by Q. Patrick
Lucas remembered with inward pride how he had suspected the English master from the beginning. No that old Nettles wasn’t decent and all that, but there had always been something a bit fishy about him. Had not he been the only one to catch and almost confiscate the black notebook? Had not he been the center of those strange wanderings outside B dormitory the night Eric Moss was murdered?
With trembling fingers, Lucas carried Moby Dick to the desk and opened it at random. Captain Ahab. There it was staring him in the face. Hot on the trail, Lucas scrabbled the pages back to the table of contents. A dirty thumb sped down the list of chapter-headings. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight. …
Twenty-eight. … Ahab!
“Great snakes, I’ve got it!”
In seraphic ecstasy, Lucas turned to page one hundred and forty-nine. There it was.
Chapter xxviii
AHAB
For several days after leaving Nantucket, nothing above hatches was seen of Captain Ahab. The mates regularly relieved each other at the watches, and for aught that could be seen to the contrary, they seemed to be the only commanders of the ship. …
Lucas snatched the cablegram.
“66, 2, 10, 24, 31, 5 stop. …”
Sixty-six. That meant the sixty-sixth word from the beginning of the chapter. The word was Yes. He continued to work along these lines.
66
• • • Yes
2
• • • Several
10
• • • Was
24
• • • And
31
• • • To
5
• • • Nanutcket
Stop. That meant the end of the first sentence.
Yes, several was and to Nantucket.
Lucas gazed at this curious phrase gloomily. It did not look promising. After he had completed the whole translation, it looked hopeless. The whole thing was a jumble—as meaningless as the experiment with the other, biblical Ahab.
But Lucas was not to be daunted now. He was out for blood. Perhaps the key lay in the paragraphs. The first word of the code to be the first word of the sixty-sixth paragraph. He tried this, too, but it did not work. Very well, then. Why shouldn’t it be done through the letters?
Starting once more at the beginning, he counted out the sixty-sixth letter. It was a P. The next figure came out as an O. The next an L. …
Lucas snatched a fresh piece of paper and began writing in an hysterical hand.
P-o-l-i-c-e stop h-a-v-e stop d-i-s-c-o-v-e-r-e-d stop a-n-d stop. …
Five hectic minutes passed. At last the small boy looked up from the completed solution, an expression of utter amazement on his face. With glassy eyes he pulled out his watch and gazed at it absently. It was a quarter past three.
For the first time in his life St. John Lucas had forgotten all about his lunch.
XX
McFEE EXPLAINS
Sometime before Lucas finished his brilliant unravelling of the cablegram, McFee’s conference had met in the headmaster’s study. Mr. Dodd himself was the first to arrive, followed shortly by a silent Mlle. Santais and a bilious-looking Mr. Heath. They had hardly grouped themselves in chairs when the Chief Constable’s car swung up the drive. Sir Wilfrid sprang out, accompanied by Inspector Saunders and several constables. McFee brought up the rear.
Together they entered the room. The atmosphere was tense. All eyes were riveted on the private detective from whom, everyone felt, some startling announcement was forthcoming.
“Gentlemen”—McFee placed a chair for Sophonisba and took up his own position behind Mr. Dodd’s desk—“I’m afraid we shall have to wait a moment. I expect another guest.”
As he spoke, the door opened. Mrs. Bernard-Moss stood on the threshold in a large, dark blue hat—presumably the nearest approach to mourning that she could command at so short a notice. She inclined her head slightly, and her lovely eyes widened as though in surprise at the sight of so large an assembly. With a little smile she crossed to Sophonisba’s side and sat down in silence.
McFee cocked a questioning eye at the headmaster. “We won’t be disturbed.”
“No, no. I think not, Mrs. Dodd and Mrs. Blouser have taken the boys on their picnic. There is no one about except the servants.”
“Good.” The detective turned to Sir Wilfrid, who sat immediately in front of him in one of the leather chairs. “And the constable’s on guard, Sir Wilfrid?”
The Chief Constable nodded tersely. “Yes. I don’t know what you’re up to, McFee, but I hope something’s going to come of all this. You’ve brought Saunders and me in from a very busy day in town, you know.”
“I know, Sir Wilfrid.” McFee looked vaguely apologetic as he took a sheaf of notes from his pocket and spread them on the desk. “I have something very important to say, and I want all these people to hear it. You see, I think I have discovered who it was that murdered Eric and Irving Bernard-Moss. I say think because one can never be absolutely certain. I have what seems to me overwhelming evidence, but there are still a few points that I could have cleared up more definitely if I had the time.
“I know the Hellers were the logical suspects. They had every reason to want to kill the boys. I known they were devoted to their cause. Bruno Heller had been condemned to death by Judge Bernard-Moss. To his brother and sister that must have seemed like a challenge, not only to their firmest beliefs but to their family pride. Legal arguments, accepted ideas of right and wrong, these meant nothing to them. All they knew was that their brother had been killed and they wanted to revenge his death on the family of the man whom they thought was responsible. I repeat, these were the logical suspects, but they do not happen to be the right ones. You see, Franz Heller has been dead for almost two months.”
The detective cut off the stream of startled exclamations by reading the newspaper paragraph out aloud: “‘The headless body of a man found recently in the East River has been identified definitely …’”
This story of an unknown man’s death on the other side of the Atlantic echoed flatly and incongruously through the headmaster’s study. Dead silence followed its reading. McFee was the first to speak.
“Franz Heller was murdered, you see. Whether or not it has anything to do with this affair, it’s the business of the New York police to find out. But one thing is obvious. If he was murdered eight weeks ago, he couldn’t possibly have killed either of the two Moss boys.”
He paused and looked around him.
“Go on, man. Go on.” Sir Wilfrid could control his curiosity no longer
“Well, let’s consider all we know about the murderer’s character. I know you don’t think much of ‘psychology,’ Sir Wilfrid, but it’s very important in this case. We don’t get much from the murder of Eric. He was killed on the night of Parents’ Day—the day when everyone was shown round the school. Anybody could have found out where Eric’s cubicle was located without arousing suspicion. In other words, the murderer was pretty smart. He chose the one day in the term when there were lots of people milling around.”
He broke off as though he expected some comment. No one stirred except Mrs. Bernard-Moss, who took advantage of the pause to press the button of her enamel lighter.
“Very well,” continued the detective. “One more fact about the murderer’s character. He doesn’t know much about medicine. He thought we’d believe the boy had been killed by that train. Dr. Woodhouse, for example, if we could imagine him committing this crime, would never have been so dumb. Finally”—McFee ran a hand through his untidy hair—“this last crime proves beyond a shadow of doubt that the murderer was well up on the school routine. He knew Irving used to get up before breakfast. He knew I was going to the village that morning. He knew there was an express which passed through Craiglea at half-past seven.
“Now all this may give us some idea of what our murderer’s like, but it doesn’t affect the mere physical fact that anyone in the school could ha
ve committed either crime. Both Eric and Irving were killed at a time when, as it happened, everyone claimed to have been fast asleep, and could have had no sort of an alibi.”
The detective threw a glance around the assembly.
“If anyone has anything to say, I’d be glad if they’d say it now before we get down to the really serious business.”
Tense silence followed, broken only by Sir Wilfrid’s heavy breathing and the shuffling of Mr. Heath’s feet.
“Very well, then. Let’s get back to the motive. The Hellers had a perfectly good motive, but, as you see, they weren’t able to take the revenge they wanted so badly. We must think of something else. What do we know about the Moss twins?” His eyes questioned each member of his audience in turn. “The most obvious fact is that they were both very rich in their own right. Their mother had left them each a large sum in trust when she died some years ago.” McFee’s voice was slow. “Now, being minors, they weren’t able to make wills. When they died, their money reverted mechanically to their father. I have gone into that. I have also gone into the particulars of their father’s will. Four months ago he made a new draft. He left all his money to the young woman whom he had only been married to a couple of months.” McFee swung round towards the American lady. “To the woman who met him when she was touring in a musical comedy in St. Paul. To the woman, twenty years his junior, who was not satisfied to inherit the Judge’s fortune alone, but was going to get his two sons’ money as well—even if she had to kill to get it.” He pointed at Myra Bernard-Moss, his expression a strange mixture of anger and contempt.
“You played a very clever game, Mrs. Moss, but you slipped up several times. It was foolish of you to murder Eric the very night you arrived. It was foolish to let young Lucas see you passing the dormitory door when, as the headmaster’s guest, you were supposed to be asleep. Foolish, too, to wear a long dress that rustled when you carried Eric out of his bed and stuffed him in the linen-closet.”
“But—”
“Never mind the buts.” McFee was still glaring at Mrs. Bernard-Moss, whose face had turned as white as the ruffled collar round her neck. “You planned Irving’s murder very cleverly, too. You made friends with the boy. You pretended to learn natural history. You persuaded Mr. Dodd to let you take the boy out before breakfast. And, unless I’m all wrong, you warned Irving that Mr. Dodd did not approve of the morning outings, and told him to take particular care he wasn’t seen that day when you killed him by the railroad track. All that, I grant, was clever, but you didn’t bother to find out whether herons nested here or not. You didn’t bother to catch a painted lady yourself.” He turned to the thunderstruck Chief Constable. “You see, Sir Wilfrid, that butterfly was stolen from Irving Moss’s collection. One of the boys definitely identified it.”
“But, Mr. Dodd, Sir Wilfrid.” At last Mrs. Bernard-Moss seemed to have found her voice. Her eyes fluttered from one to the other of the two men. “I have been an actress, yes. But all this isn’t true. Oh, how can I explain. Mr. McFee, you’ve made a mistake, a terrible mistake.” Her hand hovered helplessly around her throat. “How can you, how can you think—? I love my husband. He’s been so good to me. His children—how could I kill his children?”
Her voice trailed off. She had started to sob desperately.
All this time the significance of McFee’s words had been gradually sinking into his listeners. Sophonisba seemed to take them with the greatest amount of composure. Her eyes were strained, but there was no surprise in them. Mlle. Santais, on the other hand, had become transformed. Behind the dark mask of her face, it was almost as though she were smiling.
“One moment, please.” Before the Chief Constable could reply, Mr. Dodd’s voice had broken in, soft but deliberate. “You have forgotten that cricket-ball. Someone threw it at Mrs. Bernard-Moss. She was walking with me. She could not possibly have thrown it herself.”
“No, sir.” McFee’s tone was guarded. “You’ve put your finger on the one weak spot in my argument. I admit I have no definite explanation of the cricket-ball, but I think I can make a good guess at the truth. I believe that ball was thrown by Eric Bernard-Moss. He hadn’t even spoken to his stepmother, I know, but he had seen her. Little boys have a curious sixth sense—a sense that can pick out an enemy at sight. I think that Eric realized instinctively what she was and what she was after. Of course, it was crazy to throw that ball at her, but it was just an impulse—a sudden impulse”
“There’s another thing.” Inspector Saunders had risen to his feet. “You remember that letter—the letter which Judge Moss received from Saltmarsh. It was posted even before Mrs. Bernard-Moss had left the States.”
McFee’s lips curled. “Inspector, you’re sealing the thunder I was getting ready for my next instalment. You see, Mrs. Bernard-Moss was not alone in this.”
Sophonisba gave a gasp. Mr. Heath sprang to his feet.
“My God, sir! All this is ridiculous—damnably ridiculous. A fine woman like that! Why—”
He broke off suddenly. Every eye flicked to the door. It had burst open and Harvey was standing on the threshold.
Behind him, talking placidly to a burly policeman, stood an ecclesiastical figure complete in black shirt, gaiters and shovel hat.
The English master’s companion was none other than Dr. Emmanuel Lucas, Lord Bishop of Saltmarsh.
XXI
CLIMAX
The sudden arrival of the Bishop and his charge momentarily distracted attention from the limp figure of Mrs. Bernard-Moss. Sir Wilfrid and Inspector Saunders both rose as though in indecision whether to rearrest their prisoner or to apologize to him in the light of what had just come out. They compromised by doing nothing and staring rather foolishly at the Bishop, who had entered now and was walking serenely towards the Chief Constable.
“I hope we do not intrude, Sir Wilfrid,” he said with dignity. “But my-er-charge, Mr. Nettleton, seemed very eager to attend this meeting, and as I have managed to have him released under my own personal recognizance, I feel at least that it is my duty to keep an eye on him.” He turned to Sophonisba. “You see I have obeyed your orders, my dear. Although neither Sir Wilfrid nor Inspector Saunders was at the-er-police station, the magistrate, who is a dear friend of mine—”
Sophonisba nodded nervously. Her attention was fixed on Harvey, who had crossed to Mrs. Bernard-Moss’s side and had laid a hand on her shoulder.
“What’s the matter, Myra?” he was asking gently.
“Oh, David, David, they’ve accused me! You’ll stand by me, won’t you? It’s all so dreadful. I can’t even think!”
The English master threw a stony look at Sir Wilfrid.
“What’s all this about?”
With irascible bewilderment and much assistance from McFee, the Chief Constable gave a brief outline of what had occurred. Harvey listened intently, his eyes darting about the room. Occasionally he asked a question which was usually answered by the private detective. When Sir Wilfrid had finished, he made no comment but sat down by Mrs. Bernard-Moss.
Then McFee started to speak again. He was looking at the Chief Constable.
“I was just saying, Sir Wilfrid, that Mrs. Bernard-Moss was not alone in this. I think it’s rather rash of her accomplice to trick his way out of jail and come here, but I thought perhaps he might. Criminals have a way of sticking together, and Mr. Harvey wasn’t likely to let Mrs. Bernard-Moss go through cross-examination alone—particularly in the circumstances.”
The color drained from Sophonisba’s cheeks. Mlle. Santais, who had accepted the accusation against Mrs. Bernard-Moss with composure, looked agitated and lost now that the English master was involved.
“Good heavens!” The Bishop had raised a ringed hand in alarm. “You mean, sir, that I have been instrumental in releasing a serious suspect? I thought it was merely a matter of having broken the Aliens Act.”
“Yes, my lord. A serious suspect. Possibly as a murderer and certainly as an accessory before and after the fact.�
�� McFee’s eyes met Harvey’s in a steady gaze. “He’s going to try and slip out of it, but this is the man in the case, all right. Inspector Saunders pointed out that the first letter to the Judge was mailed before Mrs. Bernard-Moss left the States. It was. But it wasn’t mailed before Mr. David Harvey had started his job as English master here at Craiglea. Harvey sent that note. And he sent it for two reasons. In the first place it was a signal for Mrs. Moss to come over. In the second it was part of a very subtle scheme to use the Hellers as a mask for their own little game. You see, Dave Harvey, St. Paul’s ace playboy, happens to be Myra Moss’s lover.”
“Oh, no, no, that’s not—” Sophonisba had sprung to her feet, but her father waved her down.
“Maybe we weren’t able to prevent the first part of their plan,” continued McFee swiftly, “but we’ve stopped the last. Myra Lenoir and Dave Harvey were lovers. For a while they lived on Harvey’s father—that is, until he cut his worthless son off and left the two of them stranded without a dime.”
A little moan rose from beneath Mrs. Bernard-Moss’s dark blue hat.
“They hadn’t a cent in the world,” went on the detective. “So what did they do? Myra Lenoir looks around for a sugar daddy and finds Judge Bernard-Moss. They get married after seven days—and Harvey leaves for England until they can think out their next move.” He handed a newspaper photograph to Sir Wilfrid. “You see that, sir? That’s a picture of the Bernard-Moss marriage—the marriage which was going to make a fortune for the Harvey-Lenoir combine. As soon as the ceremony was over, it was obvious that everything had broken right for them. They learned that Judge Moss had been threatened by a certain Heller family and had sent his sons to England to avoid kidnapping.
“Together Harvey and Lenoir concoct the brilliant plan of murdering the children themselves and switching the suspicion off on to the Hellers. Harvey is in England already. His uncle is Dr. Rolandson, master of All Saints. All he has to do is to ask for a job at Craiglea and bide his time. He does. At length, when the coast’s clear, he sends the signal to Myra Lenoir: We’re here, waiting. Although she’s only just back from the honeymoon, she persuades her new husband to let her go over to England and keep an eye on the boys. By this time she’s got him where she wants him. He assents immediately. The plan was being worked out to the smallest detail. Eric Bernard-Moss is murdered in his bed the very night his stepmother arrives at Craiglea. You see, they thought they had to work fast because they imagined the Judge would come over immediately. They didn’t know then that he’d be tied up with the Langhorne case which made it absolutely impossible for him to leave the States.”