Ask a Policeman

by The Detection Club

  The time-table was as follows:

  11.35 a.m. Comstock interviews Archbishop.

  11.50 ” Farrant announces Hope-Fairweather.

  I1.55 ” Mills finds Hope-Fairweather in hall.

  11.58 ” Littleton arrives.

  12 noon. Littleton in drawing-room, looking out of window on to lawn.

    ” Hope-Fairweather in waiting-room.

    ” Archbishop in study with Comstock.

    ” Mills in office.

    ” Comstock undoubtedly alive.

  12.8 p.m. First crash, in study.

  12.9  ” Archbishop comes out.

  12.12 ” Mills opens drawing-room door.

  12.13 ” Second crash.

    ”  ” Mills runs into office and finds H.-F.

  12.16 ” Littleton goes into study. Comstock dead.

  12.17 ” Mills escorts H.-F. to front door.

  12.18 ” Mills says drawing-room empty, door into study shut.

  12.19 ” Hope-Fairweather starts up his car.

    ” ” Littleton still in study.

  12.20 ” Hope-Fairweather’s car disappears.

    ” ” Littleton running across lawn.

  12.22 ” Mills resumes work.

  “All that is assumin’ that each of those four is telling the truth, of course,” said Wimsey, flicking through the pages of the official police report. “One of them probably isn’t, so we’ve got to allow for that. But it’s interestin’, that interval of seven minutes, isn’t it? And possibly illuminatin’.”

  “Yes,” Parker agreed. “I’ll admit I hadn’t realized it was so long.”

  Wimsey was still turning carelessly through the police dossier of the case. Suddenly he stiffened.

  “Hullo I what’s this? Ha I do mine eyes deceive me, or is this Banquo’s ghost? Funny, isn’t it, Charles, how one can look and look at a thing and never see it at all?”

  “What have you seen now?”

  “Why, that we’ve been wasting our time on the Archbish. He was a phantom of delight when first he gleamed upon my sight, Charles, but unfortunately he was only a lovely apparition sent to be a moment’s ornament. In other words, Innocence hath privilege in him to dignify Archbishop’s laughing eyes. Those seven minutes let him out. Littleton says that when he found the body, the wound was still bleeding. No wound of that nature would be bleedin’ at least seven whole minutes after it had been inflicted.”

  “Well, that’s one of our four out of the way,” Wimsey resumed. “I wonder if we can eliminate any of the others? Turn, Charles, to the page headed ‘Corroborations.’ That’s rather illuminatin’, too, don’t you think?”

  Parker nodded.

  “Take Mills, for instance. At 12.10 p.m. he was still with the Archbish; from 12.13-12.16 p.m. he was with Hope-Fairweather, That only leaves him two minutes, 12.11-12.12 p.m., without an alibi. Hope-Fairweather similarly gets his alibi from Mills for 12.13-12.16 p.m.; he’s got only the three minutes 12.10-12.12 p.m. un-corroborated. Well, I suppose either of them could have put his head round the study door and had a pot at Comstock in those times, but the trouble is that in either case that puts Comstock’s death at not later than 12.12 p.m. Would the wound have been bleedin’ when Littleton found him at 12.16 p.m.? I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t. And since the butler, you tell me, gets an alibi for all that time from the cook. …” Wimsey paused.

  “Yes?”. said Parker.

  “Well, it’s pretty beastly, but you see what I mean.”

  “Major Littleton?” said Parker, without expression.

  Wimsey nodded. “There’s no gettin’ away from it, he’s the most likely. He’s the only one, you see, whose statement isn’t corroborated by anyone else at all. And there was always that convenient door between him and the study. Mind you, I don’t think we need give too much importance to Mills’ statement about opening the drawing-room door at 12.12 p.m. and fancying afterwards that the room was empty. If Littleton had been in the study then, Mills would certainly have heard the voices; because it’s pretty well out of the question that Littleton would have walked into the study and taken a pot at Comstock without saying a single word. And in any case, if Littleton’s speaking the truth that the wound was bleeding at 12.16 p.m., ‘it’s almost certain that the shot must have been fired not much before 12.14 p.m. Deuced fine margins we’ve got to work in. But you see the trouble, Charles, and we can’t shut our eyes to it: If Comstock was killed between 12.14 p.m. and 12.16 p.m., as it seems most likely that he was, neither Mills nor Hope-Fairweather could have done it. And what’s more, they were probably too occupied with each other just then to hear anything that might have been goin’ on in the study.”

  “I’d as soon believe I’d done it myself,” said Parker, unconvinced.

  “No doubt,” Wimsey said bitterly. “Nevertheless, that’s what we’re up against.”

  There was a silence, full of things unsaid.

  Then Parker said slowly: “If Major Littleton had shot Comstock, the markings on the bullet would correspond with those of the pistol which he handed over yesterday to Easton. They don’t.”

  “No. And they don’t correspond with Comstock’s own pistol either. I think we can take it that Comstock was not shot with either of those pistols. Outside a detective-story, there’s not much chance of faking a bullet’s markings. No, there’s a third pistol, which isn’t in the local police-station at this moment. And Charles, I don’t want to over-emphasize, but who really is the most likely person to have that third specimen of a rather rare type of pistol in. his possession, just in the ordinary course of routine?”

  “There’s no evidence at all that the Major had two of those pistols,” Parker said quickly.

  “No,” Wimsey agreed. “That’s about the one bright spot on an uncommonly murky horizon.”

  “After all, you haven’t proved anything more than opportunity, and we knew all about that.”

  “Opportunity, and motive; and a nasty powerful combination they are. Dash it all, Charles, you needn’t glower at me like that. I don’t want to prove that Littleton shot Comstock. I hope to goodness he didn’t. But at present you must admit that he’s the likeliest of the four.”

  “Hope-Fairweather kept his gloves on all the time he was in the house,” Parker said sullenly. “Why the hell did he want to do that?”

  “Perhaps his hands were cold,” Wimsey said flippantly.

  “He hadn’t even taken them off when Mills found him picking up the papers in the office.”

  “’That cock won’t fight. If he had his gloves 04, as you’re implyin’, for the purpose of leaving no finger-prints on the pistol, he’d naturally slip them off the moment they’d served their purpose. He wouldn’t want to call attention to them, you see. The fact that he didn’t strikes me as a pretty big point in his favour.”

  “There was a discharged shell in the pistol on Comstock’s desk.”

  “Yes, and the barrel was clean. If you’re suggesting that Hope-Fairweather had time to shoot Comstock, and search that drawer, and clean the barrel of the pistol all in those three minutes, then I tell you straight, Charles, the thing’s an impossibility. And the same for Mills. Besides, in any case it doesn’t apply, because Comstock wasn’t shot with that pistol. We don’t know how that shell got discharged, but I’ll lay you a pony to a dollar that it wasn’t done by Comstock’s murderer. No, if we want to clear Littleton we’ve got to look a bit farther afield. For instance, didn’t it strike you how very pat that chauffeur came out with the number of Hope-Fairweather’s car? A most observant bloke, that chauffeur, don’t you think?”

  “Why shouldn’t he? It was in his own line.” “You think he not only notices but remembers afterwards the number of every car that comes up his employer’s drive? Well, perhaps he does. All I can say is that in his place I shouldn’t, and my eyes work pretty well automatically.”

  “We’re not overlooking the chauffeur,” said Parker.

  “I should jolly
well hope you’re not. If you want to get Littleton out of this mess you can’t afford to overlook anyone. But Mills and Hope-Fairweather. … Well, I don’t know, but I’ve got a sort of feelin’ that they’re out of the case now. One can’t get round those alibis, you know, unless the two of them are accomplices, and I don’t quite see that. No, exeunt Mills and Hope-Fairweather, I rather fancy, through gap in time-table, all talking, all singing, all dancing, laughing ha-ha, chaffing ha-ha, nectar quaffing ha-ha-ha. Anyhow, I’m sick of personalities. Let’s take one long last fond look at the facts. No harm in getting things as clear as we can before we pop down there. Find the page headed ‘Facts ‘in that little lot. I pulled ’em out like plums from the duff of your people’s report. (What is duff, by the way? It sounds quite disgustin’.) With infinite tact he pulled out each fact, and said what a good boy am I. These are the real bones of the case, and any merry little theory we produce has to cover all of them. Read ’em out, Charles, there’s a good chap.”

  Parker began to read:

  “FACTS

  “Body between desk and window; chair half on top of it.

  “Bullet wound in left temple.

  “No powder marks round wound.

  “Wound still bleeding at 12.16 p.m.

  “Pistol, one chamber discharged but barrel clean, lying on desk, far side from chair and window.

  “No finger-marks on pistol.

  “Pistol of uncommon type; not many in this country.

  “Pistol was in study previous evening. (But where? Ask butler.)

  “Study windows all open.

  “Overturned chair by door into hall. (Probably by Archbish.)

  “One drawer of desk pulled nearly right out; documents in disorder; Mills thinks one or more missing.

  “Way on to lawn from kitchen-garden almost impossible.

  “Lady stopped and watched gardener, sauntered on to lawn, and then came back ‘quicker than she went.’”

  “Thank you, Charles,” Wimsey said politely. “The tuneful voice was heard from high, arise, ye more than dead I It’s funny about that lady, by the way, isn’t it?”

  Parker looked up sharply. “It was Easton’s very first idea that Comstock had been shot by someone outside the house.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. I meant that although Littleton says in his report that he stood by the drawing-room window looking out into the garden, he apparently never saw the lady at all; and yet she must have been in full sight of the drawing-room windows for at least two or three minutes. I wonder how it was Littleton never saw her.”

  “He saw the gardener.”

  “Yes, but he could have seen him from the drive, couldn’t he? Well, well, there seem to be a good many questions in this case that want answering. I wonder, for instance, where Comstock dined the previous evening. Nobody seems to know that.”

  “The chauffeur might, if you think it’s important.”

  “It’s my belief that chauffeur knows a whole lot of things, but whether he’ll part with them or not is another matter, Well shall we be moving? Mrs. Merdle’s all ready and waiting.”

  Parker groaned apprehensively, but rose.

  “There’s one thing,” said Wimsey, as they went downstairs, “that I should very much like to ask Hope-Fairweather, but I’m afraid it would only be waste of time.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, nothing,’ said Wimsey.

  Parker, however, recognized the tune the other was humming. It was “Who’s Your Lady Friend?”

  (IV)

  Mrs. Merdle covered the eighteen miles to Hursley Lodge in twenty-nine minutes, which, allowing for the traffic in London, as Wimsey pointed out, was not bad. From Parker’s comments as he clambered out, it might have been gathered that he did not agree. Parker seemed to think it had been nothing but bad.

  Wimsey rang the door-bell with a hurt expression.

  “My dear Charles, I am not a bad driver, as you seem to think. On the contrary, I’m an astonishingly good one. We’re still alive, aren’t we? What more do you want?”

  The door was opened by Farrant, the butler. Parker asked for Mills, and the two were shown into the drawing-room, a long, low room with pleasantly big windows overlooking the garden on one side of the house and the drive in front. Wimsey drifted from one to the other, and then shook his head.

  “It’s a pity that Littleton didn’t notice the lady, you know, Charles. Who knows? He might have seen something quite interesting. It’s a pity he overlooked her, don’t you think?”

  Parker grunted. He might have added something more, but the possibility of further retort was cut short by the secretary’s entrance.

  Wimsey recognized Mills instantly from the police description. The plump hands, the too-great readiness to smile, the general air of complacent toadyism, at once indicated his type. Parker, who had not seen him before, displayed his credentials and asked to see Farrant.

  “Not a very nice young man,” Wimsey said, when Mills had smiled himself away in search of the butler. “And capable, I rather fancy, under provocation, of turning quite a nasty young man. I wouldn’t put it past him for a moment of inserting a piece of lead in his employer’s anatomy. And yet I don’t think he did.”

  “I’m not so sure. By the way, is there anyone else you want to see besides Farrant?”

  “Not a soul,” Wimsey said blithely. “I don’t think we’re likely to learn anything more from the gardener; and as for Mills, the only way to get things out of that young man is to frighten them out, and unfortunately we haven’t got anything yet to frighten him with. No, so far as I’m concerned, Farrant-Farrant is the boy. In fact, and not to put too fine a point on it, he is my sun-shine and only joy. I’ve got the glimmering of an idea about Farrant.” Before Parker could ask what the idea might be, Farrant announced himself. Parker addressed him more peremptorily than usual.

  “Now, Farrant, I’m from Scotland Yard, as you know, and this is Lord Peter Wimsey. We want to ask you a few questions about this business.”

  Farrant bowed sombrely.

  Parker began to put him through an examination on the points already covered in the police report, filling in the time till Wimsey should indicate the direction of his own idea regarding the butler.

  Wimsey, however, seemed to have lost interest in the proceedings. Indeed he was becoming rather patently bored. He lounged by the window with his hands in his pockets, and did not even trouble to stifle a slight yawn. The butler’s practised glance had already wandered from Parker’s blue-serge suit, cut rather for utility than elegance, to Wimsey’s Savile Row figure, but his expression had not shown what he thought of the contrast. It was, however, noticeable that whereas only Parker was putting the questions, Farrant’s answers appeared to be directed rather to the Savile Row silhouette than to Oxford Street’s serge.

  At last Wimsey took his hands out of his pockets, and stretched slightly.

  “I say, Charles,” he said peevishly, ‘can’t we throw an eye over the jolly old study? Eh? That’s what you promised me, you know. You said we could have a look at the study.”

  Parker took his cue promptly. “Yes, of course,” he said, in a humouring kind of voice. “Farrant, take us to the study.” Farrant swung back a section of the bookcase and stood aside for the others to precede him.

  “Ah,” said Wimsey, in a pleased voice, “the concealed doorway, eh? Jolly ingenious. All right, carry on, Charles.”

  Parker and Farrant passed through into the study. Wimsey, however, did not follow immediately, and when Parker looked round the concealed door was again closed. He resumed his questioning of Farrant, and in a minute or two Wimsey appeared.

  “The jolly old door swung to,” he said, “and I couldn’t find the catch. So this is the scene of the ’orrible crime, is it? Chair still reversed, as on discovery of body. Well, well, gives you quite a nasty feeling, doesn’t it, Charles? But I suppose you’re used to all this kind of thing. Well, well.” He teetered round the room with an air
of well-bred vacuity.

  “Carry on, Charles,” he added. “Don’t mind me, if you want to get on with your questions, you know. By Jove, I suppose this is the very desk where the revolver was found, what? Most excitin’.”

  The slight wink which accompanied these words showed Parker what was wanted of him. He began to question Farrant about the pistol and his discovery of it the previous evening.

  Farrant could not undertake to say how the pistol had come into Lord Comstock’s possession; no doubt Mr. Mills might have information on that point. Yes, the evening before the crime was the first time he had seen it. Yes, it had been lying on the desk then.

  “On the desk?” said Parker sharply. “What was it doing on the desk?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir, I’m sure.”

  “You’re certain you didn’t see it in one of the drawers?”

  “Quite certain, sir,” Farrant replied imperturbably.

  “Urn,” said Parker. “And what did you do with it?”

  “I gave it a bit of a wipe over, sir, and left it where it was.”

  “You left it—”

  “Did it make much of a noise when you pooped it off, Farrant?” inquired Wimsey pleasantly.

  Farrant looked a little shaken. “S—sir?” he stammered.

  “When you pooped it off that evening and chipped the picture rail over there,” Wimsey said, in a voice of amiable interest. “Did it make much of a row?”

  “N—no, my lord.” Farrant was still showing signs of distress, but he had recovered himself sufficiently to give the other his correct rank. “Hardly any, my lord,” he added, with the air of one who, having taken the plunge, does not find the water quite so cold as he had expected.

  “Just a sort of sharp crack, not much louder than a dry twig snapping?”

  “Very little louder, my lord.”

  Wimsey turned to Parker with a look of childish triumph. “There you are, Charles, you see. I told you the noise of that pistol couldn’t possibly be described as a crash. That’s a jolly interestin’ bit of evidence, Farrant. Thanks frightfully for tellin’ me.”