The Division Bell Mystery

by Ellen Wilkinson

  “These facts are correct, I take it, Inspector. Have you any further details?”

  Blackitt glanced at the pile of newspapers on the desk.

  “You have the later editions, sir, with the news of the burglary at Mr Oissel’s flat and the death of Jenks?”

  “Yes. Poor Jenks! It really is a most extraordinary business. I never interfere in police cases, Blackitt, but as bigger issues than the deaths of these two unfortunate men may be involved, I have asked your Chief to let you keep in touch with me.”

  “Very good, sir.” Inspector Blackitt felt a warm glow inside himself. Even to one of the crack detectives of Scotland Yard the chief permanent secretary is as a god in some far-away heaven. To be brought under his direct notice was a piece of good fortune that Blackitt appreciated at its true worth.

  Sir George picked up the Daily Deliverer. “This seems to have the fullest report and will serve as a basis. I haven’t seen the Home Secretary since this happened. The dinner with Mr Oissel was a purely private affair, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr West arranged it for the Home Secretary.”

  “What had West to do with it?” inquired Sir George sharply. Like all civil servants of importance he detested these political private secretaryships, which carried no responsibility, but conferred such close personal access to the Minister.

  “Mr West said that it was a personal matter, and had nothing to do with the Home Office.”

  “I see.” It would have taken a three-volume treatise to expound all the criticism of such folly expressed in that remark.

  “As far as I can gather, sir, Mr Oissel was unwilling to come at first. He never went out to social functions.”

  “Then why was this an exception?”

  “That I don’t know. Mr West said that I must ask the Home Secretary. Perhaps you had better do that, sir.”

  Sir George grunted impatiently. “But has anyone any idea why he should come to the House of Commons to dine and then commit suicide almost under his host’s nose?”

  “If he did commit suicide, sir!”

  Sir George looked up startled. “If he did? What on earth do you mean? Is there any doubt about it? The papers all say that he committed suicide with a revolver that was found by his side.”

  “It may be convenient to let the Press go on saying so, until we see our way a bit clearer, but there are several features about the case that puzzle me.”

  “You and our experts have applied all the usual tests, of course?”

  “Oh, yes, and that’s the difficulty. The pieces don’t fit the suicide theory.”

  “Doesn’t the bullet fit the gun?”

  “Same make, and the cartridge-case is in the revolver, which had certainly been fired. The muzzle was blackened.”

  “Well, then?”

  “But when a man commits suicide, sir, he invariably holds the revolver close to his body, head, or heart, or mouth, or wherever he shoots himself. Then the clothes or the flesh against which the gun has been pressed show the mark of the scorch of the flash.”

  “Invariably?”

  “May I show you, sir?” Blackitt took a matchbox from his pocket. “Now look, sir,” he said as he struck a match down so that the tip touched the blotting-paper as it lit. “You see that mark of the flame, sir. However quickly you do that, you can’t avoid leaving the mark on the blotting-paper. In the same way you can’t avoid the scorch mark of the flash of a revolver if it is pressed against clothes or skin when it is fired.”

  Sir George tried the experiment himself. “Yes, I see,” he said thoughtfully, “but need the revolver have been pressed against the body in this case? Could Mr Oissel not have held it away from himself when he fired?”

  “It’s just possible, though not likely, that there might be no scorch mark if a man was shooting himself through the mouth, as is usually done, but the heart is different. A man would want to feel where his heart was beating before he fired. He would have to press the gun against himself or it is very doubtful whether he would do the job properly. And that is another point, sir. Suicides don’t shoot themselves in the body if they really mean to finish the job. It’s too risky. The bullet may go anywhere, and they may just land themselves in hospital for a few weeks.”

  “And Mr Oissel was no stranger to a revolver, I should imagine.”

  “No, sir. From inquiries we have made he seems to have been a pretty tough lot in his younger days, and very handy with a gun. Though, of course, he has been a cripple since that time he was shot up so badly in Detroit.”

  “Would that affect his ability to shoot?”

  “Oh, no, sir. As far as I can find out from his man, it was only in the legs that he was so badly crippled. He moved with very great difficulty.”

  “That would make it easier for some one else to shoot him, but who was there to do it?”

  “That is the mystery, Sir George. Mr Oissel was alone in the room, Mr West says, when he and Mr Shaw and the waiter went in, the moment they heard the shot.”

  “Could anyone have got into the room between the time of the Home Secretary leaving and Mr West entering the room?”

  “They could have got in easily enough, I should think. It was a busy night in the Harcourt room, lots of strangers about—any properly dressed person might have passed as a guest, but he couldn’t have got out again without Mr West seeing him.”

  “Not by the windows?”

  Inspector Blackitt smiled. “You know those windows on to the Terrace, sir. They’re so narrow that it would be impossible for a man to squeeze through without attracting a great deal of attention. And it was fine at the time, and quite light. People were walking about on the Terrace. But in any case the windows were fastened on the inside, and you know what powerful hasps there are on them. No one could have got out that way and locked them after himself.”

  Sir George packed his pipe thoughtfully, and passed his pouch and a cigarette-box across to Blackitt, who took a cigarette. “Suppose some one went into the room after the Home Secretary had left, shot him, got away, and made a fake shot near by, so that that was the one that Mr West heard. Have you thought of that?” Inspector Blackitt was a well-trained man. He kept his face perfectly straight and even assumed a polite interest in so startling a theory.

  “That ought to be considered as a possibility, sir. A quite ingenious theory, if I may say so, but there are one or two difficulties. No other shot was heard, and the sensation that this one made shows that it is unlikely another one could have passed unnoticed even at that crowded hour. I think there’s no doubt that the shot Mr West heard was the shot that killed Mr Oissel.”

  “It was just a casual theory of mine. We all like to play at your job, Blackitt. But then who did fire the shot? The only person who was in the room and had a revolver—but, by the way, was it Mr Oissel’s revolver?”

  “Yes, sir. Daubisq has identified that. And it has Mr Oissel’s initials engraved on it.”

  “Curious, that. And what about fingerprints?”

  “The only ones are Mr Oissel’s own and Mr West’s.”

  “Mr West’s?”

  “He picked up the gun as it lay on the floor when he found the body. But his are very light fingermarks, not made with the pressure that would have been necessary to fire the gun. But of course gloves might have been worn by whoever fired it.”

  “But you don’t believe it was suicide?”

  “I do not, sir, not from the tests our experts have made.”

  “Then we can’t leave it at that. The Government at any rate must know the truth or we should all be sitting on a mine that might go up at the most awkward moment. I trust to your experience and judgment in this matter, Blackitt. Now about the burglary at the flat. Jenks was lent to Mr Oissel as a personal bodyguard when he refused police protection. Why was he not with him at the House?”

  �
�Mr Oissel seems to have been much more anxious about his papers than himself,” said Blackitt, “and he disliked personal protection when away from home, even from Jenks. He went out very seldom, as far as I can find out, except on official business.”

  “Of course one can’t say ‘I told you so’ to a dead man, but——” and Sir George’s tone conveyed his view of what he really thought about foreign visitors who wouldn’t do as they were told by the perfect British police department and so got themselves into messes like this. Sir George remained silent for a while, leaning forward and tapping an inkwell with a pencil. Blackitt’s eyes wandered round the big, sombre room. He had never seen this inner sanctum of High Authority before. Even to his professional eyes the room seemed gloomy. Huge books on the shelves proclaimed the majesty of the law in many thousands of pages. Sir George’s desk seemed more like a monument than an article of furniture. The severely plain mantelpiece with its heavy slabs of white marble suggested the entry to a tomb rather than the appointed framework for a cheerful fire. But what interested him most was a printed form, with a black border, pasted on to cardboard, which was propped up on the mantelpiece.

  In thick black type across the top was printed “Death Sentences.” And there were seven names written on the lines beneath. Blackitt was professionally interested to see the other end of his work. He helped to track down criminals and hand them over to the law. The last stage but one of the process was the name of his captive neatly written on this card. It was one of the many duties of Sir George Gleeson to decide which of them should proceed to the last stage of all. With the pride of the good technician the Inspector began to wonder whether he would be able to add another one or perhaps two names to the list as a result of this case. Directly under Sir George, too. He was in luck.

  Sir George ceased rapping with his pencil and turned to him.

  “Well, I’m glad this matter is in your hands, Blackitt. Keep me informed at each stage. I’ll see the Home Secretary, as I said, and if he knows anything that is likely to help you I am sure he will be anxious to give you the facts.”

  “I had an appointment with the Home Secretary at twelve, sir.”

  “Oh, yes, you said so. I had forgotten. I had better relieve you of that. Perhaps he will see you later. When will the inquest be?”

  “The day after to-morrow at twelve, sir.”

  “You will ask for an adjournment, of course?”

  “Yes, sir. We shall only offer formal evidence then.”

  “Good, I’ll see you before that. Probably later on to-day. Oh, by the way, you’ve got a guard on Room J?”

  “I have given orders that it must not be left night or day, sir.”

  “Useful precaution. What are you going to do now?”

  “If you are seeing the Home Secretary, sir, I think I will go to Mr Oissel’s flat at Charlton Court for a short time. I haven’t been able to go over the clues there yet, but I’ve put a good man in charge until I come.”

  “Very well, then. Good morning, and good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Inspector Blackitt’s jaw set as he walked out into the corridor. The great Sir George had put the matter in his hands. He would show him. Promotion seemed very near to Inspector Blackitt just then.

  CHAPTER V

  Robert West walked sedately up the central staircase of the Home Office at ten-thirty on the morning after the crime, but in spirit he was bounding up three at a time, impatient to hear whether there was any further news. There seemed to be possibilities of a reasonably exciting time. All sorts of theories were jumbling together in his mind when he suddenly bumped into a man who was standing at the top of the staircase.

  “I beg your pardon… oh, it’s you, Kinnaird! Awfully sorry, I didn’t see you. My mind was so full of last night.”

  “I don’t wonder. I should apologize for waylaying you like this, but I was anxious to have a word with you before you went to your room.”

  “Of course.” West leant against the stone balustrade. “Are you in on the great mystery, or have you called to assure us that no party capital is to be made out of the affair?”

  “I’m hardly in a position to do that, am I?” smiled Kinnaird. “But what party capital can be made of it? Of course, it’s most unfortunate, but every one will be very sympathetic to the Home Secretary.”

  “You’re more of an optimist than a politician if you think that’s all, Kinnaird. Anything you want me to do for you?”

  “Well, I hope I shall be forgiven. I’ve taken a lady to your room.”

  “No more mysteries, Kinnaird, for heaven’s sake! If you want to stage a murder or a suicide, plant it on the Ministry of Health. The poor old H.O. has had enough wished on it for one week.”

  “But the lady is Georges Oissel’s granddaughter.”

  “Good Lord, Kinnaird, I can’t stand a weeping woman on top of everything else! Besides, damn it all, why should I? I didn’t murder the man, and I can’t tell her who did.”

  Kinnaird looked at him quickly. “Murder? The papers all say it was suicide. Wasn’t it?”

  West could have kicked himself for the slip. “Of course it was suicide. Couldn’t have been anything else. But by the time the police have finished with a fellow, he’s nearly convinced that he did the deed himself. Why does the lady want to see me?”

  “To be very frank, she doesn’t. She wants to see the Home Secretary. She is a great friend of mine and I promised to help her in any way I could. You will see why when you meet her. But she isn’t a tearful Madonna. You’d find her easier to deal with if she were.”

  With this not too hopeful description Kinnaird stood aside while West opened the door of his room, and then he said charmingly: “Annette, this is Mr Robert West.”

  West blinked his eyes as though some one had turned on an arc-light in his dingy little room. Women who could afford to spend £2000 a year on their clothes and pay a £300 salary to an expert dresser were not included among his acquaintances. Though dressed in black, Annette Oissel’s elegance somehow gave the impression of brilliant colour. She did not rise at the introduction, but held out her hand. Bob bowed over it, and began rather nervously: “I offer my most sincere sympathy, Miss Oissel. I can’t say how distressed we all are.”

  “Thank you, Mr West. I’m sure of it.” Miss Oissel spoke with a French accent and a slightly American intonation. “A charming note from the Home Secretary was delivered to me this morning.”

  “Good. I’m glad the old boy thought of that,” said West to himself, but privately he was a little annoyed that he had not had the pleasure of reminding his Chief of this duty. Aloud he said: “If there’s anything I can do for you, please tell me.”

  “Thank you so much. I want to see the Home Secretary, alone if possible. Can you manage that for me? Mr Kinnaird says that it is very difficult to see a Minister just now.”

  “I’m sure the Home Secretary will be delighted.” Robert took up the telephone receiver conscious that the best service that he could render his Chief was somehow to save him from this interview, but he did not see how that could be done. He got through to the Minister’s personal secretary, and while waiting for a reply took the opportunity to study his visitor discreetly. No, she was not beautiful, as he had thought at first glance. Her face was too thin, her cheek-bones too high. But what chic! West did not know much about women’s clothes, but he dimly realized the beauty and costliness of Annette Oissel’s perfectly tailored black frock. She wore a cubist necklace of cut steel, of a design that was repeated in the clasp of her handbag and the buckles of her shoes. Her slim elegance from the tilt of her fashionably cocked hat to the tip of her unusual shoes made Robert wonder vaguely what one said to a woman like this.

  The voice on the telephone called him. A rapid conversation, then Robert put down the receiver and turned to the lady. “The Home Secretary is in conference at the moment, but he will see you as
soon as he can get away for a few minutes. You will understand the difficulty, I am sure, Miss Oissel.”

  “But of course. I am so grateful. A few minutes is all I want.” She sat silent, looking down at her handbag.

  West pulled himself together. If he were going to be useful to Blackitt he had better start now and take the opportunity of getting some first-hand information while he had before him the only person who could give it. He wished she had come alone. It might be awkward if one found out too much with Kinnaird sitting there. Curious that she should be so quiet. How had Oissel’s death affected her? She would be the old man’s heiress most probably. Was she upset by his death? Why did she not question him, the man who had first seen her grandfather dead. Of course she must know that. It had been in all the papers—photos of himself too. He must break the ice.

  “Forgive my asking you, Miss Oissel,” he began rather nervously. “You did not live with your grandfather?”

  “Oh, no, I have a flat of my own in Clarges Street.”

  “I don’t want to seem to butt in, Miss Oissel, between you and the Home Secretary, I mean—but as his Parliamentary secretary and as one of the chief witnesses I have rather a special interest.”

  “Of course, West, we realize that,” Kinnaird interrupted.

  West noted the ‘we.’ Annette said nothing; her attention remained fixed on the clasp of her handbag.

  “Well, er, what I mean to say is this. You realize, Miss Oissel, as I know you do, Kinnaird, that Mr Oissel’s death under such circumstances may cause the deuce of a mess all round.”

  Kinnaird murmured something sympathetic, but Annette remained silent.