"Well, say something. Your mean you thought it 'ud be good fun to see whether John took a swing at Rainger's jaw? What they call a Psychological Study? And Rainger wasn't having any, and made his excuses to get away. Why'd you let him go, then?"
Maurice rubbed his palms slowly together. His forehead was ruffled.
"I should have been most unwise, sir, to take the least chance of incurring Mr. Rainger's ill-will. It was therefore politic to accept as genuine his somewhat clumsy excuses, and let him go upstairs."
"You didn't go up to bed yourself, then?"
Maurice's smile glittered. "You jump at conclusions, I fear. I went to bed. But my room is on the ground floor."
"Now here's another thing that strikes me. This must be a very rummy family you got here, ain't it? You thought it was your brother returnin' at half-past one after a long stay in America; and yet you didn't even go out to say howdy-do-welcome-home to him?"
The other seemed puzzled. "I see nothing very strange, my dear sir, in all that. I am what is known as the head of the house. If my brother had anything to say to me, I am always happy to hear it; but I really cannot put myself out or be expected to bother my head over him. My habit has always been, Sir Henry," he lifted his eyes blandly, "to let people come to me. Hence I am respected. Ah — where was I? Oh, yes. I was aware that he knew where I was. Hence…"
"That's all I wanted to hear," said H. M., closing his eyes.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Go ‘way, will you?" said H. M. irritably.
Maurice began to speak in a rapid monotone. "I will go away with the utmost pleasure, if I receive absolute assurance from you that the Queen's Mirror will remain inviolate. I have been very patient, sir. I have endured much that is against my physical comfort and even against my peace of mind. But when your insulting subordinate suggested that such a desecration might have to be performed — tearing to pieces an almost sacred edifice in search for a nonexistent secret passage-then… then…"
"Then you got the wind up," agreed H. M. composedly. "All right. You can hop it. I promise; there'll be no search."
Maurice was so intent that he never saw the two figures standing by the door when he hurried out. It was the first time he had hurried; Bennett saw that there was sweat on his forehead and that he seemed to be singing to himself. Bennett's own suspicions seemed to be caught up in Masters' voice.
"Excuse me, sir," the chief inspector growled, "but what the devil did you want to make a promise like that for? Not search for a secret passage?"
"Because there ain't any," said H. M. He added querulously: "Shut up, will you? That finicky old maid is scared green that you'll lay a finger on his beautiful ghost-house. If there'd been a secret passage, he'd have told you about it in a second rather than let you sound one panel lookin’ for it. Yah!"
"I'm not so sure of that, sir," returned Masters. "What if the secret passage led to his own room?"
"Uh-huh. I thought of that too. Well, if it does, we still got him in a corner. But I think that secret-passage idea is o-u-t." H. M. scratched his head. For the first time something like a grin disturbed the Chinese-image austerity of his face as he rolled round to look at Masters. "That locked-room situation has got you bothered as hell, ain't it? Your sole and particular hobgoblin. Seems as though murderers take an especial pleasure in givin' Chief Inspector Humphrey Masters the fits-and-gibbers by refusin' to keep to the rules of cricket. Only this time it's a little bit worse. If you had only the locked-room situation, you could carry on with a cheerful heart. Everybody knows several trick ways of locking a door from the outside. Bolts can be shot with a little mechanism of pins and thread. Key-stems can be turned with a pair of pliers. Hinges can be taken off the door and replaced so that you don't disturb the lock at all. But when your locked-room consists of the simple, plain, insane problem of half-an-inch of unmarked snow for a hundred feet round… well, never mind. There's worse than that, Masters."
"Worse?
"I was thinkin' about something to do with John Bohun's attempt to kill Lord Canifest, when he didn't succeed but thought he had…"
In the gloom beside him, Bennett felt the girl stiffen. She stared up at him uncomprehendingly; but he gestured her fiercely to be silent. They were eavesdroppers, but he was afraid to speak up-afraid to move now. He regretted coming down here, when something in Katharine's restless brain seemed impelling her to talk. He pressed her arm.
"But we'll skip all that for a minute," continued H. M. drowsily, "and look at this impossible situation. The first thing is to determine the murderer's motive. I don't mean his motive for murder, but for creating an impossible situation. That's very important, son, because it's the best kind of clue to the motive for murder. Why'd he do it? Nobody but a loony is goin' to indulge in a lot of unreasonable hocus-pocus just to have some fun with the police. And there are enough motives for Tait's murder flyin' about already without our needin' to explain the mess by simply saying that the murderer is crazy. Well, then, what reasons could there have been?"
"First, there's the motive of a fake suicide. That's fair enough. I go to your house, shoot you through the head, and shove the gun into your hand. Say it's a house like this one, with little panes in the windows. Uh-huh. I lock and bolt the door of the room on the inside. I've got with me a bag containing a piece of glass cut just right, I've got tools and putty. I remove one of the panes of glass in the window nearest the catch. Then I climb out the window, reach through, and lock it on the inside. Afterwards I replace the old pane with my new little one; I putty it round, smear it with dust so nothing shows, and walk away. And so the room's all locked up, and they'll think you shot yourself."
Masters peered at him uncertainly.
"It strikes me, sir," he said, "that you know every dodge-"
"Sure I know every dodge," H. M. grunted sourly. He stared at the fire. "I've seen so many things, son, that I don't like to think of 'em at Christmas. I'd like to be home at my place drinkin' hot punch and trimmin' a Christmas tree. But let's sorta poke and prod at this thing. If it's a new wrinkle in the art of homicide, I want to know all about it. First, the suicidefake is barred. Nobody tries to stage a fake suicide by beatin' a woman's head.
"Second, there's the ghost-fake, where somebody tries to make it look like a supernatural killing. That happens seldom; it's a tricky business at best, and. entails a long careful build-up of atmosphere and circumstances. And obviously that's out of the question in this murder too, since nobody's ever tried to foist any suggestion of the kind or so much as intimated that the pavilion's haunted by a murderous spook.
"Finally, there's accident. There's the murderer who creates an impossible situation in spite of himself, without wantin' to. Say you and Inspector Potter are sleepin' in connectin' rooms, and the only outside door, which is to his room, is barred on the inside. I want to kill you and throw suspicion on him. I come in during the night, workin' my pane-and-putty trick on the window; I stab you in the dark, and get out after replacin' the pane. Yes. What I forget or don't observe is that the door connecting your room with his is also locked on your side — and I've got an impossible situation again. Ayagh!
"Now that's the last and final refuge. But burn me," said H. M., suddenly turning round the glare of his small eyes, "can you see how that last and final refuge can be applied to this mess? Accident, hey? What kind of accident is it where a person DON'T make tracks in the snow?"
Masters scowled. "Well, sir, I'd call that last one just about, the only reasonable assumption. Like this. X, the murderer, goes out to the pavilion while it's still snowing…"
"Uh-huh. Still thinking about Canifest's daughter?"
The chief inspector had the grim and concentrated bearing of a man trying to hold his ideas steady like a pail of water on his head; and he went on doggedly:
"Wait a bit, sir! Now just wait. We were on the `accident' side of the theory. Well, X goes out there before it stops snowing. Eh? Then, after X kills Miss Tait, she discovers-"
"Gal?" inquired H. M. "Yes, you're gettin' devilish definite now."
"Well, why not? If Miss Bohun's telling the truth about seeing Rainger upstairs in the gallery at one-thirty, when Rainger was leaving the library, that eliminates her. But I'm thinking of the one woman with a motive. Miss Carewe goes down there; there's a row; she kills the other woman, and afterwards discovers that the snow has stopped and she's trapped in the place! — So there's your accident, sir. She didn't intend to have an impossible situation, but there it was.”
H. M. rubbed his forehead. "Uh-huh. And how did she get back to the house again without leaving any tracks? Also by accident?"
"You're not," said Masters, with several adjectives, "very helpful. This young lady, by the testimony I read you, was lying out in the gallery in a faint, with blood on her wrist, at close to four o'clock in the morning. "
H. M. nodded and scowled at his pipe.
"I know. That's another thing I wanted to ask. How was she dressed?"
Bennett saw the net begin to close. He saw it a moment before Katharine loosed her arm from his grasp and walked quickly towards the group about the fire.
"May I tell you how she was dressed?" she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady. "She had on a nightgown and dressing-gown, with an outdoor coat over it."
Masters got up from the table. He blocked the light in the direction of the fireplace, so that Bennett could not see H. M.
"But no shoes," said Katharine. She opened and shut her hands. "Don't you see, Mr. Masters? No shoes; only mules. She couldn't have gone out there without shoes — overshoes something. And if she took them off afterwards they must have been wet, and they'd still be wet. Wouldn't they? Well, I went to her room this morning..:'
"Steady, Miss," said Masters quietly. "You didn't tell us this before."
"I never thought of it before! But this morning I went to her room after the smelling-salts. She always carries smelling-salts; that's the-well, that's how Louise is. And I noticed all the shoes and things she'd brought down with her: I'm sure of it, because yesterday she showed me all the new things she got in the States, you see? And none of them were even damp; because I was looking for a pair of warm slippers for her… You believe me, don't you?"
The fire crackled and popped during a silence, and Bennett could see flakes of snow sifting past the gray windows.
"I believe you, Miss," said Masters quietly. "It would be easy enough to hide away — a pair of galoshes, say. And I think it would be just as easy to find 'em again. Thanks, Miss, for calling it to my attention. Potted"
"Sir?"
"Got a couple of men here? Good! You heard it; you know what to look for. Any kind of damp shoes, any pair of overshoes or galoshes, in any room: No objection to looking in your room, Miss?"
"Of course not. But don't disturb-"
"Hop it, Potter," said Masters. When the inspector's heavy footfalls had died away he gestured towards a chair and stared at the girl again. "Will you sit down, Miss? I've made a good many fool omissions in this case, and I admit it, but this comes pretty close to the limit. Miss Carewe didn't go out at all last night, did she? Neither did you. Finding men's damp boots won't mean anything. But if we find anything else. "
There was a growl from behind him. "Stand out of the light, will you?" protested H. M. "Don't obstruct the witness, dammit. Every time a man asks a rational question around here, you go up in the air. Humph. I say, look here! You are a good-looking-nymph, burn me if you're not!"
He lumbered to his feet as Masters moved aside, and a genuine admiration showed in his dull face. Bennett noticed now that he was wearing a vast overcoat with a moth-eaten fur collar, its pockets stuffed with Christmas packages tied in gaudy ribbon.
"Oh, and you're here too?" he added, his expression changing as he saw Bennett. "It seems like you started a hare, son. And now all you want me to do is catch it for you.”
Now, now, there's no need to be upset, Miss Bohun. Just wait till the old man gets to work. Point is Masters there hasn't got any tact. Sit down, everybody, and be comfortable."
"It occurs to me," said Masters, "that… what the devil's the matter with you, Potter?"
The chief inspector's own nerves were growing jumpy. But he had reason for it. Potter had not meant to bang the door when he came back into the room. But it echoed with a dull crash across the vault of the library, where the fire was dying now.
"Excuse me, sir," said Potter heavily, "but will you come here a moment?"
"Well?" demanded Masters. For a moment he seemed incapable of getting up. "Not more-?"
"I don't know, sir! It's reporters. Dozens of 'em, and there's one I thought was a reporter; only 'e's crazy, sir, or something. Says he killed Miss Tait, or something like that.
"What?"
"Yes, sir. Says he sent her a box of poisoned chocolates. His name's Emery, sir; Tim Emery."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Circe's Husband
A long and satisfied grunt issued from the chimney corner.
"Aha!" said H. M., flourishing his dead pipe in triumph. "Now we got it. I been expectin' this, Masters. Yes, I rather thought he did. Let him come in, Potter. I say, though, son: you better go out and keep the press at bay until I can get a look at that pavilion.
"You mean, sir," said Masters, "that this man — who is he? I remember hearing his name — killed Miss Tait, and…"
H. M. snorted. "That's just what I don't mean, fathead. Oh, on the contrary, on the contrary, I'm afraid. He's one of two or three I can think of who never wanted to kill her. He sent her poisoned chocolates, yes. But she wasn't intended to eat 'em. He knew she never ate chocolates. Y'know, son, I thought it was rather funny that poisoned chocolates were sent to somebody that the whole gang knew never touched sweets. He never wanted to kill anybody. Only two of the things were loaded, and there wasn't a lethal dose in both together. And even then the poor fathead got a fit of conscience. So he mashed one with his finger when the box was offered him, so's nobody else would eat it, and swallowed the other himself. Ho ho. You'll understand why in a minute, Masters… Get him in here."
They brought Emery in a moment later. If, when Bennett had last seen him two days ago, he had seemed restless and discontented — with his jerking mouth, his sharp-featured narrow face and red-rimmed eyes — he now looked ill with more than the physical illness of having swallowed half a grain of strychnine. The face was waxy, and you could see the ridges of the cheek-bones; so dead a face that the sandy hair, sharply parted, looked like a wig. He wore a big camel's-hair overcoat on which snow had turned to water, and he was twisting his cap round and round in his fingers. They heard his whistling, rather adenoidal breathing.
"Who — who's the boss here?" he asked, in a sort of croak.
Masters shoved out a chair for him, and H. M. bent forward.
"Easy there," grunted the latter. "Look here, son, what's the idea of crashing in here and shoutin' that candy-box business all over the place? Wanta get thrown in clink?"
"Only way the saps would let me in," said Emery huskily. "They thought I was a reporter. Might as well get pinched. What's the difference now anyway? Mind if I catch a drink?" He fumbled in his inside pocket.
H. M. studied him. "Your little press-agent stunt with that chocolate box went pretty sour, didn't it?"
"Whoa there!" said Emery. His hand jerked. "I didn't say "
"Well, now, you might as well have. Don't be a God-forsaken fathead. She'd forbidden you to tell the papers where she was, or let you splash out with any publicity yarn. That's what you were grousin' about. So you thought you'd provide a little news she couldn't help, without endangerin' her life. Or anybody else's, unless it was necessary. You were goin' to spot that poisoned box of chocolates, only Rainger got in ahead of you, Big story in the papers, `Attempt on Marcia Tait's Life.' Fine publicity, hey? Send the box to the chemist, find it was poisoned. Then John Bohun insisted on everybody there eatin' one of 'em, and you got a fit of heroic conscience
. Bah." H. M. peered at him sourly through the big spectacles. He puffed his cheeks and made bubbling noises; then he looked at Bennett. "Are you beginnin' to understand now why I told you in my office yesterday that there was nothin' to be afraid of, and that Tait wasn't in any danger, hey? She wouldn't 'a' been — if we'd had only this feller Emery to deal with. But we didn't. We had somebody who really meant to kill her…"
"Ho ho," said H. M. in hollow parody, and without mirth. "Fine work. All a sedulous press-agent got for his ingenuity was a good stiff dose of strychnine, and not even the satisfaction of breakin' the story. Because our sensible friend Rainger pointed out somethin' he overlooked: that there'd be a police investigation, and they might not get Tait back to America in time to be within her contract. Very sensible feller, Rainger."
Masters picked up his notebook and nodded grimly.
"There's still room," he said, "for a police investigation. We're not very fond of that sort of journalism over here. After all, when you send poison to somebody, that constitutes an act of attempted murder. I daresay you knew that, Mr. Emery?"
Emery's red-rimmed eyes were puzzled. He made a vague gesture as though he would whisk away a troublesome fly.
"Yes, but-oh, what the hell!" he said. "It was a good story. It. what difference does that make anyway? There's something else now. I'll say there's something else!"
"You know somethin' about it?" inquired H. M. casually.
"Carl 'phoned me. He was cockeyed drunk. Can I — can I see her?"
He shuddered when he said that, and turned his hollowed eyes slowly towards H. M. "He was cockeyed drunk. He said something about her being at a pavilion, didn't know what he was talking about or something, and in a marble casket. The-the poor softie was crying. Carl Rainger. I don't know about that, but we'll get her the best casket there is in London, unless we can take her across the ocean. He said they were going to arrest Bohun. They hang 'em over here, don't they? That's swell."
White Priory Murders shm-2 Page 14