Ask a Policeman

by The Detection Club

“It’s just that Mills knew that Littleton ought to be in the drawing-room. If he really looked in and didn’t see him, it seems to me incredible that he would have then and there risked everything-with an Assistant Commissioner of Police loose somewhere, but Mills wouldn’t have known where, on the premises.”

  “If he’s lying—if he did see Littleton in the drawing-room?”

  “In that case, would he have gone, the second after he’d shot Comstock, to interview Hope-Fairweather? One unwelcome visitor had already walked in un-announced into the study that morning-and that really is the strongest argument of all, it seems to me, for Mills’s innocence.”

  Gambrell still looked a little uncertain.

  “Well, if you still aren’t convinced, put down Mills with Littleton on your ‘Still Suspected ‘list; but I insist that you put an asterisk against his name, to indicate ‘Highly Improbable.’ Now who’s next?”

  “I suppose it ought to be Hope-Fairweather. But after what you’ve just said-about the time-table ruling him out unless there’s a fairly substantial error in it—”

  “I don’t deny that there may be. It’s pretty difficult to estimate to a second how long it took Mills to see the Archbishop off, for example.”

  “Still, before we tackle him, how about the unknown lady?” “Mrs. Arbuthnot, you mean. Well?-”

  ““There’s this much to be said against her, Anderson, that the easiest way to have shot Comstock was from outside.”

  “Nonsense,” said Anderson. “Shot in the left temple—the ‘inside’ one, so to call it!”

  “Yes, but obviously if a lady appeared at the window, Comstock would have turned towards her. … Re-member the: marks of a lady’s shoes outside the window? Mrs. Bradley found them, or Mrs. Bradley’s girl friend.”

  Anderson laughed, all “man-of-the-world-with-more-experience-than-you-my-young-friend.”

  “Quite a number of ladies walked on Comstock’s grass from time to time,” he said. “But that’s only one point. The other is about the temple. When I read that someone has been struck on the temple, I always mean right on the side of the head. You know, ‘going grey on the temples,’ and so on. I dare say that technically the temple includes the forehead above the eye; but at all events I made inquiries in this case-the bullet entered the side of the head, from the side. That clear? Very well: then whoever shot Comstock wasn’t standing face to face with him. And I really don’t see him making a point of presenting his profile to a lady who appeared from nowhere outside his window.”

  “All right,” Gambrell agreed hurriedly. “All the same, there’s some funny stuff about Hope-Fairweather and his lady friends. All this about Lady Phyllis and—”

  “I don’t see it, Gambrell. The story which Sheringham put together may very well be true. I imagine that Hope-Fairweather dined with his niece by marriage before he went on to the party where he met Lady Phyllis. I imagine that Mr. Mills was ‘acting a lie’ when he let Mrs. Bradley assume that his affair-oh, perhaps only an affair of business-had been with a typist. And I can quite understand that Lady Phyllis was thoroughly upset when she heard that her dear Sir Charles was mixed up in the Hursley Lodge business—either because he’d been there with an unknown female or because Mills obviously wasn’t above a bit of quiet blackmail.”

  “That’s all very well,” Gambrell objected, “but remember that Hope-Fairweather’s companion was only his deceased wife’s niece. To suggest that Lady Phyllis would have been jealous—”

  “It’s not an important point,” Anderson admitted, refilling his pipe. “But it’s pretty plain that Hope-Fairweather’s journey—or its purpose-was a thing he would want to keep quiet from Lady Phyllis. Mrs. Arbuthnot, qua Pytchley, may be a desirable relative, but if Comstock was blackmailing her … On the other hand, the news that Hope-Fairweather had been to Hursley Lodge and might have heard something from Mills would upset Lady Phyllis pretty thoroughly. It seems to me that both of ’em had good reason for being a bit secretive.”

  “I see that,” said Gambrell slowly. “You think it’s certain, then, that Mrs. Arbuthnot didn’t do the shooting?”

  “No, I won’t go so far as that-yet. In my opinion, we can’t consider her without considering Hope-Fairweather’s story. And the Home Secretary’s.”

  “What, again?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Anderson answered; his smile was not so much apologetic as self-satisfied. “Let’s consider Hope-Fairweather’s story. But before we do that, tell me what is the outstanding quality in a good Chief Whip?”

  Gambrell considered the riddle for a few seconds.

  “Tact,” he ventured.

  “Right!” said the more experienced Anderson,

  “Without a doubt. Tact. Ability to handle awkward people and awkward situations without having a row.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “No need to see. Just keep it in mind. Now for Hope-Fairweather’s story. Short and sharp, wasn’t it? He burst into the study. Comstock staring out of the window. ‘Hullo! ’ says Comstock, civilly enough, to a man he hardly knows. And more or less next second he falls down, all over his chair, and somehow gets himself underneath it. Hope-Fairweather doesn’t give him a thought or a glance. Just pinches the papers and hops it. That a fair summary?”

  “I think so,” Gambrell said, with a nod. “To my mind it was a devilish risky story to tell—or thing to do.”

  “You mean you think Hope-Fairweather did the shooting, and this story was the best he could think of, to try to clear himself?”

  “No, I don’t think that. I’m inclined to think either that Hope-Fairweather never went into the room at all, or that he was actually there, as he says, when Comstock was shot.”

  Gambrell looked at Anderson with a puzzled expression.

  “Aren’t you contradicting yourself just as Wimsey did? You know, the time-table was supposed to show that if Littleton is telling the truth about the flowing blood, then Sir Charles can’t have done the shooting.”

  “Ah, but I’m prepared to show a margin of error in the time-table. In fact, I don’t see any way out of that—unless you’re prepared to believe either that Hope-Fairweather hasn’t got back the documents, whatever they were, or that some kind friend sent them back to him afterwards. I don’t see Mills doing that-and I don’t see who else could have done.”

  “Farrant,” Gambrell suggested.

  Anderson shrugged his shoulders.

  “Possibly, but extremely doubtful. He would have had to do it immediately after he discovered that Comstock was dead, and before he gave the alarm. It isn’t likely that his first thought would have been for Mrs. Arbuthnot’s papers, whatever they were. Of course, if Farrant is the murderer-but we’ll come to that later. Let’s get back to Hope-Fairweather.”

  “I must say,” said Gambrell, “that if Hope-Fairweather’s story isn’t true—or rather, if he isn’t the murderer-I don’t see why he should have told the story. It would be going out of his way to implicate himself.”

  “Mightn’t he have a motive for that?” “Don’t ask me,” said Gambrell. “I’m arguing on the other side.”

  “My dear Gambrell, you can’t have thought things out. To begin with, remember that Hope-Fairweather did not produce his story when first he was summoned by our Chief to his august presence. At that time he had no idea where he stood, or what the police knew, or even what had happened. But after that things began to get awkward. Sir John had a go at Miss Hope-Fairweather; and Lord Peter Wimsey made a set at Sir ‘. Charles himself-but in doing so made it clear that he had at least half an eye upon the Lady in the Car.”

  “Well?”

  Anderson did not answer at once; he was having trouble with his pipe.

  “My dear fellow,” he resumed, at length, “just think of Hope-Fairweather’s story. He gets in, un-announced. Comstock is standing by the window. He’s supposed to say ‘Hullo,’ and be quite nice-which seems improbable. In any case he obviously would turn and face the newcomer. Hope-Fairwe
ather might walk straight towards him or he might go towards the desk I’m sure he wouldn’t walk towards the wall by the window.”

  “Sorry, Anderson, I don’t see—”

  “You must. If Comstock was facing the door to the office when he was shot, he was facing pretty well northwest. In which case the shot was fired from the southwest-from some way to the right of where the word ‘wall ‘appears on the plan.”

  “Very well. But still I don’t see—”

  “Just keep it in mind. In the second place, don’t you think it a bit unconvincing, the way Comstock is supposed to have just ‘slithered to the floor,’ yet managed to knock over the chair and get himself more or less underneath it? And thirdly” (Anderson went on hurriedly, since Gambrell manifested a tendency to mutter “I don’t see “), “d’you think that Hope-Fairweather, or anyone else, could watch even Comstock fall in a heap and make no attempt to see what was the matter?”

  “Perhaps he did—” Gambrell began.

  “So I think. And when he realized that Comstock had been shot he decided not to give the alarm. … That’s just the difference-you might or might not call for help, but you certainly would not, so to speak, ignore the fellow’s collapse.”

  “Yes, but I don’t—”

  “Oh, for the Lord’s sake don’t say that again. Just listen to me. What happened, I suggest, was this. Hope-Fairweather went down with Mrs. Arbuthnot to try to get back the papers, whatever they were. He proposed to exercise his celebrated tact;Mrs. Arbuthnot made it plain enough that she didn’t think tact would do the trick. Very well: Hope-Fairweather was a bit uneasy about her-insisted on stopping the car out of sight of the house and on leaving her in it. He’s shown into the waiting-room, and waits there—hears the Archbishop’s departure, hesitates, and finally decides to enter unannounced. The decision takes him a minute or two, and when he does go in, or perhaps even as he’s opening the door, Comstock’s shot.”

  Gambrell gave signs of a desire to interrupt; Anderson frustrated his objection.

  “Hope-Fairweather hadn’t seen who did the shooting, but he made sure Comstock was dead and he pinched the papers, as he admitted, and he cleared out as quickly as he could. Tact again-tact for his own career. He found Mrs. Arbuthnot back in the car, and off he drove, with nothing said on either side, so to speak. The next thing is, he’s asked to come over to the Home Office. He tells his ‘I-know-nothing ‘story—only to come up against the fact that the police know he had a lady with him. Obviously, he wonders how they know that—guesses that the fair Betty did not stay in the car all the time. After the interview he tackles Brackenthorpe—in the House, most likely-and extracts another fact or two-the slightly upward course of the bullet, for instance. On the other hand, Brackenthorpe suggests that the lady did the shooting, and sees that Hope-Fairweather has his doubts about her.

  “No doubt they both agree that the less said the better, but at the same time they fix up more or less between them the story which Hope-Fairweather is to tell if by any chance there’s a serious likelihood of a charge being brought against Mrs. Arbuthnot. Its chief and subtle point is this-that if Comstock was standing up when he was shot, then Mrs. Arbuthnot, from the garden, a much lower level, couldn’t possibly have done the shooting. That’s the essential point of the story. Its other implication was, I should think, not intended—I mean that to fire the shot at the suitable angle, laterally, Mrs. Arbuthnot would have had to walk right past the study window, towards the kitchen garden—”

  Gambrell pondered this theory.

  “Nope-Fairweather was taking a risk, on his own account, all the same,” he persisted, “if he invented the story about being in the room when Comstock was shot.”

  “Not particularly.” Anderson spoke in his most matter-of-fact tone. “Not if the Home Secretary promised him that he would make sure that it would be all right. And when Wimsey came along, the Home Secretary was as good as his word. He produced a story which satisfied Wimsey.”

  Anderson paused and laughed.

  “I dare say that what inspired our gallant chief,” he went on, “was Wimsey’s suggestion that the calling-in of the experts was the Home Secretary’s way of bottling the whole thing up. It suggested, don’t you see, that Wimsey was quite prepared to be bottled up himself. In fact, he made it pretty obvious to Hope-Fairweather—who obviously rang up Brackenthorpe immediately after Wimsey’s visit-and later to Brackenthorpe, too, that his sympathies were wholly with the man—or woman—who shot Comstock.”

  “That seems to hold together. But what about the lateral angle from which the shot was fired, if Hope-Fairweather’s story was true?”

  “Oh, that. Yes. Don’t you see, Gambrell, that that is yet another argument against Brackenthorpe’s story being true? He said he had a sudden idea of calling on Comstock on his way to Winborough. The angle of the bullet’s flight, according to Hope-Fairweather, means that Brackenthorpe’s car should have stopped almost at the far end of Comstock’s property, pretty well behind the trees there, and not square with the window. He’d surely have pulled up before that; and so, according to the policeman’s story, he-did. By the way, don’t forget that he had had this plan to study-I’m sure he’s never in his life been to Comstock’s house at all.”

  “Very well,” Gambrell said, as the other paused and relit his pipe. “Wash out Hope-Fairweather and Mrs. Arbuthnot-no, wait. If Hope-Fairweather’s lying, she may have done it after all.”

  “Shot Comstock while her uncle, so far as she knew, was practising his famous tact in the self-see room, and strolled away past’ the gardener and into the car, all by the time her uncle got back? No, I don’t see it. Much more likely she began to go to the study window, out of restless curiosity, saw Littleton in the drawing-room, and thought better of it. In any case, how could she get hold of a peculiar revolver? The fourth in the case, that would be. No, I say, cross her off and consider the next possible suspect.”

  “Scotney’s clear-though there are his finger-prints on the third revolver.”

  “Weeks since it was fired.” “I know. But how the devil—or why-did the revolver come to be where Sheringham found it?”

  “Well,” said Anderson slowly, “here’s a theory-no more than that. Suppose Hardy, alias Scotney, came into the house at twelve-fifteen, as he says, and suppose he tells the truth up to, say, a bit after twelve-twenty.”

  “More time-tables,” Gambrell groaned.

  “I know. I start now with the assumption that Lord Peter correctly decided the time of the Archbishop’s departure, and that Comstock was shot at about-well, I put it at about twelve-fifteen and a half just now. In any case, the time was virtually before Scotney came into the house-there’s Emily’s evidence to that. I suggest that Scotney went into the study at about twelve-twenty, with his pistol in his pocket; he may always carry it—bandits and that—or he may have got all worked up to finish off Comstock. Most likely the latter; and then he finds Comstock dead, and he loses his head a bit. I gather he’s a nervous sort of chap-his life-history shows that. He feels he must get rid of the pistol at once, so he gives it a hasty wipe over and pushes it up into the cornice-affair, and then he just steps quietly out again. Emily had finished putting away the silver by twelve-twenty, by the way. Anyhow, Scotney goes to Mills for his orders, Mills being back in his office by, say, twelve-twenty-two, and then gets on with his job in the ordinary way.”

  “And Scotney never recovers the revolver?”

  “No. On my theory he knew Comstock was dead. He didn’t give the alarm-naturally enough, if he had meant to kill him himself. He’d slip away and lie low—as soon as he’d seen Mills-hoping that the weapon wouldn’t be found, or that he’d get a chance, before it was found, to get rid of it. But of course the place was full of police as soon as the murder was reported—he’s never ‘had a really safe chance.”

  “And, as you say, there are his nerves. Yes, I think that is fully endorsed. I suppose you’d argue that as an ex-crime expert of the Comstock
Press it’s not astonishing that he had one of those revolvers.”

  “Comstock, I imagine, got his specimen through his undischarged expert, so why shouldn’t a discharged expert get one?”

  “I’ll give you Scotney.” said Gambrell generously. “And that brings us—let’s see-to Farrant the butler—Briggs the gardener-Emily-and the cook was about the place too, I fancy.”

  “No,” Anderson pronounced, “you must give me all of them.”

  “Expound.”

  “Why, even if Farrant and the cook and Emily were all in a sort of gunpowder plot, none of them could conceivably have risked crossing the passage with Mills showing out the Archbishop, and with the knowledge that at any moment another visitor might be shown into the study. As for Briggs—no, that’s almost as unbelievable. Remember, he saw a lady wandering about the garden.”

  “Why not suspect the servants, in spite of the crowd on the premises? You’re prepared to suspect Littleton, and what applies to Farrant applies to him—”

  “Psychology, my dear Watson. An Assistant Commissioner of Police knows that he isn’t a suspicious character, just because he’s Assistant Commissioner of Police. The same can’t be said of a butler. Especially a butler who’s already left one bullet in the study wall.”

  There was a short silence.

  “Then it comes to this,” said Gambrell, “that there’s only Littleton left on our List of Possibles.”

  Anderson shrugged his shoulders.

  “I didn’t say so,” he said. “I’m quite prepared to believe that Comstock was shot from outside, and that he was sitting down when he was shot. Sitting in his chair and facing just about south-west—”

  “’With his back to the writing-desk,” Gambrell remarked scornfully. “What earthly reason—”

  “Keep calm,” Anderson begged. “If only you had allowed me to go through the file in the regular way, you wouldn’t have lost sight of several essential facts.”

  “What are they?”

  “You’ve forgotten the thing which Mills forgot. And you’ve not observed that by proving the Home Secretary a liar, we’ve proved that one of his subordinates is, too.”