“Thanks enormously, Tweedle,” said Roger. “I always knew you were the man to come to.” He rose from the little table in the corner at which he had isolated his informant and sought for his hat and stick.
“Now, I do hope,” cried Mr. Tweedle in some alarm,” that you are not going to do anything precipitate. And above all things, I beg you will not mention me. My discretion is, if I may say so, my livelihood, and—”
“My dear Tweedle,” said Roger reassuringly,” wild horses would not drag your name from me. I will be most meticulously careful. And believe me, I am extremely grateful. I’ll do as much for you if I get the opportunity. You must lunch with me one day.”
“Delighted, delighted!” said Mr. Tweedle.
“You’ll excuse me now, won’t you?” said Roger, and bustled rather importantly away.
His next appearance was at the town residence of the Marquis of Quorn in Berkeley Square. He pranced up the imposing steps and rang the bell with assurance. A footman answered the door.
“Is Lady Phyllis Dalrymple at home?” demanded Roger, with the air of one who has no doubt of his welcome.
“Not at home,” said the footman, as one who had no doubts either.
“Not?” said Roger, much astonished.
“No, sir,” said the footman. “Her ladyship is not at home, sir.” “Dear me,” said Roger, “that is very— Oh, well. You say she isn’t at home?”
“No, sir,” said the footman.
“Not to anybody?” said Roger.
No, sir; not to anybody.”
(“Aha!” thought Roger acutely;” she is at home, then.“)” Could I take any message, sir?” “Er-well!” said Roger. He pulled out his pocket-book, extracted a sheet of paper (which happened to be a little statement of account from his dentist), and frowned at it. “This is Wednesday, 16th, isn’t it?”
“Excuse me, sir, but was her ladyship expecting you?”
“I rather thought she was,” said Roger mendaciously, “but it doesn’t matter.”
“Her ladyship, sir, is seriously indisposed, and has cancelled her engagements for to-day. But if you desired to leave a message, sir—”
“N—no,” said Roger. “Or, wait—perhaps I might speak to her maid-Mademoiselle—hum, ha.”
“Mademoiselle Célie, sir?”
“Célie, of course.”
“I will make inquiries. What name shall I say, sir?”
“I hardly expect she will remember my name,” said Roger, “but you might say that I have come up from Hursley Lodge.”
“Very good, sir. Will you step this way?”
Roger, a little surprised at his own daring and resource, was shown into an elegant and forbidding little room, furnished with three black cubes and four tubular chairs. Here he sat, cooling his heels on a waxed scarlet floor and dazzling his eyesight against four aluminium walls and a prickly nude of the modern French school, until, after an interval of some five or ten minutes, the door opened to admit a very smart and very plain and very Parisian lady’s maid.
“Ah! “said this young person. “You are Monsieur Meelss, yes?”
For one agonizing and indeterminate second, Roger hesitated whether to be Mr. Mills or not. Then he said, “Yes.”
“Ah, bon! My lady say it is ver’ kind of you to came. She quite understand it is all finish’ with the death of ce pauvre Lord Comstock. She is sorry that she cannot see you herself, but she has an atroce headache and beg you to excuse her.” “Naturally, naturally,” said Roger. “Of course, she must be very much upset.”
“Comment? Upset?”
“By all this,” said Roger. “I mean, it must have distressed her very much.” “I do not understand. My lady is indispose-not well.”
“I am very sorry to hear it,” said Roger hastily, feeling that he had missed a cue somewhere. “I only meant that the murder of Lord Comstock must have given her a shock.”
“Oh, that?” Célie appeared to dismiss Lord Comstock. “Mais, oui, it was ver’ shocking,” she amended. “Naturally, to you it is extremely grave.”
“Terribly so,” said Roger, remembering that he was supposed to be Mr. Mills. “A most frightful blow.” It suddenly struck him that the bereaved Mr. Mills ought not to be capering about town in a pale grey suit with a rather lively tie. However, he could not alter that now. “Just so,” he added vaguely;” quite. Er-ah l So long as her ladyship—”
“She understand perfectly,” Mlle Célie assured him.
Roger only wished that he could say the same, but the worst of assuming somebody else’s personality at short notice is that it becomes very difficult to ask questions.
“She weesh me to say,” continued Mlle Célie surprisingly, ‘’that it will be quite all right about the little cheque, since, of course, it is not your fault that nossing come of the arrangement.”
Roger recovered his breath. sufficiently to say that it was very good of her ladyship.
“I did my best,” he ventured.
“Parfaitment, monsieur. Her ladyship will preserve the greatest discretion, she weesh me to assure you.”
Roger said he was very much obliged. “And she ask me to say again she appreciate the kindness you do in coming, but is it not a little bit risky, hein?”
Roger mumbled something.
“Not so risky, you think, now that he is dead? Aha? Enfin, c’est votre affaire. But there is a big difference from the ’ush-’ush telephone call on Monday to the big ring at the bell on Wednesday, quoi? After all, if I was to tell the tales out of the school-but I do not do such things, me 1”
Roger gasped, but with admirable presence of mind realized that Mr. Mills was being invited to purchase Mlle Célie’s silence about something or the other. And could there be any doubt about what? Surely not. Even as he reluctantly parted with some Treasury notes, he mentally patted himself on the back. Mr. Mills—oh yes I his instinct had not led him astray about Mr. Mills.
As he emerged from the house in Berkeley Square, he almost cannoned into a gentleman in a morning coat and a silk hat, who came up full tilt, and apologized to him in smothered accents and with unseeing eyes. Roger, however, had no difficulty in recognizing the bleak, handsome face and impressive stature of the Chief Government Whip. Whatever it was that had caused Lady Phyllis to cancel her engagements, it was evidently not going to keep Sir Charles Hope-Fairweather on the outer side of her door, if that gentleman had any say in the matter.
One more little item of information did Roger yearn for—and it might, he feared, prove difficult to obtain. Without very much hope, he decided to try the easiest and most obvious way first. He dashed along to his club, called for and obtained a copy of Tuesday’s Times, and hunted through the fashionable intelligence. As by a miracle, he ‘found what he was looking for. On the Monday night, there had been a party at the house of the Foreign Secretary, and among those present had been the Lady Phyllis Dalrymple and Sir Charles Hope-Fairweather.
So, thought Roger, 66.6 per cent. of the incredible coincidence was practically proved to have been no coincidence at all. The Archbishop had made an appointment-if not with Lord Comstock, yet with Mr. Mills. Sir Charles Hope-Fairweather had said he had made no appointment. Perhaps he had not-but what about the lady? On Monday, Mr. Mills and Lady Phyllis’s maid had been in telephonic communication, and Lady Phyllis had known all about it. On that same night, Lady Phyllis and Sir Charles had met. On the Tuesday morning, Sir Charles and a lady resembling Lady Phyllis had gone down to Hursley Lodge together. On the Wednesday, Mr. Mills was being told to keep the cheque received for his services, under vows of closest secrecy. “The arrangement,” whatever it might have been, had fallen through on account of Lord Comstock’s death-and the upshot of the whole affair was that Lady Phyllis was seriously indisposed and Sir Charles (if one might judge by his looks) seriously agitated. “The arrangement” remained a mystery, but Roger scented some kind of intrigue in which Sir Charles was the puppet whose strings were pulled from Hursley Lodge and Berkel
ey Square.: But for Roger one fact stood out clearly. Mills had lied again. He had known that the Archbishop was coming; he had known that Sir Charles was coming; he had engineered their appearance on the scene: why?
Roger set this query aside for the moment and asked himself another: Had Mills also arranged the visit of Major Littleton?
The voice of Inner Conviction answered him: Ten to one he had, but it’s no use asking them at Scotland Yard.
With a sigh, Roger agreed that Inner Conviction was probably well informed. Well, he must assume this to be the case and go back again to the question: Why did Mr. Teddy Mills engineer this gathering of Lord Comstock’s enemies?
The, voice of Inner Conviction spoke again, and in authoritative accents: “Because he meant to kill Corn-stock and throw the suspicion on the others.“
Well, thought Roger, my Inner Conviction may be perfectly right, but has he, she, or it any reasonable evidence to go on? How about our old friends Means, Motive, and Opportunity, that sinister trinity to whom all good detective writers reverently bow the knee?
Roger always groaned in spirit when faced with Means, Motive, and Opportunity. They had, in time past, made short work of so many pretty fancies. But they had to be tackled. And, after all, he had the comfort of feeling that he was almost certainly working an the right lines. It was not really reasonable to suppose that murders were committed by Archbishops, Chief Whips, or Assistant Commissioners of Scotland Yard; whereas private secretaries, it was well known, would murder their employers as soon as look at them.
Very well, then: Malts.
Here, at the very first encounter, Inner Conviction received a nasty jab to the solar plexus. If Mills was to do the murder, then Mills must be provided with a pistol. The firearms expert had said that the bullet extracted from Comstock’s head had not been fired from Comstock’s pistol, and that seemed to be that. Roger trifled for a few moments with the idea that the marks on the bullet might have been previously faked, but dismissed it as a mystery-writer’s dream. Mills did not look the man for that kind of job—his podgy, hairy hands had not the air of being familiar with instruments of precision. Why need one suppose that Comstock was the only man who possessed that particular type of pistol? One other specimen had turned up: why not two? Perhaps Comstock himself had had more than one. Perhaps Mills had got a weapon from the same source as Comstock. What source was that, by the way? Of course, yes: the Bugle’s crime expert. Roger made a note to interview the crime expert.
But if Mills had had a pistol of his own, where was that pistol now? And how was he, Roger, to lay hands upon it? It was all very well, thought Roger, to put investigations into the hands of amateur detectives, but it was hardly fair to expect them to do routine work like searching suspects and combing out houses and gardens for concealed weapons. The whole thing was absurd. Mills and Farrant, and, in fact, the entire household, ought to have been gone over immediately by a body of skilled searchers. Already the criminal had had twenty-four hours in which to get rid of the pistol. What hope was there of finding it now? Obviously, Roger would have to go down to Hursley Lodge and do his best, but it was all terribly tedious and difficult. Unless, of course, he could get Moresby to help him. But he did not really want Moresby. He felt that if he had to listen to Moresby’s self-satisfied voice pointing any more morals, or remarking one single time more that “it wasn’t a bit of good, Mr. Sheringham,” and that “perhaps he would admit now, Mr. Sheringham,” he should scream, or throw something at Moresby. No; he would stick to deduction and induction to show him where the pistol ought to be, and find it, if possible, himself.
Leaving Means in this unsatisfactory condition, Roger passed on to Motive.
This looked much more promising. According to Farrant, Mills had been given notice to quit. Of course, Farrant might be lying-if it came to that, everybody might be lying, but, that way, madness would lie, too. He knew now that Mills was a liar: he would assume that he had lied again when he denied Farrant’s story. Mills, then, had been given notice, and for a reason which shed a very unfavourable light on Mills’s character. Mills was a Judas, a man who could sell his master. Treachery is a crime that Fleet Street never forgives. Undoubtedly, Comstock could have made things extremely unpleasant for Mills;he could probably have damned him to all eternity as a private secretary; nobody wants private secretaries who sell information.
And besides these, there might, of course, be other reasons. Who was Mills? What were his private griefs? Was there anything in that long and mysterious period of Comstock’s earlier life to account for an enmity that should manifest itself, first by betrayal and finally by shooting? Running over the resources of a mind well stocked with criminological fiction, Roger found that there were a good many possible motives of this kind; as, for example:
1. “The Wrong he did my Mo-o-ther; or, The Bastard’s Revenge.”
2. “Sic Vos non Vobis; or, The Man who stole the Patent.”
3. “King’s Evidence; or, Dogged by Dartmoor.”
4. “The Catspaw; or, My Father bore the Blame.”
5. “The Girl he Ruined; or, The Seducer’s Warning.”
And so on.
An inquiry into Mr. Mills’s past seemed to be indicated. How, Roger wondered, were amateur detectives supposed to do all these jobs in forty-eight hours? Obviously, he would have to tackle Fleet Street again. Weary work.
Finally, came the question of:
Opportunity : and here, Roger realized, his pretty theory was likely to stand or fall. With a frowning brow he reviewed the shorthand reports of the available evidence, comparing them with Sir Philip Brackenthorpe’s time-table.
The thing that stood out immediately was that, in this case, the terminus a quoi and the terminus ad quem were singularly well defined. At 12 noon or thereabouts, Major Littleton had arrived and heard Comstock chatting with Dr. Pettifer. This time had presumably been fixed by Littleton himself, and therefore did not depend on Mills’s suspected evidence. By 12.22, all the visitors had departed; this, to be sure, was Mills’s evidence, but, again, Littleton had apparently not disputed it. At some moment previous to this, Littleton had discovered the body of Comstock, with the blood still flowing from the wound in the head. According to the doctor, death had been practically instantaneous, so that Comstock could not have died more than a minute or two before Littleton’s irruption into the study. One must, of course, if one assumed Littleton’s innocence, assume him also to be a witness of truth, and, since he was accustomed to police investigation, one must also credit him with powers of accurate observation.
Now, at what precise moment had Littleton entered the study? And where had Mills been just before that?
On the first point, the Assistant Commissioner’s evidence was more human and less accurate than one might have desired.
On arriving, shortly before noon, he had heard the rumpus in the study and looked about the room “a bit.” How big a bit? Big enough, anyway, to enable him to find the concealed panel. He had then strolled about and looked out of the window. Then he had heard “people moving about in the hall,” and after “a bit” everything had become quiet in the study. That no doubt meant that the Archbishop had gone. Here, then, the time-table could be checked. Dr. Pettifer had left himself only seven minutes to catch the 12.16; therefore he had departed, on his own evidence, at 12.9; therefore, Littleton’s two “bits” accounted, between them, for ten or eleven minutes. He had then waited “a bit,” opened the door and looked in, and there was Comstock lying dead.
So far, so good. After a brief examination of the body, Littleton had heard Hope-Fairweather’s car drive off and had given chase. This, of course, was subsequent to Hope-Fairweather’s departure by the front door and before 12.22. For the exact moments occupied by all the intermediate skirmishings in and about the office, one was, unhappily, more or less dependent upon the tainted evidence of Mills, but, if he had been very far out in his statement, Hope-Fairweather would surely have contradicted him. At what
time, then, had Mills been able to penetrate, alone, into the study, between 12.9 and 12.22?
Here a thought struck Roger. How about that very odd statement by Mills that he had opened the drawing-room door and found the room empty? Looking over the evidence again, Roger saw that this incident had occurred (according to Mills) after Dr. Pettifer’s departure and before his coming upon Hope-Fairweather in the office. But, during this very period, Littleton, in his own words, had “waited for a bit, expecting that young chap (Mills) to come in and show me in to see Comstock.” Now, that meant that if the drawing-room door had really been opened during that time, Littleton must have seen it; when one is “expecting” someone to come in, one’s eyes are usually glued upon the door. Therefore, either Mills or Littleton was lying, and, by Roger’s theory, the liar had to be Mills. Very well, then; had the drawing-room door ever been opened at all? If it had, it could only have been at one of two moments: either before 12.9, when Littleton had been looking for the secret panel and the drawing-room door and had been concealed from view by the jutting of the chimney-breast, or after Hope-Fairweather’s departure, when Littleton had gone through the secret panel into the study.
Now, then, thought Roger, why the lie? Why the story of the door’s having been opened at all?
The answer came pat to his mind: In order to suggest that Littleton entered the study earlier than he actually did and had an interview and a quarrel with Comstock. For Mills had asserted that he had opened the door, found the drawing-room empty, and heard a crash. The suggestion surely was that the crash was-not, of course, the pistol-shot, which would only be a faint crack like the snapping of a stick-but the fall of Comstock with the chair on top of him.
Now, then; what followed? Mills must, in reality, ‘have seen Dr. Pettifer out at 12.9 and gone immediately to the office-say, at 12.10. There, he had found Hope-Fairweather in difficulties with the table and the tray of correspondence. He had dusted him down and seen him out—say three minutes for that—this brought the time-table to 12.13. According to his own statement he had then again opened the drawing-room door and found the room empty. This would mean that Littleton was already in the study. But that was absurd. One could not allow ten minutes for Littleton to make a cursory examination of the body. What followed? It followed, as the night the day, that Mills had lied again. Between the departure of Hope-Fairweather and Littleton’s entry into the study there had been an interval of something like seven or eight minutes at least, during which Mills could have done anything he chose. He had only to go into his office, take the pistol (that tiresome pistol that had yet to be found) from its hiding-place, softly open the study door and shoot Comstock through the left side of the head as he sat at his desk. What could be simpler?
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