-hand. He can’t have lived more than a few seconds after he was shot.”
“Shot from close quarters?” Wilson asked.
“Very close. Not more than a few inches, I should say. And—he was shot by a blunderbuss.”
“Blunderbuss!” exclaimed the other two.
“Blunderbuss or something with an enormous charge of soft-nosed slugs in it. Beastly little things. Here are two I picked off the floor, and there are some more in his head. There must have been dozens in the charge.”
“Extraordinary!” said Mr. Barton, with a kind of irritable incredulity. “Why should anyone want to shoot poor Carluke with a blunderbuss?”
“That’s what we have to find out,” said Wilson. “Perhaps, as you know the house, Mr. Barton, you’d take us into a room where we can talk.”
The little man led the way into a small room which was obviously a sort of study or morning-room, and motioned Wilson and his companion to chairs. In broad daylight, Prendergast studied him with some interest, but found little to repay his scrutiny. He looked a very ordinary type of middle-class clerk or shopkeeper, about forty-five or fifty years old, with a bald crown fringed with grayish hair that had once been ginger, a ragged ginger moustache, and face and features of no particular shape. He appeared considerably upset and distressed by the position in which he found himself, rather more so than Prendergast would have expected, though, of course, it must be very trying for any friend of the murdered man. For all his agitation, though, he answered Wilson’s questions clearly enough.
“Can you tell me Mr. Carluke’s full name, and how you came to be a friend of his?” Wilson began.
“Harold Carluke,” Mr. Burton replied. “Only we weren’t exactly friends, as I told you, more kind of acquaintances. We came together through working in the same place, and we used to play chess a bit and go for a walk together now and then and so on.”
“What place was that?”
“Capital and Counties Bank. Hampstead branch. Mr. Carluke is the cashier, and I’m head counter clerk.”
“Had he any relations, do you know? Was he married?”
No, he wasn’t married, Mr. Barton said. And he didn’t think he’d any relatives. He’d once or twice spoken of a nephew, rather a wild young fellow, who seemed to give him some trouble. But that was all. Mr. Carluke wasn’t the man to talk about his family, nor the kind you could put questions to. Not the sort many knew anything about.
“How comes it,” Wilson asked, “that he is apparently alone in the house? Didn’t he keep any servants?”
Barton explained that he did not. Mr. Carluke, it would appear, was something of a fussy old maid, and did not like to see servants about the house. So he employed only a daily woman who came in after he had left for business in the morning to clean and leave his supper laid for him, and departed before he returned. On Sundays she did not come at all. “You never saw anyone in such a bait as he was,” Mr. Barton added, “if he found her in the house any time after he’d come home.”
“What if he were ill?” Michael Prendergast’s profession suggested to him. But it appeared that the question had not arisen. Mr. Carluke’s health was excellent; he had never been known to miss a day at the bank.
“This charwoman, she must have had a key?” Wilson asked.
“I suppose she must have. But she doesn’t come in on a Sunday. Besides, the door was bolted and chained when I got in.”
“The front door, you mean?”
“Yes; but the back door was locked and bolted too.”
“Oh!” Wilson took this in. “You had a look round, then, before giving the alarm?”
“Only the ground floor,” Barton licked his lips and looked at him with a kind of frightened appeal. “I couldn’t see anything I could do for him. So I thought I might just see—if there was anyone else about.”
“And was there?”
Barton shook his head. “No. Not a sign. But I wasn’t long at it. Then I opened the door.”
“I see,” said Wilson. “How did you get in yourself?”
“Through that window”—pointing. Wilson crossed and looked at the window, whose catch had plainly been forced back.
“Why did you break in?”
“Couldn’t get any answer. I’d called to go for a walk with Mr. Carluke as we’d arranged. Then I knocked and rang and couldn’t make anyone hear. And I was a good bit behind my time, too, so I got a bit anxious—I thought he might be ill, perhaps. So I got in.”
“I see. When did you last see him?”
“Last night.”
“What time?”
“About—about nine o’clock,” said Mr. Barton, licking his lips again and looking considerably distressed. Prendergast gave a start of surprise; then, remembering that he was in effect representing the law, pulled himself together and tried to look as impassive as Wilson. No wonder the little man was showing signs of alarm. His own position was certainly dubious.
“Could you tell us what happened?” Wilson inquired. Mr. Barton could, and did, not without a good many nervous glances at Wilson’s face. He had gone round at Mr. Carluke’s invitation for high tea and a game of chess. He had had to leave about nine o’clock because he had promised to fetch his wife home from an evening party at some neighbours’ in Hendon; but the two men had arranged to go for a country walk on the Sunday. Barton had then left, arranging to call at nine o’clock in the morning to fetch his friend, and Carluke had seen him out of the house and walked with him as far as the corner of Willow Road, where they had parted. Then Barton had gone on to fetch his wife; but they had stayed very much longer at the party than they had intended and had not got back to their home in Hendon until nearly one. As soon as he knew they were going to be late, he had tried to telephone Mr. Carluke to suggest a less early start in the morning; but though he had tried twice, once from his friend’s house and once from his own when he returned, he had got no answer. “I supposed he was out,” Barton said. “Though it was a bit odd, though, because he said he was going straight to bed when he left me. He liked to keep early hours. So I tried again; but there was still no answer, so I supposed he was asleep. So I came round this morning as early as I could, as he’d be waiting.”
“I see,” said Wilson again. “You didn’t meet anyone as you left, did you? When you were with Mr. Carluke, I mean.”
“Not meet, exactly,” said Mr. Barton, looking very nervous. “There were a lot of people about—it was a fine evening—but we didn’t meet anyone. But we stood outside the Dog and Duck, at the bottom there, a minute or two. The landlord was in the doorway—I saw him—and he might have noticed us. He knows Mr. Carluke quite well. Look here,” he burst out suddenly. “I know what you’re getting at, and I know what it looks like! If he went straight back and locked up when he left me I was the last to see him alive. But he was alive and perfectly all right when I left him—I’ll swear he was!” He half rose in his seat, and sat down again, looking fearfully at the others.
“Quite, quite,” said Wilson soothingly. “I’m not trying to cast any suspicion on you, Mr. Barton. But we must find out what happened, you know. Now, if you two will excuse me, I’ll start having a look at the place. The police ought to be here in a minute or two, and then I want you, Mr. Barton, to go along with them to the station, if you will, and tell the officer in charge what you’ve just told me.” He rose to his feet. “By the way, Michael, did you find any signs of a struggle on the body?”
“None whatever,” Prendergast promptly replied. “I should say he was shot before he knew what was happening.”
“That was my impression, too.” Wil
son nodded, and disappeared into the hall. Prendergast would have dearly liked to accompany him and see how a Scotland Yard man handled the scene of a murder (his association with Wilson having hitherto been entirely unprofessional); but he was distinctly in awe of his friend’s official position, and felt sure that if he had been wanted he would have received an invitation. So he sat with what patience he could muster in the uncomfortable little study, while Mr. Barton, on the other side of the fireplace, huddled in his chair and uneasily bit his nails.
They had not long to wait, for in less than three minutes there was a sound as of heavy feet on the path, and a loud official knock rang through the house. Barton and Prendergast both sprang to their feet, but Wilson was before them; and as they went into the hall they heard him giving a rapid account of the circumstances to an awestruck sergeant.
“Constable Wren’s got your bag, sir,” the sergeant explained. “I sent him round to Fitzjohn’s Avenue for it as soon as I got your note. Lord, sir!” By this time they had reached the door of the telephone cabinet. “Well, he stopped one then, and no mistake, poor chap!” the sergeant said. “What was it, sir? Looks almost like a charge of grape-shot.”
“Dr. Prendergast says it was a blunderbuss,” said Wilson. “But you’d best get him along to the station at once. Is the ambulance here? Good. Get your man in and tell the divisional surgeon to examine him as quickly as possible. They can take Mr. Barton along with them too, and get his statement down. Is Inspector Catling there?”
“Just coming, sir,” the sergeant said. “We rang him up, and he’ll be along by the time the men get back.”
“Good. Then they might as well be getting on. You stay with me, and we’ll go over the house. Put a constable to watch the door. I’m sorry, Michael”—he turned to Prendergast—“but I’m afraid poor Carluke has rather put a stop to our expedition. Will you go without me, or would you rather stay?”
“I’d rather stay, if I can be of any use,” said Prendergast, as eager as a schoolboy; and Wilson smiled a little, and nodded. “I’d like you to go to the station with the constables if you will, Mr. Barton,” he said to the morose little figure that hovered in the background, “and give your account to the inspector. But first there are one or two more things I want to know. Did Mr. Carluke ever have charge of money or valuables in his house, do you know? For the bank, I mean?”
“Not that I know of,” Barton said. “But he wouldn’t have told me if he had. He was as close as an oyster on bank business.”
“Thank you. Now, this nephew that you spoke of. Do you know his name, or address, or anything about him?”
Barton thought. “Edgar Carluke, his name is. I think he’s a ship’s purser, and I believe he’s ashore just now. But I don’t know his address.”
“He didn’t stay here, then, when he was ashore.”
“He did once,” Barton said. “But they had a row about money, and he wasn’t asked again. That’s how I happen to know about the once, because I came to call in the middle of it.”
“How do you mean—about money?”
“Oh, Edgar Carluke wanted some; and his uncle wouldn’t let him have it. I don’t know—I didn’t hear any more than that. But perhaps Mr. Carluke would have something about him in his papers, if you want to know.”
“Do you know where he kept his papers?”
“Upstairs, in a safe in his bedroom. It’s the room above this.”
“Thank you. What is the bank manager’s name—the branch manager?”
“Mr. Warren. He lives in Belsize Park, but he’s away.”
“Thank you. By the way, we shall want a light in that telephone cabinet, and the bulb appears to be broken. Do you happen to know where Mr. Carluke kept his spares?”
“Yes, in a cupboard in the kitchen, left of the gas-stove.”
“Would you mind finding me one, as you know where they are? Medium strength, please.” Wilson went to the door of the kitchen, and stood waiting while Mr. Barton groped in a cupboard and extracted an electric bulb.
“This do?” he said, unwrapping it. “It’s a forty.”
“Thank you.” Wilson took it from him. “Now, sergeant, call your men in and tell them to disturb things as little as possible in getting him out. Constable!” He called to the man standing on guard at the hall door. “Take Mr. Barton up to Inspector Catling at once and let him make his statement. Tell the inspector the sergeant and I are going over the house and will let him know as soon as possible how things are going. And, constable,” he drew the man aside a little, and the conversation dropped to a whisper. Meanwhile the ambulance men had come in and were taking out their melancholy burden. Prendergast, who shuddered afresh as the remains of Mr. Carluke came out of the telephone cabinet, could not but marvel at the cool calm with which the police officers did their business. When it was finished, Wilson dismissed the other constable, who strode firmly off, a dejected Mr. Barton following in his wake.
III
“This is a shocking affair, sir,” the sergeant began as the door closed on them.
“Shocking,” Wilson agreed, beginning to open the case which the constable had brought, and which appeared to contain principally a number of little bottles of various kinds. “Did you know this Mr. Carluke, sergeant? Any idea why he should be murdered?”
“Not an earthly, sir,” the sergeant said. “As quiet-spoken and nice an old gentleman as you could wish. Bit unsociable, they said, but nothing to matter. I shouldn’t have said he’d an enemy in the world.”
“So Mr. Barton seemed to think,” said Wilson, extracting a thin pair of gloves and putting them on. “Well, we’d better get on. I’ve a feeling that we’ve no time to lose in this affair, if we want to catch the murderer. Will you go round the house, sergeant, and look at the doors and windows and see if you can find how he got away? Michael, could you look in that cupboard and see if you can find me a sixty lamp? I think I won’t use this one after all.” He laid it on a shelf as he spoke; and the sergeant looked up suddenly as if he were going to speak, but apparently thought better of it. Prendergast found the required lamp without much difficulty, and was taking it into the telephone cabinet to replace the old one, when Wilson stopped him. “Let me do that,” he said; and unscrewed the old lamp carefully from the top with his gloved hands. The sergeant gave a chuckle.
“Looking for finger-prints, sir?” he said. “The murderer’s not very likely to have held on to the lamp, is he? Especially as it was broken.”
“Oh, you never know,” said Wilson. “Come in, Michael, and tell me what you think of it. You needn’t mind treading there now. I looked at the footprints carefully before the men came in. Tell me how you think the man died.” As he spoke, he was dusting the broken lamp and a card which he held in his hands with powder from his little bottles.
Prendergast stared round the little cabinet, which measured about seven feet by three. “He was shot here,” he said. “He couldn’t have moved after he had been hit, and he couldn’t have bled like that if he’d been carried from anywhere else.”
“That’s so. And where was he shot from? Where did his murderer stand?”
“There, at the far end of the cabinet. You can see by the direction of the slugs. There’s one gone into the wall facing the telephone.”
“And Carluke was standing—where?”
“Just by the telephone, I should think, from the way he fell. At the far end, anyway.”
“Then where was the man who shot him standing? There doesn’t appear to be any room for him. And do you suggest Carluke walked up to a blunderbuss and stood right in front of it?”
“It was dark. The light was broken.”
“True, O Michael. But when it’s on in the hall there is plenty light enough to see anyone inside the cabinet. I don’t suppose Mr. Carluke kept his house in complete darkness. Try it yourself.”
Prendergast went out into the hall to make the experiment, which resulted as Wilson had said. When he returned he found his friend blowing po
wder over the telephone. “He must have been behind the curtain,” Prendergast said.
“Behind the curtain! My dear fellow, there isn’t room! It’s full of boots, and even if he’d removed the boots, the whole shelf is only a foot wide. A man couldn’t get underneath it. You try. No, not this minute. Come and look at the telephone. This is rather interesting.”
“Are those finger-prints?” asked Prendergast, looking at the instrument, to which little bits of yellow powder were adhering. “They don’t look to me like anything.”
“No, they aren’t. The telephone’s been rubbed clean. That’s rather interesting in itself. People’s charwomen aren’t usually so particular. But that wasn’t what I meant. Look at the shelf just by it.”
“There’s a bloodstain on it,” said Prendergast. “I suppose it’s Carluke’s. But why shouldn’t there be?”
“Because,” said Wilson, “that bloodstain was right under the telephone.”
“What! Then he was actually telephoning when he was killed, and managed to put the telephone back! I shouldn’t have thought he would have been able to.”
“Neither should I,” said Wilson. “What’s more, I don’t think he did.”
“Then his murderer did. Jove, that was pretty cool. By the way, Harry, at that rate, couldn’t you fix the time of his death, anyway? The telephone people keep records of calls, don’t they? If you asked for the last call he had that would fix the time almost exactly.”
“Perhaps,” said Wilson. “If he was telephoning. But we don’t know that he was, yet. And you haven’t told me where the murderer stood.”
“Well, damn it!” Prendergast cried after a pause, which Wilson utilised to powder the electric light switch. “If he wasn’t behind the curtain, I don’t know where he stood! Could he have been at the other end of the cabinet—no, that’s impossible, the shots are all the wrong way. I suppose he must have sneaked in while Carluke was telephoning and come right up to him and shot him from just by his ear. But it seems an insane thing to do.”