Case for Three Detectives (6 page)

“Is it that you wish to appear busy, eh? You do not like the—what you call?—the cross-examination? Have no fear. The time for questions has not come yet. Now, I look a little, no more.”

Rather unwillingly the chauffeur smiled at that. “Well, it's quite right I don't like being questioned,” he said.

Who does?”

But Picon took little notice of his reply. The chauffeur's sleeves were rolled almost to the shoulder, revealing a pair of very muscular arms. And on one fore-arm were tattooed several devices. These had attracted Picon's bird-like attention. Presently he walked up to Fellowes and seized his wrist with both his little hands.

“Forgive,” he said, and began to examine the tattoo-marks.

Personally I could see nothing unusual in these, in fact they seemed to be the conventional markings. There were two hearts entwined and pierced by an arrow. There was a Union Jack. And there was an irregular pattern of stars.

“Anything wrong?” asked Fellowes, quite good-humouredly, as he waited patiently for Picon to finish.

“Voyons. Voyons,”
said the little man, and we left Fellowes to continue his work.

As we were walking back to the house, a detail reoccurred to me which had hitherto escaped my memory.

“Monsieur Picon,” I said, “you say that you already know everything that I could tell you. You are mistaken. I have just remembered a detail which I have mentioned to nobody.”

“Indeed,
mon ami?
And what is that so important detail?”

“Well, of course it may have nothing to do with the crime. But I think it ought to be known, now. Yesterday evening, when I had dressed before dinner, someone came out of Mrs. Thurston's room. A man.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think it may be important? Because unless it helps your investigation, I do not wish to mention his name.”

“Anything may help.”

“Very well. I'll tell you. It was David Strickland. When he saw me he tried to get back into the room, but it was too late.”

“Indeed?
Voila!
Strickland, the young man in the room next to Madame Thurston? The young man of the gambling, no?”

I nodded.

“Then we go and make a little visit to the room of Mr. Strickland.
Allons.”

“You can,
m'sieur.
You are an investigator. But I shan't go and poke about in someone else's room.”

“As you will,” said M. Picon.

So I found myself once again standing where I had been in those ugly moments on the previous night, while the small detective went into Strickland's room. I wondered where the occupant was. As we had passed the lounge I had heard voices, and guessed that Williams, Norris and Strickland had gathered there. Dr. Thurston had not appeared to-day, and we understood from Stall that he intended to stay in his room unless he was urgently wanted. I was glad of that. It seemed to me that the bizarre form of treasure-hunt which was going on in the house would bring little enough comfort to a bereaved man.

Stall told us that his master had thought of everyone, and sent down instructions that we were to ask for everything we wanted, and apologies that we should be kept here against our wishes. It was typical of him that he did not forget his manners as host even in the stress of those days.

I soon grew impatient. I did not like standing where the broken panels of that door faced me. I wanted to get downstairs to the others. But it seemed a long time before the diminutive detective reappeared, and when he did so, he did not emerge wholly from the door, but holding it ajar with his foot, called me over to him.

I was startled to see that in his hand was a diamond pendant.

“Vite!”
he whispered inevitably. “Look! You know this, is it not?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was Mrs. Thurston's.”

“
Bien.
Wait.” he whispered, and again disappeared into the room.

When he came out he was calmer.

“What does this mean?” I asked.

“It means that a diamond pendant which belonged to the dead lady is in the suitcase of Mr. David Strickland.”

“That proves he is the murderer, then?” I asked quickly.

“Not such hurry,
mon ami,”
he returned, brushing a speck of dust from the lapel of my jacket. “It may prove just the contrary. I say it
may.
And now for the chauffeur's bedroom.”

The places chosen for visits by these remarkable investigators had ceased to produce in me any emotion of surprise. So that once again—though I was tired and hungry—I climbed the upper staircase, and indicated to Picon the door of Fellowes's room.

I had always admired this little man, and it was exciting to watch his jumpy enthusiasm. But I was astonished at the interest he had already shown in Fellowes. I could not believe that the frank-looking chauffeur had anything to conceal beyond a local love-affair or two. But I respected Picon and his genius too much to put in any remarks to this effect.

He had left the door of the room open, and I could see him hopping from place to place among the simple and well-ordered furniture. Everything in the room was scrupulously tidy, and the man's clothes had been folded and put away. Picon seemed to find nothing to hold his attention for some time, until, on a small table by the bedside, he saw a copy of the
Daily Telegraph.
At first he glanced casually at this, but then something on the front page seemed to catch his eye, and he began to look through the paper very carefully.

At last, when he had reached the back pages, he began
to cry
“Tiens!”
and
“Voilà!”
and make other un-English sounds.

“What is it?” I asked.

He came across to me. “You see?” he said excitedly, and indicated some pencil markings in one of the advertisement columns.

I bent down to examine these, and found that they came under the heading of ‘Licensed Premises, Hotels and Restaurants for Sale.' I knew better than to express any surprise, but I could gather nothing from this.

“There!” cried Picon, “the little link.
En avant!
Piece by piece. Oh, it is not an ordinary matter, this.”

“I'm glad you think that,” I said, for I had been disappointed at Lord Simon's bored description of it as ‘another of these locked-room cases.'

“No, no. By no means. What is your so English expression? The plot thickens, eh? This paper is three weeks old!”

And he danced back to replace it. As we went downstairs I ventured to ask if he had a theory.

“Not as you might say a theory,” he replied. “All is dark. But see, what is that? A little light! Slowly it grows stronger. And soon
Papa
Picon sees all. All!” he added, and I hoped he was right.

At last we came to Mary Thurston's bedroom, and found Sergeant Beef deep in an arm-chair by the window.

“Ah, the good Bœuf!” cried Picon, with a Gallic flippancy which I did not altogether like in the presence of the dead. “On guard, eh? Is it permitted to look about?”

“You can ‘ave a look round,” said the Sergeant. “But nothink's to be touched, sir.”

“Bien.
And what for do you wait so patiently, Sergeant?”

“Me? Oh, I'm just waiting for the warrant to come through. I've made my report.”

Picon could not help smiling. “Waiting for the warrant,
eh? That is good. You know, then, who is guilty?”

“Course I know. It's as plain as the nose on your face.”

Picon turned to me. “What is your English expression? He is out for blood, eh?”

It was the Sergeant's turn to smile. “That's just about it,” he said.

Picon took some time to examine the contents of that room. And as he did so I thought that his examination was made not because he expected to find evidence there, but because the man was by nature thorough, and would not attach himself to a theory until he had made sure that there was nothing to contradict it.

“And now, Mr. Townsend, will you oblige me a moment? Will you go down to the lounge, turn on the wireless, and return here?”

I began to obey rather unwillingly, wondering what Thurston and the rest of them would think of the sound of music in this house. I made a hasty explanation to Williams, Norris and Strickland, who were in the lounge, and did as Picon had asked.

“Thank you,” he said when I returned. “And now the light grows stronger.”

Thinking that I understood what he meant, I said, “You need have no doubt about our hearing Mrs. Thurston's scream, Monsieur Picon.”

“You heard that?” he asked slowly.

“Of course I did.”

Then he said an extraordinary thing. “Do not be too sure, M'sieur. The human ear is a curious organ. Sometimes it hears what is not there to hear. And sometimes it fails to hear what is.”

After that, which I interpreted as a piece of deliberate mystification, he too hurried down to the village, probably in search of lunch.

T
HE
gong sounded for lunch, and when I reached the dining-room I was not at all surprised to find that we had been joined by a small human pudding, who was introduced as Monsignor Smith. When he had deposited a number of parcels and hung a green parasol on the back of his chair, he beamed round on us, and refused the soup.

There seemed to be a general, and most understandable, desire to avoid the topic which occupied most of our private thoughts. But perhaps it was some subconscious reversion to his far-fetched ideas of yesterday evening which caused Sam Williams to speak of flying, and the progress of flight, gliding, and the taking of midget aeroplanes.

“Why, I've actually heard that an American has risen from the ground and moved through the air with wings,” he said, “and without sharing the fate of Icarus.”

The little cleric was staring out of the window through the thick lenses of his spectacles. “But there are so many kinds of wings,” he murmured; “there are the wings of aeroplanes and of birds. There are angels' wings, and”—his voice dropped—“there are devils' wings.” Then he nibbled at a piece of bread which he had been crumbling.

We were silent at once. My acquaintance with all of this remarkable man that had been made public, led me to look for something in his words which would turn out to have some bearing on our problem.

“But there is flight without wings,” he went on, “more terrible than flight with wings. The Zeppelins had no wings to lift them. A bullet has no wings. A skilfully thrown knife, flashing through the air like a drunken comet, is wingless, too.”

This was too pointed for Alec Norris, who began to talk hastily of motor-cars. And because these had little place in Mgr. Smith's life, his work being done on foot and in places where motor-cars were not welcome, he became silent-again.

Presently the talk was interrupted. Young Strickland made a sudden exclamation, and turned to Stall. “Look!” he said.

A spider had fallen from the ceiling, or from the flowers, and was beginning to crawl across the table. The butler stepped forward, picked it up, and bore it to the window in his fingers. The little round-faced priest beside me was watching him absently. Suddenly he jumped up.

“Oh no!” he cried. “No!” And his voice was plaintive, distressed, and at the same time startled.

He ran across to the window, threw it open, picked up the spider, and dropped it on to the flower-bed.

“Why, whatever's the matter?” asked Norris. “Didn't Stall kill it?”

Mgr. Smith paused before answering. Stall had left the room, and closed the door. “I wish he had,” moaned Mgr. Smith. “I only wish he had!”

We exchanged glances. What could he mean? One would not have suspected him of a hatred for spiders, or for anything else for that matter. He was too mild and benevolent to hate. Besides, if it had been hatred for the insect which had made him run across the room, why hadn't he crushed it? Why had he released it so carefully into the garden?

“Are you a nature-lover, Monsignor Smith? Have you made a special study of the Arachnidæ?”

“If you mean spiders,” he said, “I know only two things about them. And those are the things which everyone knows. They kill flies. And they hang on threads.”

The rest of the meal was rather difficult, for childishly innocent as this man seemed, he had, as I already knew, a knack of saying the most disturbing things.

I began idly wondering as to what unanticipated place he would ask to be conducted when lunch was over, tut even so it was a surprise when he came up to me and asked if I could show him the village church.

I expostulated, of course. “Do you think,” I ventured to ask him, “that we ought to waste time examining an old building while this problem is to be solved? It still presents such difficulties …”

“Yet what can we do with our difficulties better than take them to the Church?” he asked blandly, and we set out.

In the churchyard we met the Vicar. He greeted me with his quick nervous smile, and I introduced Mgr. Smith. The two seemed to have much to talk about, and I agreed to wait while the Vicar showed my new acquaintance the beauties of the old building.

I must have been sitting on the low wall in the pale autumn sunshine for ten minutes, when Mgr. Smith bundled out of the building, evidently under some great stress. His clothes were slightly muddy, I noticed as he came forward, and his thick boots dodged in and out rapidly.

“He called it a wash-basin,” he cried; “there is not a moment to be lost. Don't you realize he called it a washbasin?”

I was getting so used to this sort of cryptic excitement that I expressed no wonder, but strode beside the breathless little man towards the Thurstons' house.

“A wash-basin,” he murmured. “His very words.”

Suddenly Mgr. Smith stopped in the centre of the path. “Why!” he said quite loudly, turning his glasses towards me, “why, of course!” After a moment he went on. “We must go to the gymnasium,” he said.