Ask a Policeman

by Detection Club

  “Very good, sir,” said Farrant, retreating on reverential feet.

  Unhappily, he did not quite shut the study door, and the following fragment of conversation was distinctly audible in the hall:

  “Emily!”

  “Yes, Mr. Farrant.”

  “This one wants the step-ladder.”

  “Ho! do he? What next? Diving-suit, I shouldn’t wonder. What’s he like, then?”

  “Oh, one of the matey sort. Too bright by half. No class.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t bother about him.”

  Roger was deeply hurt. This came of adopting a pleasant man-to-man attitude with butlers. When the step-ladder came, he acknowledged it curtly, adding:

  “That will do, Farrant. You can go. And, this time, shut the door.”

  He noted with pleasure a certain uneasiness in Farrant’s face.

  In searching for the hypothetical pistol, Roger adopted, faute de mieux, the line of least resistance. He would search the easy places first, and then the more difficult. It was most probable, of course, that the murderer had taken the weapon away with him and cached it in some unget-at-able spot. But there was just the chance that he had dreaded the idea of being caught with it on his person and had lodged it in a handy place, to be retrieved later.

  A long course of training in hunt-the-thimble and other drawing-room sports had taught Roger the truth of the maxim that the best hiding-place was either well above or well below eye-level. He was, for example, well acquainted with the device of the phosphorescent haddock, attached by tin-tacks to the under-side of the dining-room table. He had known this simple ruse to occasion the taking-up of an entire system of house-drainage, whereby three British plumbers and their mates had been given remunerative employment for a week. He had, therefore, spent ten solid minutes on his hands and knees beneath the furniture of the study and adjacent rooms. Failing to discover anything by this means, he had turned his attention to the walls and ceiling. In the drawingroom, there were only a couple of old-fashioned chiffoniers and the top of the chimney-breast above eye-level, the rest of the walls being smooth, except for a narrow picture-rail. The office and waiting-room had only a few low shelves containing files, and were not promising. But the study had bookshelves to within a foot of the rather high ceiling, and each of its three tall doors was embellished with a handsome oak architrave, of pseudo-classical design, surmounted by a floridly-carved frieze and jutting cornice. By standing on tip-toe and stretching his arm to the utmost, Roger could just touch the top shelves and the cornices; an exceedingly tall man might find it possible to lodge a small object upon them while standing on the floor. Beginning with the wall between the study and the office, Roger planted his step-ladder and searched, being careful to use his eyes only, and not to scrabble with his hands. It was thus that, having laboriously traversed about half the available wall-space, he suddenly found himself gazing, with incredulous delight, at a small black object perched upon the cornice over the door between the study and the hall. Gingerly grasping his prize in a handkerchief-swathed hand (to preserve possible finger-prints), he nearly fell off the ladder in his excitement at finding that he held a miniature pistol, the dead spit, so far as he could see, of the other two exhibits in the case.

  Roger sat down on the top step and gloated. His subtle psychological instinct had not led him astray. He had deduced a third pistol in this place and here the pistol was. Exercising infinite precaution, he broke the weapon and discovered, a little disconcertingly, that it contained, not one, but two empty, discharged shells; being otherwise fully loaded.

  This, however, was a trifle. One other bullet might have been fired at some previous time. Undoubtedly this was the weapon that had shot Comstock. Roger wrapped it up very carefully in the handkerchief, slipped it into his pocket and descended the ladder.

  Before confronting Mills with this evidence of his crime, it seemed advisable to get confirmation on a few other points of the story. If Mills had left his finger-prints on the pistol, other confirmation would be scarcely necessary, but it was unlikely that Mills had been so obliging. If only there were some more exact evidence about the time of Hope-Fairweather’s departure, it would be exceedingly helpful. Perhaps some of the servants might know. With a stem eye and a peremptory manner, Roger proceeded to examine the household.

  It was just at this triumph-peak of achievement that Roger’s beautiful card-tower of theory began to crumble and collapse.

  Emily the housemaid delivered the first blow.

  Yes, she had seen Sir Charles depart. She had been putting away the silver in the dining-room sideboard and had the dining-room door open. She saw Mr. Mills come back from the front door and go into the drawingroom. Yes, into the drawing-room. That would be a little after 12.15. No, certainly not before, because she recollected looking at the kitchen-clock when she brought the silver through, and it said 12.15. It would be about 12.18 when Sir Charles went away. Then she heard some one come running round the house and a gentleman got into the car that was standing under the dining-room window and drove off. Funny, she thought it. She saw the car go, and was just turning round again with the silver in her hands, when she saw Mr. Mills come out of the drawing-room and go straight into the office and shut the door. The kitchen clock could always be trusted; Mr. Farrant set it every night by wireless. And what was more, she remembered Mr. Scotney coming through just at that very moment when she looked at the clock and comparing it with his watch.

  “Scotney? What was he coming through about?”

  Why, of course, Mr. Scotney always came in at a quarter past twelve, to ask if the car was wanted for the afternoon. Emily, with a toss of the head, seemed to imply that Roger was a poor sort of detective if he didn’t know that.

  Roger experienced a sinking of the heart. If this was all true, then Mills could not have shot Comstock. There was no time between Hope-Fairweather’s departure and Littleton’s entry into the study. He looked hard at Emily. She was a good-looking girl, and Mills was a man with a kind of flashy attraction. Were he and the housemaid in league together? Perhaps Scotney would be able to give a ruling on the matter.

  He went out to the garage, where he found Mr. Scotney occupied in cleaning one of the cars.

  “Why, yes, sir,” said the chauffeur, “that’s right. I came in as usual at 12.15. That was the time, sir.”

  “Which way did you come?”

  “Through the service-door under the stairs, sir.”

  “Did you see Mr. Mills?”

  “No, sir; I heard his voice in the office, sir, talking to a gentleman—to Sir Charles Hope-Fairweather, sir.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I went back into the kitchen, sir.”

  “Was anybody there?”

  “No, sir; Emily was in the dining-room and cook had just stepped out into the yard. Mr. Farrant was in his pantry, I think, sir.”

  “I see. How long did you remain in the kitchen?”

  “Well, sir, I waited about five minutes, till I thought Mr. Mills might be disengaged. I heard a car drive off, sir, and presently I saw Mr. Mills come back into the office. Then I stepped across for my orders. Mr. Mills said as the car wouldn’t be wanted that afternoon, sir, so I came back to the garage—back here, sir.”

  Mr. Scotney wiped his hands on some cotton-waste, replaced his grease-gun upon a high shelf, and looked expectantly at Roger.

  “Yes, I see,” said Roger. “I see. Thank you, Scotney. There’s just one thing more. You saw this lady who came with Sir Charles Hope-Fairweather?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Should you know her again?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Is this the lady?”

  Mr. Scotney again wiped his fingers and took the photograph of Lady Phyllis Dalrymple with which Roger had provided himself in town.

  “This, sir? No, sir. Nothing like the lady.”

  “Not?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Oh!” said Roger.
>
  Crash, crash, crash! The whole pack of cards came tumbling and fluttering about Roger’s ears.

  Rout followed upon rout.

  Mr. Mills, when tackled, was frank and voluble. The Archbishop? Well, he wouldn’t say that he hadn’t given a hint—but there! Mr. Sheringham would understand. The lady of the photograph? Well, there again, Mr. Sheringham would understand. Lady Phyllis had asked him—absolutely on the Q.T.—to let her have some intimate gossip about Lord Comstock. Her ladyship was apt to get hard up, what with bridge-parties and one thing and another, and, in short, the fact was that she supplied a certain amount of society gossip to the Morning Star. Since the Morning Star was the Daily Bugle’s chief rival, Mr. Sheringham would understand that Mr. Mills could not give her any information openly. Lady Phyllis was a very agreeable lady and had behaved generously. Of course, now that Lord Comstock was no more, the arrangement came to an end, but Mr. Mills would be greatly obliged if Roger would say no more about it. Roger, with some disgust, said that he quite understood.

  So far, it seemed to be true that Mr. Mills sold information, and it was quite possibly true that he had been given the sack, but looking at the secretary’s sly and complacent face, Roger did not feel that a trifle of this sort would work a man like Mills up to the point of murder.

  As for “the wrong he did my mother,” and all the rest of Roger’s alluring motives, they were quickly disposed of. The career of Mr. Mills lay open to the day, and everything he said about himself could be (and subsequently was) confirmed in every detail from independent sources. Mr. Mills was one of four children of a highly respectable chartered accountant in Nottingham. His father and mother were both alive and prosperous. He had been educated in the ordinary way at the local grammar-school and at Nottingham University. He had then taken a course of secretarial training. He had held other posts and could show the highest references. He had entered Lord Comstock’s service two years ago—and so forth and so on. Quite a little saga of the “Young Man Who Made Good.”

  Roger, his head not only bloody but bowed to the earth, thanked Mr. Mills. He scarcely had the strength to put a question about Emily. Mr. Mills showed no sort of embarrassment. Emily was a very steady young woman, engaged to a draper’s assistant in Winborough, an excellent match for her in every way. Was there anything further Mr. Mills could do for Mr. Sheringham?

  No, thanks (for it hardly seemed worth while, now, to confront Mills with the pistol). Unless—wait! A picture flashed suddenly across Roger’s mind of someone he had recently seen, putting an object with ease upon a very high shelf.

  “How long has Scotney been with you?”

  “Scotney? Oh, about a month.”

  “Is that all? How do you find him?”

  “Quite satisfactory.”

  “Where did he come from before you had him?”

  Mr. Mills obligingly fetched down a file labelled “Household Staff,” turned over the contents briskly, and extracted a folder.

  “Here you are. Three years. Dr. Slater of Kensington. Perfectly good reference. Sober, diligent, trustworthy, superior. Why? Anything queer about Scotney?”

  “Not that I know of,” replied Roger, “but one likes to know what all the witnesses are like, in this kind of inquiry. Is that his letter of application? May I look?”

  “Certainly.”

  There was nothing remarkable about the letter, except, perhaps, the handwriting.

  “He writes like an educated man, doesn’t he?” said Roger.

  “Yes; I fancy Scotney’s seen better days—like a great many other people, these times. I sometimes catch him speaking rather above his station, too, poor devil.”

  “Interesting man,” said Roger; “rather an interesting face, too.” He scrutinized the photograph attached to the letter of application. “Looks as if he’d been up against it at some time or other. Mind if I keep this letter and photograph for a day or so?”

  “Not a bit. Let me have ’em back some time.”

  “And I’ll just make a note of Dr. Slater’s address.”

  “By all means.”

  “How did your former man come to leave you, by the way?”

  “Slight accident,” replied Mills. “Not his fault in the least. Some fool or other skidded into the car, trying to get round a slippery corner at fifty miles an hour. Unfortunately, Comstock was inside the car at the time.”

  “Was the chauffeur hurt?”

  “Good lord, no—nobody was hurt. No damage whatever, except half an inch of paint scraped off the offside wing. But Comstock is—was—sacrosanct, you know. When he was there, accidents didn’t happen. If they did, then, whether it was your fault or not—the boot for you. One always made that clear when one engaged people.”

  “I suppose Scotney hasn’t had any accident since he came?”

  “Oh no, nothing of that kind. Did you think he might be nursing a grievance?”

  “The idea crossed my mind.”

  “Then you can cut it out. He has given every satisfaction.”

  “I see. Well, thanks very much.”

  On his way back to town, Roger turned his new idea over in his mind. He could not get away from that picture of the tall chauffeur putting the grease-gun easily away on a shelf far above his, Roger’s own reach. He looked once more at the letter of application. Pinned to it was the advertisement in reply to which it had been sent. Roger noticed that, contrary to the more usual custom, the address of the advertiser—Hursley Lodge—was given, instead of a Box number. Everybody in England knew who lived at Hursley Lodge.

  It was rather late in the evening when Roger got to Kensington. Dr. Slater had finished his day’s work and was, in fact, just sitting down to dinner. He was, however, kind enough to see Mr. Sheringham at once.

  “Scotney?” he said. “Oh, yes. An excellent servant and a most reliable man. I was very sorry to lose him, especially at a moment’s notice like that. But the wages were nearly double what I could afford to give him, and I didn’t want to stand in his way. I sincerely hope he’s not in any trouble.”

  Roger sincerely hoped that he was, but made a non-committal reply, to the effect that Scotney’s employer had died suddenly, and left him out of a job.

  “Can you tell me what he was doing before he came to you?”

  “As a matter of fact,” replied the doctor, “I believe he had been some sort of a journalist.”

  “A journalist!”

  Roger’s ears pricked up. Like Job’s war-horse, he pawed the ground and said ha! in the midst of the trumpets.

  “He was a patient of mine,” went on Dr. Slater. “At that time I had a practice in a rather poor quarter of Islington, and Scotney was on my panel. He had had a very bad illness, poor chap—pneumonia, actually, but chiefly brought on by worry, semi-starvation and lack of clothes, and so on. His wife had died in child-birth just before. A very bad case. I gathered that he had been very badly treated.”

  Roger uttered a sympathetic croak.

  “I don’t know if you know anything about Fleet Street,” said the doctor, “but if you do, you’ll know how it can break a man’s strength and heart. It was all right in the old days, I dare say, but now, these great syndicates get hold of a young, promising man, work him till he drops, squeeze his brains dry, and throw him away like a sucked lemon. I’ve seen it happen scores of times. It doesn’t matter to them, they can always get another man. The street’s full of these wrecks and ghosts—men who were pulling down their twenty, thirty, fifty pounds a week a year or two ago, and who’re thankful now to pick up a few shillings to write another man’s column for him. You may think I’m getting too worked up about it, but when I think of one or two good old friends of mine—well, never mind that. I was going to say that, knowing what the fate of a crocked-up journalist was likely to be, I got rather interested in Scotney. There wasn’t a lot I could do for him, for I’m not a rich man by any means, but when he said he’d done with journalism and was ready to take any sort of job, I told him that, if h
e knew how to drive a car, he could come and drive mine. He stayed three years with me, as I told you, and then he got a chance of a job at a much better wage, so I released him at once, naturally.”

  “Did he tell you whose house he was going to?”

  “I don’t think he did. He asked me for a reference, of course, and I gave him an open letter—you know—‘to whom it may concern ‘—that kind. Wait a moment. Somebody rang me up on the ’phone afterwards. Who was it? Some name like Miller, no, Mills—that was it.”

  “You didn’t know, then, that Scotney had gone to Lord Comstock?”

  “Comstock? the newspaper man? No, I certainly didn’t. Why, that was the man who—”

  The doctor stopped abruptly, as though a hand had been clapped over his mouth.

  “Who—?” prompted Roger.

  “Who has just been murdered, I was going to say.” Roger received the impression that that was not at all what the doctor had been going to say. However, he replied:

  “Yes, that’s the man.”

  “Dear, dear,” said Dr. Slater. “Poor Scotney’s good job didn’t last very long, then. I wonder if he would come back to me. Or—I was forgetting—perhaps you have already made your own arrangements with him, Mr.—ah—Sheringham?”

  “I haven’t exactly fixed anything up yet,” replied Roger, “but I’m very much interested in your account of Scotney. Is Scotney his real name, by the way?”

  Dr. Slater shot a sharp glance at him. “No, it isn’t,” he said, “but I’m afraid I can’t tell you the real one. I only learnt it because I was his doctor, and it would be a breach of professional confidence.”