by Sapper
We were seated in his rooms in Clarges Street early one morning in June. I had been out of London for some weeks, and was therefore out of touch with things. So I had no idea of the case he was referring to, and told him so.
“I am alluding,” he continued, “to the death of Charles Sinley outside the lift on the top floor of a block of flats in Carimer Terrace. Now it will be of great assistance to me to give you the story up to date: not only in order to get your reaction but also to get things in sequence in my own head.
“Carimer Terrace, as you know, lies north of the Park. It consists of a row of those large houses in which, during the Victorian era, wealthy lawyers and stockbrokers used to live. Not fashionable, but the houses were big and comfortable, requiring a large staff to run them. Of late years they have fallen quite out of favour, and several of them have been converted into service flats, And it was in number nineteen that the tragedy happened three days ago.
“The top floor flat, which is the only one we are concerned with, is rented by a man called Raymond Tranton. He is thirty-seven years of age, a bachelor, and of independent means. Apparently he does nothing for a livelihood, and is very fond of the ladies. He dabbles mildly in art, and outside of that his only hobby appears to be things electrical.
“On the night in question he was throwing a small party, which on this occasion was eminently respectable. There were present Lady Graddon and her daughter; a Mrs Vrowson and her husband, and a friend of Miss Graddon’s called Mary Baxford.
“It was a warm night, and the windows were wide open. The time was half-past ten, and the wireless was relaying an opera from Cologne. Suddenly there came a sound of an explosion, and they all looked up. It seemed close to, and was the sort of noise a backfire in an exhaust makes. Or it might have been a gun…
“Tranton, who was standing by the door, opened it and peered out.
“‘What the devil was that?’ he said, and walked along the passage, leaving the others still in the drawing-room.
“He went to the front door, and a few moments later was back with an ashen face.
“‘Vrowson,’ he cried, ‘for God’s sake come. Will you ladies please stop here.’
“Major Vrowson – he’s a retired soldier – rose at once and accompanied his host outside the flat. And there close by the front door, and opposite the entry to the lift was the sprawling body of a man. He lay face downwards, and a pool of blood had formed on the floor round his head. Beside him was a double-barrelled twelve-bore.
“Very gently they turned him over and then Tranton gave another exclamation of horror.
“‘Good heavens!’ he muttered. ‘It’s Charlie Sinley. What on earth can have happened?’
“The poor devil was a horrible sight. Half his face was shot away, and it was obvious at a glance that he was dead.
“‘You know him?’ said Vrowson stupidly.
“‘Of course I know him. He must have stumbled over something coming out of the lift and shot himself.’
“‘Where is the lift?’ said the Major.
“‘It goes down automatically when the door is shut,’ said Tranton. ‘My God! this is awful. We must get the police at once, and not touch anything till they come. Go to the women, there’s a good fellow, and don’t let ’em come out here. I’ll get on to the police station.’
“So Vrowson returned to the drawing-room, and Tranton did the necessary telephoning. And ten minutes later the police arrived, during which time Tranton had been busy getting a room ready for the body.
“(As you will note, Bill, I am piecing the evidence at the inquest together in narrative form to make it clearer for you.)
“Inspector MacAndrew, an extremely shrewd man, was in charge, and he at once began his investigations. The double-barrelled gun was found to contain one used and one unused cartridge, so the cause of death was obvious. One barrel was dirty, the other was clean, and that settled that. And then the inspector noticed a lot of fragments of coloured china lying about on the floor, which he picked up and carefully stowed away. After which he ordered his men to move the body into the flat, and having rung up the doctor, he proceeded to question the members of the party.
“It was a mere formality, since obviously none of them could tell him anything save that they all heard the shot, and after taking their names and addresses they were permitted to go.
“MacAndrew then interrogated Tranton, but he could throw no light on the matter either. He said that he knew Sinley very well, and that Sinley frequently came to his flat. They both belonged to the same club, and that very evening he had had a cocktail with him there. He had told Sinley he had a few people coming in, and had suggested that he should drop in too if he cared to. And that was positively all he could say. The thing was a complete mystery.
“It seemed evident that death had been caused by a barrel going off accidentally as he got out of the lift. But why Sinley should have been wandering round London with a loaded twelve-bore in his possession was absolutely beyond him. He was a keen shot, and a good shot, which made it all the more mysterious. It was possible he had been bringing round the gun to show Tranton, but why he hadn’t brought it in a gun case was simply inexplicable. And since the poor devil was dead the reason had died with him.
“Then came the inquest at which all that I have told you came out, with one more fact that made the whole thing even more bizarre. With infinite care MacAndrew had pieced together the fragments of coloured china. And though there were several missing, what remained formed part of a grotesque-looking mask.
“‘What do you make of that?’ asked the coroner.
“‘I can only conclude, sir,’ answered MacAndrew, ‘that Mr Sinley was wearing this mask as a joke. Had he been merely holding it in his hand, it would have fallen on the floor and we should have found all the pieces close together. As it is many of them were not there, and the others were widely scattered about.’
“‘So that the shot went through the mask?’ continued the coroner.
“‘Exactly, sir,’ said the inspector, and on that a verdict of accidental death was brought in.”
Ronald lit a cigarette.
“So there you are, Bill; and I think you will agree that it is the most extraordinary case. Why should a presumably sane man, and one who is a good shot, carry a loaded sporting gun in London? Why – another small thing which I forgot to mention before – was he not in evening clothes?”
“What had the porter below got to say?” I asked.
“He goes off duty at ten, so he doesn’t come into it. The entrance is deserted from then on.”
“Has any taxi-driver come forward?”
“No. But there is nothing strange in that. Sinley lived in Merridew Terrace, which is the next street. He would therefore almost certainly have walked.”
“Carrying a twelve-bore?” I cried incredulously.
“Just so,” said Ronald. “It is amazing. But so far as I can see there is no other explanation that fits the facts. Suicide is out of the question: why should a man who wanted to commit suicide put on a china mask and do it outside a friend’s flat?”
“Murder?” I suggested. “Isn’t it possible there was somebody outside the door of Tranton’s flat who shot him as he got out of the lift: left the gun beside him and then calmly went down in the lift himself?”
“I’d thought of that, Bill,” said Ronald. “Anything is possible in this impossible case. But think of the difficulties. In the first place it wasn’t certain that Sinley was coming at all, though it is conceivable he might have said he was to somebody who wanted to kill him. And then that somebody proceeds to run the appalling risk of taking up his position, with a loaded gun, outside the door of Tranton’s flat through which at any moment the party might emerge. It’s possible, but it’s darned unlikely. No: on the data in our possession at the moment accident seems the only possible solution. It may be that when” – he consulted a letter on his desk – “Miss Sheila Darby has said her piece we shall think ot
herwise.”
“And who is Miss Sheila Darby?”
“I don’t know. Her letter merely states that she is coming round to see me in connection with this affair. And, if I mistake not, here she is.”
The front door bell rang, and a moment or two later Bates ushered in a girl of about twenty-five. We both rose.
“Miss Darby, I assume,” said Ronald with a bow. “May I introduce Mr Leyton?”
He pushed forward a chair and I studied our visitor. She was distinctly pretty, with fair, auburn hair and blue eyes which showed traces of recent tears. She was dressed in black, and there was a ring on her engagement finger. So it was not difficult to see where she fitted into the picture. Obviously the dead man’s fiancée, and I waited with interest to hear what she had to say.
“Cigarette?” said Ronald, offering her his case.
“No, thank you,” she answered. And then she burst out suddenly: “Mr Standish, you must do something. That verdict is all wrong.”
“Take your time, Miss Darby,” said Ronald quietly, “and tell me all about it. Why do you think the verdict is wrong?”
“Because Charlie and that brute Mr Tranton hated one another like poison,” she cried.
Ronald leaned forward in his chair.
“The devil they did,” he said softly. “But Tranton in his evidence said that Sinley was a friend of his. Called him Charlie.”
“Lies: all lies. Raymond Tranton may have called him Charlie, but that was the extent of their friendship.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I was engaged to Charlie, and…”
She hesitated a moment and Ronald smiled faintly.
“And Tranton was not pleased. I see.”
“He’s worried my life out for years,” she continued, “and I loathe the man. Mr Standish, I know that verdict is wrong.”
“What do you suggest it should have been?” asked Ronald.
“Mr Tranton murdered Charlie,” she said fiercely. “I know it.”
“Come, come, Miss Darby,” said Ronald gravely, “that’s a very serious accusation to make in view of the proven facts. When the shot that killed your fiancé was heard, Tranton and five other people were in the drawing-room. You mustn’t make wild statements of that sort, you know: it won’t do any good.”
“I don’t care,” she answered stubbornly. “I know I’m right. How he did it, I don’t know. And that,” she added fiercely, “is what you have to find out. Mr Standish,” she continued earnestly, “I know you must think I’m letting my feelings run away with me, but I beseech you to listen to me. Knowing Charlie as I do” – she gave a little dry sob – “did, I tell you the thing is impossible. Going about with a loaded gun is amazing enough; but that Charlie, being on the terms he was with Mr Tranton, should have proposed to go into his flat with an idiotic mask on his face, I cannot and will not believe.”
“It certainly seems very strange, Miss Darby,” agreed Ronald. “Even stranger now that you tell me what the relations were between the two men.”
She clenched her hands together fiercely.
“It isn’t strange, Mr Standish: it is impossible. Charlie would never have done such a thing.”
“Still, Miss Darby, one must go on facts, mustn’t one? I admit that the only ones I know are those that came out at the inquest. But it is absolutely certain that at the moment the shot was fired Tranton was in the drawing-room with the door shut.”
“I know: I know. But still…”
“I suppose you didn’t see your fiancé earlier that night? I was only trying to see,” he continued when she shook her head, “if by any chance we could verify Tranton’s statement that he asked him to look in that evening. Found out exactly what he said…”
“That’s another point, Mr Standish,” said the girl. “I can’t swear that Charlie never used to go to his flat, but to imply, as Mr Tranton did, that Charlie was frequently there was false. He wasn’t: that I know.”
“So we arrive at one new and significant point, Bill,” remarked Ronald thoughtfully. “Tranton, for some reason or other, wished the world to think they were friends, when they weren’t, Why, unless…”
He fell silent, drumming with his fingers on the desk, while we both stared at him.
“What do you want me to do, Miss Darby?” he said abruptly.
“Go and find out the truth,” cried the girl with her eyes blazing. “I know Charlie didn’t kill himself accidentally.”
“Bless her darling heart,” said Ronald a few moments later, when the door had closed behind her. “It doesn’t seem hard enough, does it, Bill?”
He was pacing up and down the room, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.
“It does throw a new light on the thing – that they were enemies not friends. But how does it help? How does that alter the main incontrovertible fact that Tranton was in the drawing-room with the door shut when the shot that killed Sinley was fired? It is impossible that that is not true. If it were a lie five perfectly respectable people have committed perjury, and connived at murder. No: no: that must be true. I wonder if there would be a chance of getting hold of MacAndrew. He’s a good fellow, and through him it might be possible to have a look at the scene. Though what… Good Lord! talk of the devil...”
In the doorway stood the bulky form of Inspector MacAndrew, holding a small suitcase in his hand.
“My dear Mac,” he cried, “what fortunate chance brings you here? I was just talking about you.”
“And I’ll lay a shade of odds you were also talking about what has brought me here – the Sinley case,” answered the inspector.
“You win,” said Ronald. “There’s whisky on the sideboard, and tell me why I am thus honoured.”
“Entirely because of your last visitor – Miss Darby.”
The inspector splashed some soda into his glass and sat down.
“I want to know, Mr Standish, if you’ll be good enough to tell me what she has said to you.”
Ronald raised his eyebrows.
“It’s rather an unusual request,” he said. “At the same time I don’t think anything she said can be regarded as confidential. But fair play is a jewel. If I tell you, will you let me in on the whole thing?”
“I will,” answered MacAndrew.
“I score on it,” laughed Ronald. “Because what she told me is merely feminine intuition. In short, she was engaged to Sinley.”
“I knew that,” said the inspector. “That is why she has been shadowed. She was marked down here, and I came along at once.”
“She was engaged to Sinley,” repeated Ronald, “and the fact did not please Mr Tranton. He has apparently been badgering her for years to marry him. So – and this is the only piece of news I can give you – Tranton’s pose of friendship with Sinley is a lie. So much for hard tack. As for intuition, she is certain that the verdict at the inquest was wrong, and that it should have been one of murder against Tranton.”
The inspector puffed thoughtfully at his cigarette.
“This is one of the most baffling cases, Mr Standish,” he said at length, “that I have ever handled. You may have guessed that everything did not come out at the inquest?”
“I thought it possible,” grinned Ronald.
MacAndrew picked up his suitcase, and put it on the desk.
“I have here,” he said, “the china mask which the papers have been so intrigued about.”
We bent over him eagerly as he gently undid the wrappings, and placed it on the blotter. It was a strange looking object with a big jagged hole in the centre. Coloured fantastically, it represented the face of a gargoyle from which the nose and part of the mouth were missing. At the top a small triangular piece of metal enabled it to be hung on a nail. The bits had been seccotined together, and the whole effect was grotesque.
“Examine it, Mr Standish,” said the inspector, “but for heaven’s sake handle it gently.”
Ronald picked it up and studied it through a magnifying glass; th
en with a shrug of his shoulders he put it down again.
“I confess I see nothing here which controverts the evidence we’ve heard. And yet there must be something. I can see you chuckling, you old devil. Wait a moment…”
He turned the mask over so that the inside white surface was uppermost. And the next instant he gave an exclamation.
“Great Scott!” he cried. “So that’s what you mean. D’you see, Bill?”
He was pointing to a faint black smear which stretched all round the jagged hole.
“Sorry to be so dense,” I said.
“The scorching of the powder, boy,” he cried. “So the gun was let off from inside the mask, and not from the outside.”
“Good man,” said MacAndrew. “I thought for once I’d caught you, Mr Standish. As you say, the gun was discharged from the inside, and therefore Sinley cannot have been wearing the mask.”
“Even so, Mac, I don’t see that that helps much. In fact if anything it makes it easier. He was taking it round to show Tranton. He wasn’t wearing it, which was the one thing Miss Darby refused to believe. By some extraordinary accident the gun went off; the shot passed through the mask and hit him in the head. As I see it, it strengthens the case for the verdict.”
Without a word the inspector replaced the mask in his suit-case; then with twinkling eyes he picked up his drink.
“Possibly,” he said. “Possibly. So now I will come to my second little surprise: the extraordinary phenomenon of the fingerprints on the gun.”
“What was extraordinary about ’em?” asked Ronald.
“There were none.”
We stared at him blankly.
“None!” said Ronald.
“None. And, Mr Standish, the dead man had no gloves on.”
“Good Lord! Mac – this beats cock-fighting,” cried Ronald.
“I’m going to beat it still further,” cried the inspector triumphantly. “On the mask you’ve just been examining there were fingerprints. On the big bit up by the hook.”
“Whose were they?”