An all-night job and nothing to smoke! Sergeant Mather thrust his hands deeper into the side pockets of his frieze coat and tucked his chin down into his upturned collar. He glowered. He hated himself, his calling, Miss Ada Brent and Sir Walter Raleigh. He knew these jobs. Nothing would happen for the whole of a night whose every succeeding hour seemed double the length of its predecessor. And at the end of the night, in a cold and grey and probably rainy dawm, he would be relieved by another unfortunate and go back with a headache, a vile temper, a cold in the head and nothing to report.
It is to be regretted that Sergeant Mather said, aloud, a Chaucerian word. Perhaps he would have said more had his attention not been suddenly arrested by the sound of brisk footsteps which came from the courtyard of Swinburne House, whose arched entrance was immediately facing his lair.
These were beyond doubt a man’s footsteps and therefore, in this particular job, not likely to be of official interest to Mather. But Mather was bored and disgruntled and ready for any distraction. He moved nearer to the mouth of the doorway and peered across the road towards the arch.
The owner of the feet came out and was for a fleeting instant visible beneath one of Daisy Street’s few lamps. He turned to his left—and became simultaneously invisible and really interesting.
For as he passed out of the faint nimbus of light he ceased to walk and began to run. The sound of his feet—fast, long-striding feet—was a strange tattoo in the desolate silence.
Mather thought: “Bloody queer! Wonder what he’s up to?” A fleeting wish crossed his mind that he were once more P.C. (M.X. 4321) Joseph Mather and in uniform. If he were still that Joseph Mather he could give himself something to do and keep himself warm by following the runner. But Detective Sergeant Joseph Mather (C.I.D.) must stay where he was, tobaccoless and futile, and watch a rabbit hole to see that one particular doe did not come out without being observed.
The sound of the runner’s feet grew fainter; changed to the sound of walking feet; died away. Automatically Mather looked at his watch, seeing that its hands stood at ten minutes to ten.
Once more, now that there was no outside interest, his hands went to his pockets before his mind remembered that the shining, brand-new packet of twenty cigarettes was not there.
Again his lips formed the old word and again a wave of anger swept over his six feet and thirteen stone of solidity. To wrench his thoughts from tobacco he deliberately forced into ascendency the official part of his mind, trying to concentrate upon this very dull matter of Ada Brent. . . . But perhaps it wasn’t so dull after all. There must be something unusual to it for the super to have put a sergeant on the job: after all, it was one of Colonel Gethryn’s do’s. . . .
He began to feel less injured. He even smiled to himself at the thought that only a few minutes ago he, unseen, had watched Colonel Gethryn and those two journalist blokes get out of the car which stood at the curb only a few yards from him and go into Swinburne House. . . .
Perhaps something might even happen tonight, thought Mather; for what else could those three be doing in a place like this if their visit weren’t somehow tied up with Ada Brent? He felt better.
4
Flood stirred uneasily. He said: “How long’s he been?”
Dyson grunted. “You’re like an old woman!”
“I don’t . . .” began Flood; then checked himself as there came to their ears, echoing curiously down the dark cold shaft of the stairway, a shrill whistle of three notes; a sound which they knew.
Dyson was first at the foot of the stairs. From a side pocket in the old burberry he pulled a bulbous electric torch and in the wavering white circle of its light began to take the stairs two at a time. On the last flight Flood caught him.
They saw Anthony’s long figure standing just beneath the gas jet on the fourth landing. They went to him and he waved them through the open doorway of Number 163. He said:
“Don’t kick up a row,” and led the way into the living room and turned to face them under the pink light.
“Bird gone?” said Flood.
Anthony looked at him. “Yes,” he said, “and no. Look!” He turned to the door of the kitchen and pushed it open and stood to one side.
Flood stopped on the threshold. He stared.
“Christ!” he whispered.
Dyson pushed by him and took two steps and was close to the sink at the end of the room and looking down at what was huddled beneath it. He said nothing but the lips beneath his beaklike nose pursed themselves and there came from between them a soft, long-drawn-out whistle. Flood said suddenly:
“Look out for your shoes, man!”
5
Mr Arnold Pike, a pipe between his teeth and a whiskey and soda at his elbow, bent happily over a chess table which stood before the fire in his living room. He had left Scotland House at seven-thirty—almost a half holiday for him—had shopped successfully; dined well; exchanged blue serge and shining black footgear for aged tweed and slippers, and now was waiting with placid expectation the arrival of an old friend and older opponent in the greatest of all games.
The bell of a telephone rang shrill. Mr Arnold Pike started, turning to stare at the instrument with a look comically compound of apprehension and annoyance. He thrust back his chair and rose. The bell continued to peal.
Mr Arnold Pike, of 78 Poindexter Mansions, lifted the receiver and made the usual noises.
“What!” said Superintendent Arnold Pike of the Criminal Investigation Department.
“You heard,” snarled the telephone. “Dyson here. Speaking from Swinburne House. Porter’s lodge. Ada Brent’s dead. Gethryn found her. . . .”
Pike said: “Murdered?”
The telephone said: “Utterly. Listen: Gethryn’s up there. Flood’s gone out to find your sleuth. Gethryn says come right away.”
“Right!” said Pike and slammed down the receiver; then immediately lifted it again to call Whitehall-4000 and give crisp orders.
That was at five minutes past ten.
6
At thirty-two minutes past ten Superintendent Arnold Pike came out of the kitchen of Number 163 Swinburne House. In the pink light of the living room his face showed very pale.
Anthony looked at him. “Well?” he said.
The corners of Pike’s mouth twitched downwards. “It takes a good bit to upset me, sir. But that does! Whoever did that must be the worst sort of madman.”
Anthony said: “Meet Mr Evans? Or don’t you agree?”
Pike rubbed reflectively at his lower jaw. “You do jump, sir, don’t you?” He murmured apology and went to the further door and through it, to return after a moment followed by two men in very plain clothes. The first carried a long thin case of japanned tin; the second a tripod and two large cases of black leather. Pike pointed to the kitchen door.
“In there,” he said.
The softly heavy footsteps of the pair crossed the little room. The man with the tin case opened the kitchen door; halted with a jerk; drew a little hissing breath between his teeth and went in. His companion followed stolidly. The door closed behind them.
Pike looked at Anthony. “Now, sir?”
Anthony said: “While you and I were abortively searching the kennels of Jenks and Hines this afternoon Miss Ada Brent called at my house. . . .”
“What!” said Pike.
Anthony said: “Quite. Hearing I wasn’t there, she left a note. Here it is.”
Pike’s small brown eyes were glittering. He took the paper from Anthony’s hand and read avidly.
Anthony said: “She telephoned. She wouldn’t come to the house. Asked me to call here at nine-forty-five. On condition that I wouldn’t tell the police. So I didn’t. But, having a nasty suspicious nature, I brought Dyson and Flood along. Up here I couldn’t get an answer. But, oddly enough, the door was on the latch. When I’d looked in the kitchen I sent Dyson to phone you and Flood to find the Yard man on Brent.”
Pike said: “That’s Mather. He’s a good ma
n. Where is he, sir?”
“Out,” said Anthony. “Wild-goose hunting.”
Pike’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning, sir?”
Anthony said: “At ten minutes to ten—that’s a few minutes after Flood and Dyson and I came here—Mather saw a man walk out of this catafalque into Daisy Street. He turned left and began to run like hell. Mather’s official instincts were sufficiently aroused for him to note the time. A few minutes later Flood found Mather and brought him up here. Mather told me and I sent him out on a necessary goose chase. Agree?”
Pike nodded: “Of course, sir. Did he get a look at this man?”
Anthony lifted his shoulders. “For a split second. No use. Medium height; dark overcoat; ordinary build.”
“H’mm!” Pike bent his head in his habitual gesture of thought; then raised it sharply as if offended by the sight of the battered brogues upon his feet. “He might have been running for a train; Sloane Square’s up that way.”
Anthony said: “And trains leave it every five minutes. Going both ways.”
For the first time since he had been in this place Pike smiled. “He might’ve been running for a Hounslow, sir.”
Anthony grinned. “Or exercise. Or a woman. Or just joie de vivre.”
There was a small silence, broken only by the loud metallic ticking of a china clock and muffled stirrings from behind the kitchen door. Pike was the first to speak. He said:
“There’s one chance. People are liable to notice a man running.”
“Quite,” said Anthony. “But he stopped running, Mather says, when he couldn’t have been more than halfway up Daisy Street. Which was empty.”
Pike shrugged his shoulders. “Well, we’ll see.” He looked about the room with little darting glances, his eyes resting at last upon the small writing desk. Upon its flap were some half-a-dozen tidy little piles of paper. He said:
“Been busy, sir?”
Anthony nodded. “Yes; no result. Nothing but junk anyone might have.”
Pike said slowly: “What time did you say it was, sir, when you and Flood and Dyson came here?”
Anthony said: “Say nine forty-two. That’s near enough.”
“And Mather saw this man come out at nine-fifty; eight minutes later?”
Anthony nodded. “Quite. And we didn’t pass anyone in the courtyard. And I didn’t pass anyone on the stairs. And Dyson and Flood stood in the doorway all the time and nobody came out of this block.”
Pike said: “So it comes to this, sir: if the man Mather saw was the murderer he must have left this flat and this block before you got here and then hidden somewhere until after you’d passed.”
“There are a thousand and one corners to this place,” said Anthony. “Perhaps he was inside one of the flats in another block. As a visitor—or even a tenant.”
Pike said quickly: “You said Evans just now, sir. D’you mean . . . ?”
Anthony shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Dyson went through the list in the porter’s lodge. There’s no tenant called Evans.”
Pike said: “Look here, sir. If he’d only just——”
Anthony interrupted. “If you’re going to suggest that he was in this flat until he heard me coming and then got out some other way—fire escape, for instance—you’re wrong. I’ve been round the windows. There’s only one that even a cat could get out by. It’s in the bedroom and leads on to the fire escape; but there’s undisturbed dust an eighth of an inch thick all round it.”
Pike’s brows drew themselves together in a deep frown. He pulled at his lower lip and looked down at the tips of his shoes. He said after a pause:
“When you found—that, sir”—he jerked his thumb towards the kitchen door—“how long would you say—well, it had been like that?”
Anthony said: “I’m no doctor. And even if I were I couldn’t give you any definite time. But if you want a guess, no more than fifteen minutes at the outside. Some of the blood hadn’t even begun to dry. . . . Where’s the divisional surgeon? And who?”
“You know him, sir—Hancock. He’ll be here any minute.” Pike was still looking down at his shoes; still pulling at his lower lip with his finger and thumb.
The kitchen door opened and the two plain-clothes men came out, closing it behind them. The one of the tin case was first; his round face, glistening with sweat, showed pallid in the pink light. Behind him, stolid, the photographer bore his tripod and cases. Pike looked at them. He said:
“All through? How many photos, Harris?”
“Dozen, sir,” said the man with the tripod. “Not counting the prints for Johnson.”
Pike looked at the other. “Any luck, Johnson?”
The man patted at his forehead with a large handkerchief. “As a guess, sir, no. Plenty of prints, but seems like they’re all”—he gulped—“all hers.”
From just outside the room came the cracked, burring tinkle of the doorbell. Pike said:
“That’ll be Doctor Hancock.”
7
Charles Grandison Hancock, M.R.C.S., L.R.C.P., was bending over a steaming tin basin which stood on a corner of the gate-legged table beneath the pink light of the living room. His work over, he was vigorously washing his hands. A strong odour of disinfectant rose about him.
Anthony came out of the bedroom with Pike behind him. Hancock looked up and nodded and bent once more over the basin. Anthony sniffed at the air. He said after a moment: “Smells good—in here.”
Pike said: “Anything special, Doctor?”
Hancock began to dry his hands. “Depends what you mean. Specially messy job.”
Pike said: “Looks almost like the work of a madman.
“Who’s sane?” said Anthony.
Hancock nodded. He looked at Pike. “If the man who did it is mad you wouldn’t notice it if you saw him. Very tidy. Until I saw that overall and those gloves lying under the sink there I was thinking he must have been saturated in blood.”
Pike said: “Any indication that he’s had surgical experience, as you might say?”
Hancock shook his head. “No knowledge shown beyond the ordinary. Anyone knows that if you slit a throat and rip a stomach you’ll kill. Any surgically trained person would be tidier.”
“Probably,” said Anthony. “Not certain.”
Hancock smiled, showing a flash of white teeth beneath the small black moustache. “Still the stickler,” he said.
Pike said: “Listen, Doctor. What I want to know——”
Hancock interrupted. “I know, I know. Time of death. Not more than a couple of hours; not less than—say three quarters.”
Pike cocked an eyebrow at him. “Nothing more definite, Doctor?”
Hancock shook his head. “Not from me, nor from anyone else who knows his job.” He crossed the room towards his bag, dropped his towel into it, snapped the bag shut and stood up. “If there’s nothing else . . .” he said and made brisk adieux and was gone.
Anthony looked at Pike. “Good example,” he said. “Let’s follow it.”
Pike looked at his watch. He said: “I can’t go yet, sir. Stephens and another man are coming down from the Yard. I’ve got to give ’em orders.”
Anthony nodded. The tinny sound of the front doorbell rang sharply.
“There they are, sir,” said Pike and went out into the little hallway to admit two solemn, solid men.
And that was at eleven-twenty.
CHAPTER XVIII
THOMAS SHELDON GARRETT could not sleep. Through his still sore head thoughts were racing willy-nilly. It was as though behind his forehead he had two treadmills of thought, both entirely different, both discomforting and, though so entirely different, each about a woman. . . .
“God damn it all to hell!” said Thomas Sheldon Garrett aloud and sat up in bed and stretched out an arm and switched on a light and began to grope in the miscellany of his bedside table.——”
He was searching for the little red box of opiate pills which, until this moment, he had determined not to use. It
was not upon the table. In one movement he threw back his coverings, swung his legs to the floor and stood up.
He was rewarded by a giddiness so severe as to make him sit abruptly. His head whirled and his heart pounded and he felt a desire to vomit. He sat very still and little by little the seizure left him. He stood up slowly and began to cross the room towards a tall chest of drawers. He could see the red box leering at him from beside his cigarette case. And then, as he drew opposite the window, he heard the sound of a car coming to a stop before the house. Its doors slammed and he heard men’s voices which he knew.
He realized, suddenly, that he did not want to go to sleep—and presently, clad in grey flannels and a sweater pulled over his pyjamas, was passing from his room to the head of the third flight of stairs.
He went down slowly and, as he went, heard voices. He crossed the hall and opened the library door and thrust his head round it. He said, a difficult smile creasing his drawn face:
“Any objection if I come in?”
And that was at eleven thirty-five.
2
“To sum up,” said Anthony at one minute to midnight, “the state of the case is thuswise: Miss Ada Brent, an intimate associate of the Moriarty we are up against and whom,
for want of a better name, I shall call Evans——”
“Are you sure?” said Garrett in excitement.
Anthony lifted his shoulders. “Don’t get excited and don’t get misled! We’re not actually as near as that to Murch. I mean, we don’t know that the murderer calls himself Evans and we don’t know, whether he calls himself Evans or not, that he’s the same man whose name was used as a threat to Murch. But everything in this unusual business points to one directing mind; therefore it’s more than likely that the owner of this directing mind would be the threat.”
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