“Betts,” said Hadley. “Betts—oh yes. Did you get a picture of the dead man’s face?”
“Yes, sir. They’ve set up the outfit in that Tower place, and the pictures are drying now. Ready in two seconds, sir.”
“Right. Take a copy of that picture and show it to all the people listed here; the warder will show you where they are. Ask them if they saw him today; when and where. Be particular about anybody they may have seen in the vicinity of the Traitors’ Gate at any time, or anybody acting suspiciously. Mr. Dalrye, I should be obliged if you would go along and make shorthand notes of anything important. Thanks. And—”
Dalrye rose, reaching for pencil and notebook.
“I want particularly to know, Betts, where they were between one-thirty and one-forty-five o’clock. That’s vital. Mr. Dalrye, will you kindly ask Mrs. Lester Bitton to step in here?”
VI
The Souvenir Crossbow Bolt
“NOW, THEN,” Hadley pursued. Again with meticulous attention he straightened the pencil, the notebook, and the flashlight before him. “The police surgeon will bring in the contents of Driscoll’s pockets, and we can have a good look at the weapon. I’ll leave it up to the chief warder to take charge of questioning the warders about whether they saw anything. How many warders are there altogether, General?”
“Forty.”
“H’m. It’s unlikely that Driscoll would have strayed far from the vicinity of the King’s House; he was waiting for that phone call. Still, we shall have to go through with it.”
General Mason bit off the end of a cigar. “If you’re going to question the whole personnel of the Tower,” he observed, “that’s the least of your worries. There is a battalion of the Guards stationed here, you know, to say nothing of workmen and attendants and servants.”
“If necessary,” Hadley answered, placidly, “we’ll do it. Now, gentlemen. Before we see Mrs. Bitton, suppose we try to clarify our ideas. Let’s go around the circle here, and see what we all have to say. Sir William, what strikes you about the case?”
He addressed the knight, but out of the corner of his eye he was looking at Dr. Fell. The doctor, Rampole noted, again with vague irritation, was otherwise occupied. A large, damp, shaggy Airedale, with affectionate eyes and a manner as naive as the doctor’s, had wandered into the room and bounded instantly for Dr. Fell. The Airedale was sitting up, ears cocked expectantly, while the doctor bent over to ruffle his head.
Rampole tried to collect muddled thoughts. He was here purely by chance, and he had somehow to justify his presence. When Hadley again mentioned the weapon a moment ago, it stirred some question which had been at the back of his brain since Dalrye had read out the warder’s description of the type of crossbow bolt with which Driscoll was slain. He saw once more the thin, polished steel protruding from the dead man’s chest, and the question in his mind grew sharper. He was not sure he could explain it.
Sir William was speaking now. His face was still dull, but the deadness of shock was beginning to pass from it. Before long he would be again his sharp, jerky, impetuous self.
“That’s easy,” he said, twisting the ends of his white scarf. “You can’t miss it. It’s the absolute lack of motive. Nobody in the world had the slightest reason for killing Philip. If there was anything you could safely say about him, it was that everybody liked him.”
“Yes. But you’re forgetting one thing,” Hadley pointed out. “We’re dealing in some fashion with a madman. It’s useless to deny that this hat thief is mixed up in it. Whether he killed Philip Driscoll or not, he seems to have put that hat on his head. Now, from what Dalrye said, it’s clear that Driscoll was on the hat-man’s track pretty closely.”
“But, good God, man! You can’t seriously suggest that this fellow killed Philip because Philip found out who he was! That’s absurd.”
“Quite. But worth looking into. Therefore, what’s our obvious move?”
Sir William’s hooded eyelids dropped. “I see. Philip was turning in regular copy to his newspaper. One of his articles appeared today, in the morning edition. That means he turned it in last night. And if he went to the office, he may have told his editor something?”
“Precisely. That’s our first fine of inquiry. If by any wild chance his agitation today was caused by some sort of threat, it would probably have been sent to the office; or at least he might have mentioned it there. It’s worth trying.”
There was a deep, delighted chuckle. Hadley looked up in some annoyance, to see Dr. Fell stroking the dog’s head and beaming at him with one eye closed.
“Rubbish,” said Dr. Fell.
“Indeed?” said the chief inspector, with heavy politeness. “Would you mind telling us why?”
The doctor made a capacious gesture. “Hadley, you know your own game, Heaven knows. But you don’t know the newspaper business. I, for my sins, do. Did you ever hear the story of the cub reporter whose first assignment was to cover a big Pacifist meeting in the West End? Well, he came back with a doleful face. ‘Where’s your story?’ says the city editor. ‘I couldn’t get one,’ says the cub; ‘there wasn’t any meeting.’ ‘No meeting?’ says the city editor. ‘Why not?’ ‘Well,’ says the cub, ‘the first speaker had no sooner got started than somebody threw a brick at him. And then Lord Dinwiddie fell through the bass drum, and a fight started all around the platform, and they began hitting each other over the head with the chairs, and when I saw the Black Maria at the door I knew there wouldn’t be any more meeting, so I left.’”
Dr. Fell shook his head sadly. “That’s the sort of picture you’re drawing, Hadley. Man, don’t you see that if Driscoll had found out anything, or particularly been threatened, it would have been news? News in capitals. HAT FIEND THREATENS DAILY SOMETHING MAN. Certainly he’d have mentioned it at the office; he was trying desperately to get on the staff, wasn’t he? And the stupidest cub in Fleet Street wouldn’t have passed up such an opportunity. Rest assured you’d have seen it today on the first page.”
“He mightn’t,” Hadley said, irritably, “if he had been as nervous as he seems to have been. He’d have kept it to himself.”
“Wait a bit. You’re wrong there,” put in Sir William. “Give the boy his due. Whatever he was, he wasn’t a coward. His upsets never came because he feared any sort of violence; he was only upset over—well, messes, as you’ve heard.”
“But he said—”
“That isn’t the point, you see,” Dr. Fell said, patiently. “To publish anything of the sort couldn’t have done any harm. They might say they’d found a vital clue, or that there had been a threat. The first would only warn their victim. The second would have been more publicity, which the hat fellow wanted in the first place; look at the way he acts. It would have done no harm, and assuredly it would have helped young Driscoll’s job.”
“Suppose he’d actually found out who the man was, though?”
“Why, the newspaper would have communicated with the police, and Driscoll would have got the credit and more assignments. Do you seriously think anybody would have been afraid, at the time, of a person who seemed to be a mere genial practical joker? No, no. You’re letting the hat on the corpse run away with your own sense of humor. It’s unbalanced you. There’s another explanation, I think. I’m willing to agree with Sir William’s statement that the boy wasn’t a coward; but what was it he did fear? There’s a tip. Think it over.”
Grunting, he returned his attention to the dog.
“I have something to say to you in a moment,” the chief inspector told him. “But, for the moment, let’s continue. Have you any suggestions, General?”
General Mason had been smoking glumly. He took the cigar out of his mouth and shook his head.
“None whatever. Except that it’s fairly obvious now he was stabbed and not shot with that bolt. That’s what I’d thought all along.”
“Mr. Rampole?” Hadley saw that the American was ill at ease, and he raised his eyebrows encouragingly. “You’ve said n
othing at all so far, which is wise. Any ideas?”
Three pairs of eyes were fixed on him, and he tried to be casual under the scrutiny. This might be the test as to whether he heard anything more of the case after today. He couldn’t keep shoving his ideas at them like a cocksure schoolboy; and when he was asked for them, he had to talk sense.
“There was something,” he said, feeling his voice a trifle unsteady. “Though it’s probably not important. It’s this. The crossbow bolt didn’t come from the collection here, and one of the warders said its pattern was late fourteenth century. Now, it isn’t probable, is it, that Driscoll was really killed with a steel bolt made in thirteen hundred and something?” He hesitated. “I used to dabble a bit with arms and armor; one of the finest collections in the world is at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. In a bolt so old as that one, the steel would be far gone in corrosion. Would it be possible to get that bright polish and temper of the one used to kill Driscoll? It looks new, and not thinned at all. If I remember correctly, you have no arms exhibits here previous to the fifteenth century. And even your early-fifteenth-century helmets are worn to a sort of rusty shell.”
There was a silence. “I begin to see,” nodded the chief inspector. “You mean that the bolt is of recent manufacture. And if it is—?”
“Well, sir, if it is, who made it? Certainly there aren’t many smiths turning out crossbow bolts of fourteenth-century pattern. It may be a curio of some kind, or there may be somebody who does it for amusement or for decorative purposes. I don’t suppose it was made here?”
“By Gad!” General Mason said, softly, “I believe he’s got something. No. No, young man, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t made here, or they’d have mentioned it.”
Hadley made a note in his black book. “It’s a long shot,” he remarked, shaking his head, “but undoubtedly there’s something in it. Good work! Now we come to my usually garrulous colleague, Dr. Fell. For Lord’s sake,” he snapped, in exasperation, “let that damned dog alone, will you, and try to pay some attention? What are your erudite comments on the testimony we’ve heard?”
Dr. Fell cocked his head on one side. He seemed to meditate.
“The testimony,” he repeated, as though he were coming upon a new angle of the case. “Ah yes. The testimony. Why, I’m afraid I wasn’t paying a great deal of attention to it. However, I do want to ask one question.”
“That’s gratifying. What is it?”
“This hat.” He picked up the topper and flourished it. “I suppose you noticed. When it was put on the boy’s head, it slid down over his ears like the bowler on a Hebrew comedian in a comedy. Of course, he’s very small, Sir William, and you’re tall. But you have rather a long and narrow head. Wasn’t it too large even for you?”
“Too—” The other looked bewildered. “Why, no! No, it wasn’t too large. Hold on, though. I remember now. When I was trying on hats at the shop, I remember one I tried on, among others, was too large. But the one they sent me was quite all right, a good fit.”
“Well, would you mind putting this one on?”
Sir William sat back. For a moment he seemed about to stretch out his hand, as General Mason took the hat from Dr. Fell and passed it across. Then he sat rigid.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said through his teeth. “I—sorry, but I can’t do it.”
“Well, well, it’s of no consequence,” Dr. Fell said, genially. He took back the hat, pressed it down so that it collapsed, and fanned his ruddy face with it. “Not for the moment, anyhow. Who are your hatters?”
“Steele’s, in Regent Street. Why?”
“Mrs. Lester Bitton,” said a voice at the door. The warder on guard pushed it open.
Mrs. Bitton was not backward. She came into the room with an assurance which betokened a free stride, and she radiated energy. Mrs. Bitton was a slim woman in the late twenties, with a sturdy, well-shaped figure like a swimmer’s. If on close observation she was not exactly pretty, health and vigor made her seem so. Even in winter she seemed to have a suspicion of tan; she had level, rather shining brown eyes, a straight nose, and a humorous but determined mouth. Her light-brown hair was caught under the tilt of a tight blue hat; beneath a broad fur collar the tight-fitting coat showed off her full breasts and rather voluptuous hips. As she caught sight of Sir William she became less assured. The level eyes grew somber.
“Hallo!” she said. The voice was quick and self-determined. “Bob didn’t tell me you were here. I’m sorry you got here so soon.” She studied him, and added, with complete seriousness, “You’re not built for this sort of thing nowadays. It’s bad for you. You ought to take it easy.”
Sir William performed the introductions, and sat down again with the air of one who says, “You see? These modern women!” Rampole set out a chair for her beside Hadley’s desk. She sat down, subjected them all to an inspection, took a cigarette out of her purse, and lit it before anybody could offer her a match.
“So you’re Mr. Hadley,” she observed, studying him with her head slightly back. Then she looked at Sir William. “I’ve heard Will speak of you.” Once more she made a cool inspection of everybody in the room, finally craning round the better to see Dr. Fell. “And these are your inspectors or something. I’m afraid I kicked up rather a row across the way. It was stuffy in there, and some impossible woman kept talking to me. But then I didn’t know. Even when Bob told me—told me it was Phil, I didn’t believe him.”
Despite her assurance Rampole got a definite impression that she was nervous and that she had made this strong initial rush to carry her over some sort of barrier. She knocked some ashes on the floor, and kept tapping her cigarette over it afterwards.
Hadley was impassive. “You know the circumstances, Mrs. Bitton?”
“What Bob was able to tell me. Poor Phil! I’d like to—” She paused, seeming to meditate punishments for a murderer, and jerked her hand to dislodge non-existent ashes from the cigarette. “Of course it was absurd asking me to fill out that silly paper. As though I had to explain.”
“It was merely a matter of form. However, you understand that all the people who were here near the time of the tragedy must be questioned. We brought you here first,” Hadley smiled, “because we wanted to get the routine business over with as soon as possible.”
“Of course I understand that. I’ve read detective stories.” She looked at him sharply. “When was Phil killed?”
“We’ll come to that in a moment, Mrs. Bitton.” Hadley smiled and made an urbane gesture. “Let’s get things in order, if you don’t mind. To begin with, I dare say this isn’t the first time you’ve visited the Tower? Naturally, you’re interested in the—er—historic treasures of the place?”
A rather humorous look crept into her face. “That’s a gentleman’s way of asking me my business,” she approved. The eyes wandered to Sir William. “I imagine Will has already told you about me. He thinks I haven’t any interest in musty ruins and things like that.”
General Mason was stung. The word “ruins” had shocked him. He took the cigar out of his mouth.
“Madam,” he interposed, warmly, “if you will excuse my reminding you—”
“Certainly,” she agreed, with a bright smile, and looked back at Hadley. “However, that’s not true. I do like them. I like to think about those people in armor, and the tournaments and things, and fights; provided nobody tries to give me a lot of dates or tell me what happened in them. I can’t tell one king from another, and why should I? That’s all out of date, as Lester says. But I was going to tell you why I was here. It wasn’t the Tower, exactly. It was the walk.”
“The walk?”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Hadley,” she observed, critically, and took a cool survey of him, “that you don’t walk enough. Good for you. Keeps you fit. Lester is getting a paunch; that’s why I take him on walking tours as often as he’ll let me. We just came back yesterday from a walking trip in the West Country. So today I decided to walk from Berkeley Square t
o the Tower of London.”
Now she had succeeded in stinging Hadley, and she seemed unconscious of it. But the chief inspector only nodded.
“Of course I couldn’t persuade Lester to come along. Lester is a Conservative. He is always upset over the state of the country. Every morning he looks at the newspaper, says, ‘Oh my God,’ and broods all day until he has his liver-trouble. I had him on a walking tour in the south of France last summer, and he was grousing about it every minute. So I came down here alone. And then I thought, ‘So long as I’m here, I might as well look at the place.’”
She explained this carefully, almost querulously, and straightened her supple body in the chair.
“I see. Do you remember what time you arrived?”
“’M. I’m not sure. Is it important?”
“I should appreciate an answer, Mrs. Bitton.”
She stiffened. “One o’clock or some time afterwards, I fancy. I had a sandwich in the refreshment-room up by the gate. That was where I bought the tickets for the towers; three of ’em. A white one, a pink one, and a green one.”
Hadley glanced at General Mason. The latter said, “For the White Tower, the Bloody Tower, and the Crown Jewels. There’s an admission fee for those.”
“’M, yes. Did you use these tickets, Mrs. Bitton?”
She held the cigarette motionless before her lips. For a moment, the movement of her full breast was quicker. Then her lip curled slightly. Hadley had remained impassive, but he had picked up his pencil.
“I had a look at the Crown Jewels,” she replied, with an expression of candor. “I didn’t think they were so”—she searched her memory—“so hot. They looked like glass to me. And I’ll bet they’re not real, either.”
General Mason’s face had assumed a brickish hue, and a strangled noise issued from him. Then he controlled himself and went on smoking in vicious puffs.
“May I ask why you didn’t use the other tickets, Mrs. Bitton?”
“Oh Lord, how should I know? I didn’t feel like it, I suppose; I changed my mind.” She slid her body about in the chair, seeming to have lost interest. But her eyes looked strained. “I did wander about a bit in that inner courtyard up there, where the big stone buildings are, and the ravens. I liked the look of the soldiers. And I talked to one nice old Beefeater.”
The Mad Hatter Mystery Page 8