The Nine Mile Walk

by Harry Kemelman

  Delhanty shrugged his shoulders. “For a while, I thought I had my whole case right there: jealousy over a girl as the motive; weapon and opportunity right at hand; and even some indication of guilt in his not telling a straight story from the beginning. And then the whole case collapsed. The time element was off. The Medical Examiner had figured the murder had taken place about nine o’clock. That didn’t bother me too much since the best they can give you is only an approximate time. But Starr was on his way to play squash at the gym, and they have a time-clock arrangement there because there’s a fee for the use of the squash courts. Well, according to that clock, Starr was ready to start playing at eight-thirty-three. That would give him only three minutes from the time he entered Bennett’s room to the time when he started playing, and it just isn’t enough. So there you are. If the time at both ends hadn’t been so exact, we would have felt that Starr was the star suspect.”

  He laughed at his pun, and I managed a smile. Then a thought occurred to me.

  “Look here,” I said, “there’s something wrong with the time even as it stands. I know the arrangement for the squash courts; I’ve played there often enough. The lockers are at the other end of the building from the courts. You change into your gym clothes first and then you go down to the squash courts and get stamped in. Starr would not have had a chance to change if those times are correct as given.”

  Delhanty was apologetic. “He didn’t change in the gym. I should have mentioned that. The hotel is just across the street, you see. He was wearing shorts and a sweatshirt and had his racket with him when he went into Bennett’s room. The chambermaid told us that.”

  I nodded, a little disappointed. Strictly speaking, criminal investigation is not my job. The police report to me because as County Attorney it is my function to indict, and if a true bill is found, to try the case in court. But it is only natural to seize the opportunity of showing the professional where he might have slipped up.

  There was a discreet knock and my secretary opened the door just wide enough to put her head in and say, “Professor Welt is outside.”

  “Have him come in,” I said.

  Nicky entered and I introduced him to Delhanty.

  “A sad business, Lieutenant,” Nicky said, shaking his head. Then he noticed the dagger on the desk. “This the weapon?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Bennett’s, I suppose.”

  “That’s right,” said Delhanty, his tone showing surprise. “How did you know?”

  “I’m only guessing, of course,” Nicky replied, with an amused shrug of the shoulders. “But it’s fairly obvious. A dagger like that isn’t anything that a man would normally carry around with him. And if you went calling on someone with the intent of bludgeoning him to death, it is hardly the sort of thing you would select to take with you. There are a thousand things that are readily available and are so much better for the purpose—a wrench, a hammer, a piece of pipe. But, of course, if you had no intention of killing when you set out, and then found it necessary or expedient, and this was the only thing to hand—”

  “But it wasn’t,” I said. “Show him the photograph, Lieutenant.”

  Delhanty handed over the photograph with some reluctance, I thought. I got the impression that he was not too pleased with Nicky’s characteristic air of amused condescension.

  Nicky studied the photograph intently. “These books on the desk here,” he said, pointing with a lean forefinger, “are probably the texts he was planning to take to the examination with him. Notice that they all have paper markers. I don’t see any notes. Did you find a package of notes anywhere in the room, Lieutenant?”

  “Notes?” Delhanty shook his head. “No notes.”

  “Notes and texts at an examination, Nicky?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, in accordance with the New Plan, you remember, the candidate outlines his dissertation in the last half-hour, indicating what he hopes to prove, listing a partial bibliography and so forth. He is permitted to make use of any texts and notes that he cares to bring with him for that part of the examination.”

  “Is that so?” said Delhanty politely. “History student, was he? I noticed the top book was History of Cal—Cali—something.”

  “No, he was an English Literature student, Lieutenant,” I said. “But that involves the study of a lot of history. The two fields are interrelated.” I remembered that there had been a brief vogue of Moslem influence among eighteenth century writers. “Was it History of the Caliphate?” I suggested.

  He sampled the title, and then shook his head doubtfully.

  I shrugged my shoulders and turned again to Nicky. “Well, why didn’t Bennett’s assailant select one of the bludgeons instead of the dagger?” I asked. “Excellent weapons for the purpose according to the Lieutenant here—each as thick as his wrist.”

  “But he didn’t use the dagger—at least not to kill with,” Nicky replied.

  We both stared at him.

  “But there is blood on the haft, and some of Bennett’s hair. And the Medical Examiner found that it fitted the wounds just right.”

  Nicky smiled, a peculiarly knowing and annoying smile. “Yes, it would fit, but it is not the weapon.” He spread his hands. “Consider, here is a large variety of weapons ready to hand. Would a man select a dagger to bludgeon with when there are actually two bludgeons handy? Besides, hanging there on the wall, how would he know that the haft of the dagger was weighted and could be used as a bludgeon at all?”

  “Suppose he planned to stab him, but that Bennett turned before he could draw the blade from the sheath, or say it stuck,” Delhanty suggested.

  “Then there would be fingerprints showing,” Nicky retorted.

  “He might have worn gloves,” I offered.

  “In this weather?” Nicky scoffed. “And attracted no notice? Or are you suggesting that Bennett obligingly waited while the assassin drew them on?”

  “He could have wiped the prints off,” said Delhanty coldly.

  “Off the sheath, yes, but not off the haft. When you draw a dagger, you grip the haft in one hand and the sheath in the other. Now if your victim turns at just that moment and you have to club him with the weighted haft, his prints will be nicely etched in the resultant blood. And you couldn’t wipe those off unless you also wiped off the blood or smeared it. That would mean that the murderer would have to have worn at least one glove, and that would be even more noticeable than a pair.”

  A faint, elusive thought flickered across my mind that was connected somehow with a man wearing a single glove, but Delhanty was speaking and it escaped me.

  “I’ll admit, Professor,” he was saying, “that I’d expect he would have taken one of the bludgeons—but the fact is, he didn’t. We know he used the dagger because it was right there. And it was covered with blood which matches Bennett’s and with hair that matches his, and most of all, it fits the wounds.”

  “Of course,” Nicky retorted scornfully. “That’s why it was used. It had to fit the wounds in order to conceal the real weapon. The bludgeons wouldn’t do because they were too thick. Suppose you had just crushed somebody’s skull with a weapon that you felt left a mark which could be traced to you. What would you do? You could continue bashing your victim until you reduced his head to a pulp—in the hope of obliterating the marks; but that would be an extremely bloody business and would take some time. If there was something lying around that would fit the wound nicely, however, you could use it once or twice to get blood and hair on it, and then leave it for the police to find. Having a weapon at hand which apparently fits, they would not think to look for another.”

  “But there was nothing distinctive about the mark of the weapon,” Delhanty objected.

  “If you are thinking of something like a branding iron, of course not. But if we assume that the dagger haft was selected because it fitted the original wound, it automatically gives us the shape of the real weapon. Since it was the edge of the haft that was used, I should surmise
that the real weapon was smooth and rounded, or round, and about half an inch in diameter. It would have to be something that the attacker could have with him without exciting comment.”

  “A squash racket!” I cried.

  Nicky turned sharply. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  I told him about Starr. “He was dressed in his gym clothes and he had his squash racket with him. The frame of a squash racket would about fit those dimensions. And it would excite no comment from Bennett since Starr was in shorts and sweatshirt.”

  Nicky pursed his lips and considered. “Is there any reason for supposing that the mark of a squash racket would implicate him?” he asked.

  “He was seen by the chambermaid to go into the room.”

  “That’s true enough,” Nicky conceded, “although I gathered from your story that he did not know he had been seen.”

  Before I could answer, Delhanty spoke up. “Of course,” he said sarcastically, “I’m nothing but a cop, and all these theories are a little over my head. But I’ve made an arrest and it was done through ordinary police work on the basis of evidence. Maybe I shouldn’t have wasted my time, and my men’s time, with legwork and just sat back and dreamed the answer. But there’s pretty good proof that Bennett was robbed of a hundred dollars this morning, and I’ve got a man in a cell right now who had that hundred dollars on him and who hasn’t been able to give any explanation that would satisfy a child as to how it got there.” He sat back with an air of having put Nicky, and me too, I suspect, in our places.

  “Indeed! And how did you go about finding this individual?”

  Delhanty shrugged his shoulders in a superior sort of way and did not answer. So I explained about the envelope and billfold clues, and how they had been tracked down.

  Nicky listened attentively and then said quietly, “The mechanic arrived around nine-thirty. Have you considered the possibility, Lieutenant, that Bennett was already dead at the time, and that Sterling’s crime was not of having killed, but only of having robbed? Much more likely, I assure you. The man would be an idiot to kill, especially for so small a sum, when he knows that he would be suspected almost immediately—after all, his employer knew where he was going and the approximate time that he would arrive. But if he found the man already dead and he saw the money in the wallet, it would be fairly safe to take it. Even if the police were to discover that a sum of money was missing, which was unlikely in the first place, they would normally assume that it had been taken by the murderer. So he probably took the money and then went back to the shop prepared to say, if he should be asked, that he had knocked on Bennett’s door to deliver the keys and Bennett had not answered.”

  “That sounds reasonable, Nicky,” I said. Then noticing the look on Delhanty’s face, I quickly added, “But it’s only a theory. And we know that criminals are guilty of idiotic acts as well as criminal ones. Now if we knew exactly when Bennett was killed, we’d know whether Sterling could be completely eliminated, or if he was still a suspect.”

  “You could always get the Medical Examiner to swear that it couldn’t have happened after nine,” Delhanty murmured sarcastically.

  I ignored the remark. Besides, it occurred to me that we had overlooked a possible bit of evidence.

  “Look, Nicky,” I said, “do you remember Emmett Hawthorne saying that he called on Bennett on his way down to the exam? Bennett must already have been dead, which is why he didn’t answer and why Emmett concluded that he had gone on ahead. Maybe Emmett remembers what time it was. If it was before nine-thirty, it would at least clear Sterling.”

  Nicky gave me a nod of approval, and I felt inordinately pleased with myself. It happened so seldom.

  I reached for the telephone. “Do you know where he’s staying, Nicky? I’ll ring him.”

  “He’s staying at the Ambassador,” Nicky answered, “but I doubt if he’s there now. He was in his cubicle in the library stacks when I left, and there’s no phone connection except at the center desk of the Reading Room. If you had a messenger, you might send him over and ask him to come here. I don’t think he’d mind. I’m sure he’d be interested in our discussion.”

  “Sergeant Carter is outside chinning with your secretary,” said Delhanty grudgingly. “I could have him go. Where is it?”

  “It’s a regular rabbit warren of a place,” I said. I looked at Nicky. “Perhaps you could go out and give him directions—”

  “Perhaps I’d better,” said Nicky, and crossed the room to the door.

  I smiled inwardly while we waited for him to return. I did not see how Starr’s alibi could be broken, but I was sure that Nicky did. When he returned a minute or two later, however, his first words were discouraging.

  “Your idea of Starr and the squash racket,” he said, “is not entirely devoid of ingenuity, but it won’t do. Consider: the original quarrel was about a girl and it occurred a couple of days ago. Now if the two young men are living in the same house—on the same floor, in fact—and Bennett was probably around most of the time, since he was preparing for his exam, why didn’t Starr seek him out earlier? It is most unlikely that he would have brooded over the matter for two whole days, and then bright and early on the morning of the third day, on his way to play squash, have stopped off and killed him. Absurd! It would not be beyond the bounds of possibility if Starr had dropped in to warn him off or to threaten him, and then in the course of the quarrel that might have followed, killed him. But in that event there would have been voices raised in anger, and the noise would have been heard by the chambermaid, who was listening for it. There would have been some sign of a struggle—and there was none.”

  He shook his head. “No, no, I’m afraid you don’t grasp the full significance of the dagger and the necessity for its use.

  “Look at it this way,” he continued. “Suppose the attacker had not used the dagger as a red herring. Suppose that after having bludgeoned Bennett with the weapon he had brought with him, he had departed. What line of investigation would the police have pursued then? On the basis of the wound, the Medical Examiner would describe the weapon as a blunt instrument, round or rounded, and about half an inch in diameter. A length of narrow pipe, or a heavy steel rod would fit, but the assailant couldn’t walk around or come into Bennett’s room carrying something like that without exciting comment and suspicion. Of course, he could carry it concealed—up his coat sleeve, perhaps. It would be awkward, but it could be managed. And it would be still more awkward to draw out without Bennett seeing and making an outcry. But again, with luck it could be managed. All this if the attacker set out with the deliberate idea of murdering. But sooner or later, the police would consider the possibility of the crime having been committed on the spur of the moment. And then it would occur to them that the weapon would have to be something that the attacker had with him, something he could carry openly without exciting the slightest suspicion. And that could only be—”

  “A cane!” I exclaimed.

  “Precisely,” said Nicky. “And when you think of a cane, Professor Hawthorne is the first person who comes to mind.”

  “Are you serious, Nicky?”

  “Why not? It’s an important part of the rather theatrical costume he designed to go with the new personality he acquired since becoming a great man. You can readily see that in his mind, at least, the mark of his cane would identify him as surely as if he had branded the young man with his initials.”

  “But why would he want to kill his protégé?”

  “Because he wasn’t—wasn’t his protégé, I mean. You remember the young man was scheduled to come up for examination at the beginning of the semester and did not. Hawthorne told us that it was because our library had acquired the original Byington Papers and that Bennett wanted a chance to study them. But the Byington Papers had been published in full, and it is only a short summary of this dissertation that the candidate expounds at the exam. So that even if the original manuscript were to furnish additional proof of his thesis, it
would not justify postponing the exam. Hence, we must conclude that Bennett had got an idea for an entirely new dissertation. Naturally, he told Hawthorne about it. But Hawthorne had to go down to Texas, so he probably got Bennett to say nothing of his discovery until his return. Then when announcement was made of the new edition of Hawthorne’s book, Bennett decided to stand for examination again. Hawthorne came back as soon as he found out. He arrived last night and this morning was his first chance to see Bennett. I am quite sure he did not come intending to kill him. He would have brought another weapon if he had. He came to beg him to hold off again until they could work out something together—a paper on which they would collaborate, perhaps. I don’t think it occurred to Hawthorne that Bennett might refuse. But he did, probably because he felt that after the announcement of a new edition of the Byington Papers he could no longer trust Hawthorne.

  “To Hawthorne, this refusal meant the loss of everything he held dear—his academic standing, his reputation as a scholar, his position in the university. So he raised his cane and struck.”

  “But what discovery could Bennett have made that would justify Hawthorne’s killing him?” I asked.