But if Haggett’s story of what he had heard and seen was true, how could it be fitted to the known facts? Maxwell’s own statement about the time at which he had left the building agreed with Haggett’s. Weaver’s statement was that he had, as was natural, gone out a little later. Both of them had said nothing of this loud-voiced unknown who had used threatening language in Maxwell’s flat. It might have been Maxwell himself. Could it have been Hermon? But Hermon had been fond, even foolishly fond, of his nephew. Unless – and here opened a new vista of ugliness – both Maxwell and his servant had been concealing the truth on that point, building up the fiction of a generous benefactor whom for worlds Maxwell would not have injured. There might be purpose enough in their doing so. The inspector had not thought of that; at least (Trent reflected with a wry smile) he had not mentioned it. Hermon’s visit, by the way, had been a surprise visit according to Weaver.
Trent, at this point in his meditations, rose and began to pace the studio. Soon he went across to the model’s dressing-room and examined his appearance in the mirror there. His hair had been cut fairly recently, but another trimming would not upset the balance of nature, he thought. Within the hour he was one of a dozen sheeted forms, sitting in a strange chair before a tall mirror, and had met the attendant’s opening comment on the warmth of the day with the due rejoinder that it looked like rain later on.
Trent, like many other men, found his thoughts the clearer for being written down, and would often prepare for the drafting of a dispatch that could be published by a private memorandum, including all that could not. That evening he sat at his bureau, and did not rise until the account of what he had discovered, and the conclusions drawn, was complete in black and white.
‘Starting with the belief that Haggett’s story was true [he wrote], I had to make out who the person in Maxwell’s flat was who gave some order, in offensive words, coupled with a vague threat; and who the person ordered about and threatened was. As Bligh said, it might have been anyone who used those words; someone who had not as yet come into view in the case. But it was as well to consider first those who were known to have been in the place; and one of these was Hermon. But the accounts we had of Hermon made this seem unlikely; and they were not only the accounts given by Maxwell and his valet. Hermon’s general reputation was that of a man who would be the last in the world to bully and threaten. As for the others who had been in the other flats, there was no visible shadow of a reason for suspecting any one of them.
‘There remained Maxwell and his valet.
‘Maxwell might be capable of bullying and threatening. He is not a nice young man. Could he have been the speaker, and either Hermon or Weaver the man spoken to?
‘Well, is it likely? Maxwell is not a lunatic. No man in his senses would talk like that to his rich uncle, whose fortune he expected to inherit; nor to his valet unless he was prepared for the man leaving him on the spot, and for being obliged to do his own valeting and cooking and housework until he could get another servant. Unless, of course, he had got either of them under his thumb in some way. Has Hermon, or Weaver, a guilty past, known to Maxwell?
‘I had got as far as this when a new point occurred to me. Weaver, when I saw him, had told me that Maxwell had not been expecting his uncle’s visit. As this looked very much like a plain lie, I thought some attention paid to Weaver might be worth the trouble; and so I went and had my hair cut at Harding’s.
‘The man who cut it was as ready for conversation as barbers usually are. I spoke of the fatal accident to Mr Hermon, and the barber, who may have been reading my own remarks on the subject, said that it was a funny sort of accident, giving his reasons for that view. Then I mentioned that I knew Mr Hermon’s former valet had once had a job at Harding’s. The man remembered both of them very well. He only wished he had the chance of bettering himself as Weaver had done. He had not known that Weaver had become Mr Maxwell’s valet, but he had known that Weaver had done very well for himself. Besides that, Weaver had come into a bit of money of his own; he had mentioned it confidential. He was quite the gentleman now, especially in the last six months. He had taken to having his hair done at Harding’s once a fortnight, probably just to show off a bit among his old pals. Gold wrist-watch, diamond tie-pin, quite the swell. Liked to do himself well, too, in his time off; and why not if you could run to it? Sometimes he would have my barber and other friends from Harding’s to meet him after hours, and would stand drinks like a lord; and you could always see he had had a few beforehand.
‘So far, my visit to Harding’s had yielded more than I had any right to expect. But this was not all. My man came at length to that stage of the proceedings at which it is usual for the barber to hint delicately that the condition of one’s scalp is not all that could be wished, and that this could be remedied by the use of some sort of hair-wash. With a flash of inspiration I asked what Weaver was in the habit of buying for himself. The best hair tonic there is, said my barber with enthusiasm; Harding’s own preparation, Capillax – just the thing for me; and I would understand that Weaver knew, as a hairdresser, how excellent it was. I thought, when I was told the price of it, that Weaver also knew how impressively costly it was. I was shown a bottle of Capillax; a green fluted bottle, with NOT TO BE TAKEN stamped in the glass. Why, I asked my barber, should I be forbidden to take Capillax if I should choose to buy Capillax?
‘He turned the bottle over, and showed me on the back a tiny pasted label. It read:
This preparation, containing among other valuable ingredients a small amount of Chloroform, is, in accordance with the Pharmacy Act, hereby labelled POISON.
‘I ordered a bottle, of course, I thought my barber had earned his commission on the sale. And I asked him if he could tell me why chloroform should be used in a tonic for the hair, because I had thought it was for putting people to sleep. He said yes, but that was only the vapour of chloroform; in solution it acted as a stimulant to the skin, and had cleansing properties.
‘My reconstruction of this crime is that Weaver planned the murder of Hermon. He had found out something that Maxwell did not dare have known about himself; he put the screw on him and bled him for every shilling he could raise. A servant who knows too much about his employer is a figure common enough in the odorous annals of blackmail. Weaver had “come into money” indeed! Probably he got rid of a lot of it by betting. Anyhow, the more he got, the more he wanted. He had tasted easy money; he could not do without it; and there was no more in sight. But he knew that Maxwell, when his uncle died, would be a rich man. Weaver thought it over; and he formed a plan, to be carried out the first time that opportunity offered.
‘On the morning of Hermon’s death Maxwell heard, by letter or telephone, that his uncle intended to call that afternoon. Weaver’s tale, that the old man had given no notice of his coming, was hardly credible. It was the height of summer, and it was utterly unlikely that Maxwell would be staying indoors that afternoon unless he was expecting a visitor. Hermon would certainly have let him know he was coming. This was what Weaver had been waiting for. After lunch he told Maxwell to leave the flat, go somewhere where he could mix with friends, and stay away until dinner-time. I do not believe Maxwell knew what was intended, because Haggett’s story makes it plain that he protested against this. He did not see why he should deliberately absent himself when his uncle had asked him to be at home; why should he affront the old man? Weaver then went to the door of the flat, and as he opened it he raised his voice in the bullying words that Haggett caught as the lift went down. Maxwell, in a furious temper, did as he was told.
‘When Hermon arrived, coming up by the lift, Weaver opened the door to him. He framed some lie to account for Maxwell’s absence, and asked him to come in, perhaps for a rest and a cup of tea. Hermon did so; and while he was alone in the sitting-room, Weaver slipped out, took the lift to the floor above, and forced the lift gate on Maxwell’s floor. When the old man went, Weaver saw him to the lift, opened the gate, and thrust him into the
empty shaft. He knew better than most people how bad Hermon’s sight was, and how little strength he had for a struggle. And here the plan went wrong. Hermon realised at the last instant that the lift was not there, and grabbed at Weaver as he felt the push given him. His right hand clutched Weaver’s hair, tearing some of it out as he fell to his death, and lacerating the man’s scalp.
‘Weaver had seen instantly that if hair was found in the dead man’s hand there would be an end of the theory that he had met with an accident. The police would be looking for a man with black hair and a scratched head; and they would not have far to look. There was only one thing for it. Weaver ran down to the ground floor, forced the gate there, stepped into the well, and carefully removed the hair he found in the dead man’s grasp. There was nothing else he could do. He must simply stick to the story he had already made up, and trust to luck. After all, as far as he knew, there had been no witness whatever to anything that had passed.’
It was late by the time Trent had finished his memorandum. He read and re-read it, then slipped it into an envelope, addressed it to Mr Bligh at Scotland Yard, went out and registered it at the district post office.
Trent was at work in his studio next morning when the telephone bell called him.
Mr Bligh, not an effusive man by nature, said that Trent’s report had reached him. ‘There’s no doubt but that you’re right,’ he went on. ‘It’s a pity, though, that we shall never hear what it was Weaver knew about Maxwell. It might very well have been a job for us.’
‘Well, you called him a vicious young brute,’ Trent said. ‘With my morbid imagination and your fund of horrid experience, we ought to be able to guess a few of the things that it might have been. But why do you say you will never know? If you bring the murder home to Weaver, he will probably give Maxwell away, having no further use for his secret. It would be just like him.’
‘Weaver won’t do that.’ There was a note of grimness in the inspector’s voice. ‘At 8.15 last night Weaver was on his way down Coventry Street. He had been drinking, and couldn’t walk straight. A dozen people saw him stumble off the kerb and into the road, right under a passing bus. He was killed instantly. His injuries – ’
‘Thanks, I don’t want to hear about his injuries.’ Trent wiped his brow. ‘They were fatal – that’s enough for me.’
‘Yes, but there were some that weren’t fatal. On the head, concealed by the hair, there were four deep scratches, not completely healed, and the signs of some hair having been torn out by the roots. I thought you’d like to know.’
VII
The Old-fashioned Apache
When Dr Francis Howland was attacked and left for dead in Stark Wood, near his house at Wargate, none of his many friends could imagine an explanation of the apparently motiveless crime. Among them was Sir James Molloy, editor of that powerful morning newspaper the Record, who often made one of the little company that welcomed Dr Howland whenever he appeared at the Russell Club; and it was at Sir James’ request that Philip Trent went down to Wargate next day ‘to see what he could make of the mystery’ for Sir James’ paper.
Trent, once on the spot, could make little enough of it at the outset; and the police, so far as he could discover, were equally at a loss. But he was able to add to the few bare facts reported in the first accounts of the crime, and to supply from his own knowledge, as Sir James had suggested, some details of the victim’s unusual career. Sitting in his room at the Packhorse and Talbot Inn, he drew up a dispatch to reach London by train that evening.
‘Dr Howland [he wrote] has lived for some two years in this charming corner of Sussex at his little house Fairfield, his establishment consisting of a secretary, a housekeeper, and a domestic servant. Fairfield lies on the outskirts of Wargate village, and it has been his habit to take an hour’s walk, usually alone, each evening before dinner in the surrounding country. Yesterday (Sunday) he went out as usual about 5.30.
‘At about 6.15 Mr Derek Scotson, walking on the main road from Wargate to Bridlemere with his spaniel, heard the dog barking excitedly behind him, and turning back he was guided by the sound to a spot, not far from the road, in Stark Wood, which lies to the left of it. He found the dog standing by a man’s body, lying prone on the footpath, but with the right side of the face visible; and he at once recognised Dr Howland, who was well known to him. He could see that the back of the head was terribly injured, and at first he believed that Dr Howland was dead; but a movement of the features told him that it was not so, and Mr Scotson, ordering his dog to stand guard over the victim, hurried off to the roadside telephone box which he knew to be not far away.
‘He rang up the police in Bridlemere, reporting the facts and asking them to send a doctor, as there is none living in Wargate; then rang up Dr Howland’s, intending to ask that Mr Gemmell, the secretary, should bring first-aid equipment to Stark Wood immediately. Neither Mr Gemmell nor the maid, however, was in the house at the time, and the housekeeper, who is very deaf, did not hear the bell. Mr Scotson had therefore to leave the unconscious man still in charge of his dog while he stood at the roadside to halt the police car when it should arrive. Fortunately it was soon on the spot, accompanied by a motor ambulance. The doctor, after attending to the wounded man, removed him to the cottage hospital at Bridlemere, while the police, in the now failing light, made such beginning as they could in the search for traces.
‘Dr Howland’s injuries were found to be serious enough, though probably not fatal. He had been struck more than once on the back of the head with some heavy weapon, possibly an iron bar, and at 4 p.m. today he was still unconscious. Detective-Inspector Clymer, continuing his investigation this morning, found a number of footprints in the damp soil of the path. He formed the opinion that Dr Howland had been followed into the wood from the open field beyond it by his assailant, who had afterwards gone off at a run by the way he came. It seems likely that Dr Howland owes his life to Mr Scotson’s dog, whose barking may well have frightened off the ruffian before his brutal work was done.
‘From my own knowledge I may recall some leading facts about the career of Dr Howland, which is better known to the French public than to his countrymen. Before his retirement he had for many years a remarkable place in the legal world. He was born and brought up in Paris, where his father was the correspondent of a London newspaper. He was educated in England. At Oxford he studied law with brilliant success, and took, later, his doctorate in that school. After being called to the Bar, he returned to Paris, where he qualified as an advocate, and built up a practice among British subjects engaged in litigation, or faced with prosecution, in the French courts. This was soon extended to other foreigners in Paris; for Dr Howland was a notable linguist, having mastered half a dozen continental tongues with extraordinary facility, and speaking them as readily as English and French. It was said of him (untruly) that if a client applied to him whose language he did not know, Dr Howland would make an appointment with him for the following day, by which time he would be ready to discuss his case with him fluently and idiomatically in his own native speech.
‘In this corner of his profession the doctor made for himself a unique and very profitable place. He was best known to the public as a defender of accused persons, and as the deadliest cross-examiner of his day. At the same time he had won distinction among legal scholars with a few volumes on comparative jurisprudence. When I was living in Paris I met Dr Howland more than once, and was struck by the gravely handsome presence and splendid voice which were so effective in the French tribunals.
‘Dr Howland had certainly made at least a moderate fortune at the French Bar, but much of it, according to rumour, had been sunk for ever in the financing of a new health resort in the Puy-de-Dôme which came to nothing. Then one day an aunt of the King of Annam, in French Indo-China, was accused by a mandarin, her enemy, of attempting to poison M. de Choisille, the Resident-Superior, and the king offered Dr Howland an enormous fee to leave his practice and go out to defend the lady. He spent
six months in Hué, routed a dozen bought witnesses, saved his client, and at once decided to retire on his gains and settle down in England.
‘So he came to Wargate, an elderly bachelor in easy circumstances. There he has lived in scholarly peace, working at another book, entertaining a few friends, and running up frequently to town for luncheon at the Russell Club, where his wit and his fund of curious experience have made him the centre of an admiring circle. No man could be more liked and respected, and his being made the subject of a murderous attack has been heard of with no less amazement than concern.’
At breakfast next morning Trent had the coffee-room to himself. As he was filling a pipe he heard a car draw up at the inn, and presently Inspector Clymer, whose acquaintance Trent had already made, ushered in to him a slim, hard-looking man who, Trent decided privately, would be at his best on horseback in a weather-beaten scarlet coat. After this personage came young Mr Gemmell, Dr Howland’s secretary, with whom also Trent had had some talk the day before.
‘Can I have a word with you, Mr Trent?’ the slim man said. ‘My name’s Hildebrand – Captain Hildebrand – Chief Constable in these parts.’
Trent Intervenes and Other Stories Page 12