The Mad Hatter Mystery

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by The Mad Hatter Mystery (retail) (epub)


  Dr. Fell grunted. “Ha,” he said. “Your analogy, while classical, supports me rather than you. It seems to me, Hadley, that you are the one who is going about grimly determined to discover who put the barrister’s wig on the cab horse. I’m exactly the detective you want. Besides, schoolboys are much more ingenious than that. Now, an outhouse of medium weight, carefully substituted for the statue of the headmaster on the night before the public unveiling of the latter—”

  General Mason shook his head. “Personally,” he observed, frowning at his cigar, “I remember my own schoolboy holidays in France. And I have always maintained that there is nothing more edifying than the experiment of placing a red lamp over the door of the mayor’s house in a district full of sailors. Ahem!”

  “Go ahead,” Hadley said, bitterly. “Have a good time. I suppose if this case hadn’t wound up in a murder you’d be stealing hats yourselves, and thinking up new places to hang them.”

  Dr. Fell rapped one of his canes sharply across the table. “Man,” he said, “I tell you in all seriousness that it’s less than a joke. If you were able to think along those lines, along the hat man’s lines, you’d see the explanation of at least one thing you regard as gibberish. You might know the whole explanation.”

  “Do you know it?”

  “I rather think I do,” Dr. Fell replied, modestly.

  The general was frowning with an uncertain air. “Excuse me, sir,” he said to Dr. Fell, “if I intrude on something that’s none of my business. But, since this seems to be a sort of council of war, may I ask who you are? I don’t think you’re a police official. And yet you seem familiar, somehow; I’ve been puzzling about it all afternoon. It seems to me that I’ve met you somewhere, or seen you—”

  Dr. Fell contemplated his pipe. For a time he wheezed heavily.

  “I’m not sure what I am,” he said. “Some people would say a Fossil. But in a manner of speaking you have come in contact with me, General. That would be some years ago. Do you remember Allerton, the naturalist?”

  The general’s hand stopped with the cigar halfway to his lips.

  “He was a good man, Allerton was,” Dr. Fell said, reflectively. “He’d been sending some beautiful and intricate drawings of butterflies to a friend of his in Switzerland. The patterns of the wings were perfect, in their way. They were plans of the British minefields in the Solent. But he got his Latin a trifle mixed in the notations. His real name was Sturmm, and I believe he was shot here in the Tower. I—er—accounted for him.”

  A rumbling sound apparently indicated a sigh.

  “Then there was good old Professor Rogers, of the University of Chicago. If he’d known just a bit more about American history I don’t think I should have been certain. I’ve forgotten his name, but he played a good game of chess and had a sound liking for drinking bouts; I was sorry to see him go. He used to carry his information written infinitesimally small on the lenses of his spectacles. Or perhaps you recall little Ruth Wilisdale? I was her dear father-confessor. She would have a snapshot of herself taken at Portsmouth, with the newest thing in gun designs just in the background; but I hoped she wouldn’t try to use it. If she hadn’t shot that poor clerk, for no reason except that he was in love with her, I should have let her go.”

  Dr. Fell blinked at the steel crossbow bolt.

  “But that was in the line of duty. I’m older now. Hadley insisted on that business of Cripps, the Notting Hill poisoner; and that chap Loganray, with the mirror inside his watch; and the Starberth affair was rather forced on me. But I don’t like it. Heh. Hmf. No.”

  There was a knock at the door. Rampole, to whom all this was a revelation, jerked his thoughts back.

  “Pardon me,” said a calm, slightly edged voice. “I’ve knocked several times, and there seemed to be no answer. You sent for me, I think. If you don’t mind, I’ll come in.”

  Rampole had been wondering what to expect from the enigmatic Mr. Julius Arbor. He remembered Sir William’s description earlier that afternoon: “Reserved, scholarly, a trifle sardonic.” The American had been vaguely expecting some one tall and thin and swarthy, with a hooked nose. The man who entered now, slowly drawing off his gloves and looking about with cool curiosity, was somewhat swarthy. And in every movement he was austere. But that was all.

  Mr. Arbor was not above middle height, and he was inclined towards pudginess. He was perfectly dressed, too well dressed: there was a white piqué edging to the front of his waistcoat, and a small pearl pin in his tie. His face was flattish, with heavy black eyebrows; and the rimless eyeglasses were such delicate shells that they seemed to blend with his eyes. At the moment he had an air of tolerance and false pleasantry. His expression, as he regarded Dr. Fell, conveyed surprise without a muscle moving in his face; conveyed it by a sort of aura.

  “Am I addressing Chief Inspector Hadley?” he inquired.

  “Good day,” said Dr. Fell, waving his hand affably. “I’m in charge of the investigation, if that’s what you mean. Sit down. I presume you’re Mr. Arbor.”

  Dr. Fell hardly presented an imposing picture of a dreaded police official. The front of his waistcoat was littered with tobacco ash and dog’s hair, and the Airedale itself now wandered over and lay down beside him. Arbor’s eyes narrowed slightly. But he shifted his umbrella from the crook of one arm to hang it over the other; he moved across to the chair, inspected it for dust, and sat down. Carefully he removed his soft pearl-gray hat, placed it in his lap, and waited.

  “That’s better,” said the doctor. “Now we can begin.” From his pocket he took his battered cigar case and extended it. “Smoke?”

  “Thank you, no,” the other answered. His manner appeared to be the utmost in courtesy. He waited until Dr. Fell had replaced the disreputable case. Then he produced an elaborately chased silver cigarette case of his own, containing long and slender cigarettes with a cork tip. Snapping on a silver lighter, he applied it to a cigarette with nicety; then with all deliberation replaced lighter and case. He waited again.

  So did Dr. Fell. The doctor studied him sleepily, hands folded over his stomach. He appeared to have endless patience. Arbor seemed to grow a trifle restless. He cleared his throat.

  “I do not wish to hurry you, Inspector,” he said at length, “but I should like to point out that I have been put to considerable inconvenience this afternoon. So far I have complied without hesitation to all requests. If you will tell me what you wish to know, I shall be happy to assist you in any way I can.”

  His voice was not precisely condescending. But he tried to convey an effect by concealing it. Dr. Fell nodded.

  “Got any Poe manuscripts?” he inquired, rather like a customs officer asking for contraband.

  The question was so sudden that Arbor stiffened. Hadley gave a faint groan.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Arbor, after a slight hesitation.

  “Got any Poe manuscripts?”

  “Really, Inspector” said the other. A faint frown ruffled his swarthy forehead. “I don’t think I quite understand you. At my home in New York I certainly have a number of first editions of Edgar Allan Poe, and a few of the manuscript originals. But I scarcely think they would be of interest to you. I understand you wished to question me concerning a murder.”

  “Oh, the murder!” grunted Dr. Fell, with a careless wave of his hand. “Never mind that. I don’t want to talk about the murder.”

  “Indeed?” said Arbor. “I had supposed that the police might have some curiosity concerning it. However, that is none of my affair. I must remark, with Pliny, ‘Quot homines, tot sententiæ’”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Dr. Fell, sharply.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It wasn’t Pliny,” explained the doctor, testily. “That’s an inexcusable blunder. And if you must use that deplorable platitude, try to pronounce it correctly. The ‘o’ in homines is short, and there’s no long nasal sound to the ‘en’ in sententiæ. But never mind that. What do you know about Poe?”<
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  Hadley was making weird noises in the corner. Mr. Arbor’s flattish face had stiffened; he said nothing, but the aura about him conveyed anger. He glanced round at the others, touching lightly his shells of eyeglasses. He seemed not quite certain what to say. Under his scrutiny Rampole tried to make a face like a grim inquisitor; Rampole was enjoying this. If Mr. Arbor could not be called a type, he was at least among a certain class of Americans who had always irritated Rampole, and who can only be described as overcultured. They try to see everything and know everything in as correct a fashion as possible. They go to the right places at exactly the right time. Their pale, assured knowledge of the arts is like their well-groomed houses and their well-groomed selves. When a new Atlantic liner is launched, they discover the proper place to sit in the dining salon, and sit there. They avoid errors, and never drink too much. In short, Dr. Fell and General Mason and Rampole were not allies of theirs.

  “I am not sure,” Arbor said, quietly, “that I know what you are driving at or whether this is an elaborate joke. If so, kindly tell me. You are certainly the most extraordinary sort of policeman I have ever seen.”

  “I’ll put it this way, then. Are you interested in Poe? If you were offered the authentic manuscript of one of his stories, would you buy it?”

  This sudden swoop to the practical, Rampole felt, put Arbor right again. There was a trace of a smile on his face. But you knew he had been outraged; he had tried to impress a policeman with a casual retort, and instead he had been flicked across his poise. He would try to get his own back.

  “Now I see, Mr. Hadley,” he said to Dr. Fell. “This tribunal, then, was called because of Sir William Bitton’s stolen manuscript. I was a bit puzzled at first.” He smiled again, a mere wrinkle in his pudgy face. Then he considered. “Yes, I should certainly buy a Poe item if it were offered to me.”

  “H’m, yes. You know there has been a theft at Bitton’s house, then?”

  “Oh yes. And you, Inspector, know that I am stopping at Bitton’s home. I should say,” Arbor corrected himself, impassively, “I was stopping there. Tomorrow I shall remove myself to the Savoy.”

  “Why?”

  Arbor glanced round for an ash tray, saw none; then he held his cigarette out levelly so that, when the ashes fell, they should not fall on his trousers. “Let’s be frank, Mr. Inspector,” he suggested. “I am aware of what Bitton thinks. I am not insulted. We must accept these little things. Amara temperet lento risu, if I may again risk Scotland Yard’s correction of my pronunciation. But I dislike awkwardness. You see; or don’t you?”

  “Do you know the nature of the manuscript that was stolen?”

  “Perfectly. In point of fact, I had some intention of intending to buy it.”

  “He told you about it, then, did he?”

  The flattish face was a polite mask of deprecation. Arbor put up a hand to touch his dark hair, which was brushed straight and flat across the big skull. “You know he didn’t, Mr. Inspector. But Bitton is like a child, if I may say so. I have heard him let fall enough dark and mysterious hints at the dinner table for even his family to guess the nature of his find. However, I knew all about the manuscript before I left the States.”

  He chuckled. It was the first human sound Rampole had heard out of him.

  “I dislike commenting on the infantile nature of some of these gentlemen, but I fear Doctor Robertson, who had been Bitton’s confidant, was indiscreet.”

  Dr. Fell thoughtfully took the handle of his stick, which was lying across the desk, and poked at the crossbow bolt. Then he glanced up amiably.

  “Mr. Arbor, would you have stolen that manuscript, if you were given the opportunity?”

  Across the room Rampole saw the despairing expression on Hadley’s face. But Arbor was not in the least perturbed. He appeared to consider the question from all angles, gravely.

  “No, Inspector, I don’t think I would,” he replied. “It would entail so much awkwardness, you see. And I dislike violating hospitality in that fashion. Don’t misunderstand me. I have no moral scruples,” Mr. Arbor explained, gently, like one who says, “I am not a hard hearted man,” “and it might seriously be questioned as to whether Bitton has any right to it at all. Under the law, his possession of it could be questioned. But, as I say, I dislike unpleasantness.”

  “But suppose somebody offered to sell you that manuscript, Mr. Arbor?”

  Arbor took off his delicate eyeglasses and polished them with a white silk handkerchief. To do so he was compelled to drop his cigarette on the floor, which he did with repugnance. He was easy, smug, and half smiling now. The black eyebrows were wrinkled with amusement.

  “Let me tell you a story, Inspector. The police should know it, to support my claim in case it is—ah—successful. Before I came to England I went to Philadelphia and looked up Mr. Joseph McCartney, of Mount Airy Avenue, who owns the property on which the manuscript was found. For the fact that it was found there I had the testimony of three honest laboringmen. I laid my case with a tolerable degree of frankness before Mr. McCartney. He was the owner. I informed him that if he would give me a three months’ written option on that manuscript, wherever it might be, I would hand him one thousand dollars in cash. There was also another agreement. It specified that, if the manuscript proved to be what I wanted (the decision to rest with me), I should pay him four thousand dollars for a complete sale. In these matters, Inspector, it is never wise to be miserly.”

  Dr. Fell nodded ponderously, leaning forward with his chins in his fist.

  “Actually, Mr. Arbor, what is the manuscript worth?”

  “To me? Well, gentlemen, witness my frankness. I should be willing to go as high as, say, ten thousand pounds.”

  General Mason, who had been scowling and pulling at his imperial, interrupted. “But, my God, man, that’s fantastic! No Poe manuscript—”

  “I venture to predict,” Arbor said, placidly, “that this one would. Has Bitton described it to you? Ah, I thought not. It would be rather revolutionary.” His cool eyes traveled slowly about the group. “Since I seem in the presence of an unusually well-informed group of policemen, I may tell you that it is. It is the first analytic detective story in the history of the world. It antedates Poe’s own Murders in the Rue Morgue. Dr. Robertson informs me that even from an artistic point of view it surpasses Poe’s other three Dupin crime tales. I say that I would give ten thousand pounds. I could name you offhand three fellow collectors who would go as high as twelve or fifteen. And I enjoy thinking what it would fetch at auction—where, I need not tell you, I intend to place it.”

  Hadley had come up hurriedly to the side of the desk. He seemed almost on the point of tapping Dr. Fell on the arm and getting him out of the chair, to take over the interrogation. But he remained staring at Arbor.

  Dr. Fell cleared his throat with a rumbling noise.

  “This may be a lot of nonsense,” he said, glowering. “Or it may not. How do you know this? Have you seen the manuscript?”

  “I have the word of Dr. Robertson, the greatest living authority on Poe. I fear that the good doctor has a short eye to business, or he would have adopted my own course. He only told me all this because—well, Inspector, my wine cellar is considered excellent. And even Imperial Tokay is cheap at the price. Of course, he regretted his indiscretion next day; he had promised Bitton, and he begged me to take no action. I was sorry.”

  Again Arbor drew out the silk handkerchief and lightly mopped his head.

  “Then,” said Dr. Fell, “it wasn’t a mere matter of a find you were interested in? You were after this manuscript to sell it?”

  “I was, my dear Inspector. The manuscript—wherever it is—happens to belong to me. I may remind you— Shall I go on?”

  “By all means.”

  “My business with Mr. McCartney was easily settled,” Arbor continued comfortably. “He seemed staggered. It was incredible to him that any written document, save perhaps a blackmailing letter or one of ‘them treaty
things’ to which he referred, could be worth five thousand dollars. I found in Mr. McCartney a great reader of sensational fiction. My next move—you follow it, Inspector?”

  “You got yourself invited to Bitton’s house,” grunted Dr. Fell.

  “Not exactly. I had a standing invitation there. At one time, I may remark, my friend Bitton thought highly of me. As a rule, of course, I do not stay with friends when I am in London. I own a cottage in the suburbs, at which I often stay in summer; and in winter I go to a hotel. But, you see, I had to be tactful. He was a friend.”

  Again Arbor drew out his silver cigarette case. But he seemed to remember that there was no ash tray, and he put it back again.

  “I could not, of course,” he pursued, “say to him, ‘Bitton, I think you have a manuscript of mine. Hand it over.’ That would have been distasteful, and, I thought, unnecessary. I expected him to show me his find voluntarily. Then I would lead up to my subject by gradual degrees, explain the unfortunate circumstances, and make him a fair offer. Understand me! I was prepared to pay him his price, within reason, even for my own property. I wished no sort of undignified squabble.

  “Now, Inspector—and gentlemen—that was difficult. You know Bitton? Ah. I knew him as a headstrong, stubborn, and secretive fellow; rather a monomaniac on cherishing his discoveries. But I had not expected him to be quite so difficult. He did not speak of his find, as I had expected. For some days I hinted. I thought he was merely obtuse, and I fear my hints grew so outrageously broad that they puzzled even his family. But I am aware now that he must have known, and suspected me. He merely kept his mouth more tightly closed. It was distasteful to me—but I was coming to the point where I should have had to claim my rights. Under the law,” said Arbor, his leisurely voice growing suddenly harsh, “I was not required to pay him a penny for my property.”

  “The sale had not been concluded between you and McCartney, had it?” inquired Dr. Fell.

  Arbor shrugged. “Virtually. I had my option. Of course, I was not willing to hand over five thousand dollars on a manuscript I had never seen, even on the word of Dr. Robertson; and a manuscript, besides, which might conceivably have been lost or destroyed by the time I came to claim it. However, to all intents and purposes it was mine.”

 

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