The Missing Gun

by W H Oxley

The office was situated within the labyrinths of Scotland Yard, and its windows commanded a fine view of a brick wall. When Hawker marched in, Brightwell was already there tapping away at a typewriter.

  ‘You’re bright and early,’ he said dumping his gas mask on the desk.

  ‘Yes, sir, I wanted get this report finished.’

  ‘Anything on the fingerprints?’ he asked, planting his brolly firmly in the umbrella stand.

  ‘Not yet, sir. I had a word with them, and we should have something definite by lunchtime at the latest, but it doesn’t look too hopeful.

  ‘Meaning that ballistics is our last hope,’ muttered Hawker, tossing his bowler onto a peg.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s anything to do with case, sir, but the newsagent phoned in to report finding a dead cat in his rubbish bin. He said it had been shot.’

  ‘Shot! Did he find a bullet in it?’

  ‘Apparently not, sir.’

  ‘Then what makes him think it’s been shot?’

  ‘He says it’s definitely a bullet wound, and he should know because–’

  ‘Because he was in the trenches for four years! The poor sod’s bomb-happy: I saw enough of them go like that. We’ll drop in and humour him after we’ve seen the red-headed soldier…’ Hawker paused as he was removing his overcoat, and stared disapprovingly. ‘Why are you dressed like that, sergeant, you look like a pox-doctor’s clerk?’

  Brightwell was wearing a brown, double-breasted suit with broad stripes and sporting a very loud tie.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I couldn’t get home last night because of the blackout and had to spend the night at a friend’s place.’

  Hawker raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Nurse Williams I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, sir, and very obliging she was.’ Brightwell smacked his lips and grinned. ‘Yes, very obliging…’

  ‘That’s no excuse, sergeant. You should have left early this morning, and gone home to change before reporting for duty. I can’t have my officers going around looking like black marketeers.’

  ‘I tried to, sir, but she wouldn’t let me go. I had to fight my way out in the end.’

  ‘Humph, you’re not the only one,’ grunted Hawker, as he plonked himself down at his desk and picked up the folder lying on it. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The photographs of the scene of the crime you asked for, sir.’

  ‘Did you look at them?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what, sir?’

  ‘Did you see anything in them?’

  ‘What’s there to see, sir?’

  ‘It is my belief, Brightwell, that by studying a photograph of the scene of a crime one is, on occasions, able to detect something that one missed when at the scene itself.’

  ‘Who said that, sir, Sherlock Holmes?’

  ‘No, I just did!’

  Ignoring the folder on his desk, Hawker picked up his pipe, packed it with tobacco, lit it and sat for a few minutes wreathed in tobacco smoke. Then leaning back in his chair, he placed his feet up on the desk and grabbed the folder. There were four whole-plate sized photographs: two of the interior of the shop and two of the scene outside. For five minutes he remained in position with his pipe clamped firmly in his mouth as he examined the pictures one by one. Suddenly, he planted both his feet firmly on the ground and resumed his normal seated stance. With a quiver of excitement, he yanked open a drawer, pulled out a large magnifying glass, and proceeded to examine one of the photographs with great care. Brightwell, knowing from experience that nothing must disturb the master’s train of thought on such occasions, stopped typing and waited.

  Hawker broke his silence at last. ‘Come over here and have a look at this, Brightwell.’

  Standing behind him and looking over his shoulder, Brightwell scrutinised the picture. It was of the interior of the shop, and the counter and display cases were picked out in sharp detail, as were the musical instruments that hung from the ceiling like poultry in a butcher’s shop at Christmas.

  ‘Notice anything?’ asked Hawker.

  ‘I see what you mean about looking at a photograph, sir. I hadn’t realised there was so much musical stuff hanging in that shop. There’s enough there for an orchestra by the look of it.’

  ‘A small orchestra, perhaps,’ murmured Hawker, waving his pipe like a conductor. ‘Sherlock Holmes once discovered a Stradivarius worth over three hundred guineas in a pawnbroker’s shop on the Tottenham Court Road. He paid fifty-five shillings for it.’

  ‘What’s a Stradivarius, sir?’

  ‘A violin.’

  ‘Well, there’s no shortage of violins. There must be at least a dozen of them.’

  ‘Which is what makes this one just a little bit odd…’ Hawker tapped the spot with his pipe.

  ‘Odd, sir?’

  ‘It’s been damaged. See? There’s a big chip on it. Now why would a pawnbroker accept damaged goods?’

  Brightwell shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s a mark on the negative.’

  ‘No. I’ve examined it with the magnifying glass. It is most definitely not that.’

  ‘Does it mean, anything, sir?’

  ‘Probably not, but we now have a chipped violin to go with the missing violin case… Hmm … I wonder where they found the bullet.’ Hawker replaced the pipe between his teeth and knitted his eyebrows.

  ‘It was lodged in a panel just behind where Purvis was supposed to be standing. It must have passed clean through his hand.’

  ‘That would confirm his story if nothing else, but it couldn’t have caused the damage to the violin – unless there were two shots.’

  ‘According to Purvis there was only one shot. He seemed to be quite definite about that, sir.’

  ‘Yes, but we must bear in mind the fact that, even if he didn’t pass out immediately, he would have been in a state of shock.’

  ‘The newsagent also stated quite emphatically that there was only one shot, sir. According to his statement, he actually paused and waited for a second shot before dashing out of his shop.’

  ‘Hmm, then I suppose that just about settles it. Still, it wouldn’t do any harm to keep an open mind about the second shot, and since we have to go and inspect his dead cat it’ll give us an excuse to have another word with him. It might be an idea to see Purvis again as well. Is he still in hospital?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Jessie told me that–’

  ‘Jessie?’

  ‘Nurse Williams, sir. He’s got blood poisoning. They might have to amputate.’

  ‘Poor bastard. The way this war’s going, he’d have been safer in the army.’

  ‘According to Jes– I mean Nurse Williams, he’s really desperate to get out of the hospital. He keeps saying he wants to get back to the shop.’

  ‘Humph! What on earth for? He must be a bigger bloody fool than I thought he was.’

  ‘Now we don’t need them for fingerprints any more, I could run his books over to the hospital. It would give me an excuse to have a few words with him.’

  ‘Give you an excuse to have a few words with Nurse Williams, you mean.’

  ‘I don’t need one, sir: I know where she lives.’ Brightwell lit a cigarette and exhaled luxuriously. ‘Speaking of fingerprints, would you like me to find out how they’re getting along?’

  ‘No, I’ll go. I’ve got to report our progress to the superintendent. Anyway, we can’t have you wandering around Scotland Yard in that outfit, sergeant: they might mistake you for a pimp and lock you up.’