Best Detective Stories of Cyril Hare Page 7

  Mallett put down the statement with a sigh.

  “What sort of a man is Denny?” he asked.

  “Very intelligent and observant,” was the reply. “One of the best uniformed men I have. And not too blooming educated, if you follow me.”

  “Very well. We have it then on his evidence that Mrs. Wellman, or somebody else in the flat, extinguished the light at a little after nine o’clock, and that somebody turned it on again between ten-thirty and six-fifteen. I suppose Mrs. Wellman could turn it off and on herself, by the way?”

  “Undoubtedly. It was a bedside lamp, and she had the full use of her arms.”

  “Therefore,” Mallett went on, “we are now driven to this—that Wellman killed his wife—if he killed her—after ten-thirty, when he was last seen on the tram, and before midnight, which is the latest time which the doctor thinks reasonably possible. Then comes the blow. To test Wellman’s story, for what it is worth, we have made enquiries in Hackney to see if we can find a hotel of the kind that wouldn’t mind taking in a gentleman the worse for liquor, with a red and green carpet in the hall, and handy to the No. 31 tram route. And the very first place we try, we not only find that they remember Mr. Wellman there but are extremely anxious to see him again. They tell us that he came to their place about half-past eleven—which is the time you would expect if he left the neighbourhood of the Green Dragon by tram an hour before—persuaded whoever it was who was still up at that hour to give him a room, and next morning was seen going out at six o’clock remarking that he was going to get a shave. He never came back——”

  “And he never got that shave,” interjected the D.D.I.

  “True enough. And when the hotel people opened his bag—which Police Constable Denny has identified, incidentally—it contained precisely nothing. So——”

  “So we packed him off to the Hackney police to answer a charge of obtaining credit by fraud and asked the Yard to tell us what to do next.”

  “In other words, you want me to fix this crime on to somebody who has to all appearances a perfect alibi for it.”

  “That’s just it,” said the divisional inspector in all seriousness. “If only the blighter had had anything on him that could have been used as a weapon!”

  “ ‘On Wellman’,” said Mallett, reading from another sheet of the reports, “ ‘were found a pencil, a small piece of cork, a pocket-knife, two shillings silver and sixpence halfpenny bronze.’ Why,” he continued, “do we have to go on saying ‘bronze’ when all the rest of the world says ‘copper’, by the way? But the weapon—he could have taken that away in his bag and disposed of it anywhere between here and Hackney easily enough. We shall be lucky if we ever lay our hands on that. The alibi is our trouble. From nine o’clock onwards it seems unbeatable. Therefore he must have killed his wife before nine. But if he did, who was it that turned the light off in her room? I suppose the dog might have done it—knocked the lamp over, or something.”

  “There’s no trace of the dog having been in the room all night,” said the other. “His footprints are quite plain on the carpet in the corridor, and I’ve been over the bedroom carpet carefully without any result. Also, there seems no doubt that the bedroom door was shut next morning. Wellman was heard to unlatch it. Besides, if the dog turned the light off, how did he turn it on again?”

  Mallett considered.

  “Have you tested the fuses!” he asked.

  “Yes, and they are in perfect order. There’s no chance of a temporary fault causing the light to go off and on again. And Wellman was waiting for the light to go off when he was talking to Denny.”

  “Then,” said Mallett, “we’ve got to work on the assumption that someone else got into the flat that night.”

  “Without disturbing the dog?”

  “A good-natured dog,” Mallett pointed out.

  “But there are no signs of any entry whatever. I’ve looked myself, and some of my best men have been on the job.”

  “But I haven’t looked yet,” said Mallett.

  * * *

  No. 32 Clarence Mansions was exactly like all the other flats in the block, and indeed in Imperial Avenue, so far as its internal arrangements were concerned. Three very small rooms, looking on to the Avenue, opened out of the corridor which ran from the front door. Three still smaller rooms opened out of another corridor at right angles to the first, and enjoyed a view of the back of the Mansions in the next block. At the junction of the two corridors the gloom of the interior was mitigated by a skylight, the one privilege possessed by the top-storey flats and denied to the rest of the block. The bedroom in which Mrs. Wellman had died was the room nearest the entrance.

  Mallett did not go into this room until he had first carefully examined the door and the tiny hall immediately inside it.

  “There are certainly no marks on the lock,” he said at last. Then, looking at the floor, he asked, “What is this powdery stuff down here?”

  “Dog biscuit,” was the reply. “The animal seems to have had his supper here. There’s his water-bowl in the corner, too, by the umbrella-stand.”

  “But he slept over there,” said Mallett, nodding to the farther end of the corridor, where underneath the skylight was a large circular basket, lined with an old rug.

  They went into the bedroom. The body had been removed, but otherwise nothing in it had been touched since the discovery of the tragedy. On its dingy walls hung photographs of acrobats, dancers and clowns, and the framed programme of a Command Variety performance—memorials of the trapeze artist’s vanished career. The crumpled pillow bore a single shapeless stain of darkened blood. On a bedside table was a cheap electric lamp. Mallett snapped it on and off.

  “That doesn’t look as if it had been knocked over,” he remarked. “Did you notice the scratches on the bottom panel of the door, by the way? It seems as though the dog had been trying to get in from the passage.”

  He went over to the sash window and subjected it to a prolonged scrutiny.

  “No,” he said. “Definitely, no. Now let’s look at the rest of the place.”

  He walked down the corridor until he reached the skylight.

  “I suppose somebody could have got through here,” he observed.

  “But he would have come down right on top of the dog,” the D.D.I. objected.

  “True. That would have been a bit of a strain for even the quietest animal. Still, there’s no harm in looking.”

  He kicked aside the sleeping-basket and stood immediately beneath the skylight.

  “The light’s in my eyes, and I can’t see the underside of the frame properly,” he complained, standing on tiptoe and peering upwards. “Just turn on the electric light, will you? I said, turn on the light,” he repeated in a louder tone.

  “It is on,” was the reply, “but nothing’s happened. The bulb must have gone.”

  “Has it?” said Mallett, stepping across to the hanging light that swung within a foot of his head. As he did so, the lamp came on.

  “Curiouser and curiouser! Switch it off again. Now come and stand where I was.”

  They changed places, and Mallett depressed the switch. The light was turned on at once.

  “Are you sure you’re standing in the same place?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Then jump!”

  “What?”

  “Jump. As high as you can, and come down as hard as you can.”

  The inspector sprang into the air, and his heels hit the floor with a crash. At that instant, the light flickered, went out and then came on once more.

  “Splendid!” said Mallett. “Now look between your feet. Do you see anything?”

  “There’s a little round hole in the floorboard here. That’s all.”

  “Does the board seem at all loose to you?”

  “Yes, it does. Quite a bit. But that’s not surprising after what I’ve done to it.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Mallett went down on hands and knees and found the ho
le of which the other had spoken. It was quite small—hardly more than a fault in the wood, but its edges were sharp and clear. It was near to one end of the board. That end was completely unsecured, the other was lightly nailed down. He produced a knife and inserted the blade into the hole. Then, using his knife as a lever, he found that he could pull the board up on its end, as though upon a hinge.

  “Look!” he said, and pointed down into the cavity beneath.

  On the joist on which the loose end of the board had rested was a small, stiff coiled spring, just large enough to keep that end a fraction above the level of the surrounding floor. But what chiefly attracted the attention of the two men was not on the joist itself but a few inches to one side. It was an ordinary electric bell-push, such as might be seen on any front door in Imperial Avenue.

  “Do you recollect what Wellman’s job was, when he had a job?” asked Mallett.

  “He worked in the circus as odd-job man, and——Good Lord, yes!—electrician.”

  “Just so. Now watch!”

  He put his finger on the bell push. The light above their heads went out. He released it, and the light came on again.

  “Turn on another light,” said Mallett. “Any light, I don’t care which. In the sitting-room, if you like. Now . . .” He depressed the button once more. “Does it work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course it does,” he cried triumphantly, rising to his feet and dusting the knees of his trousers. “The whole thing’s too simple for words. The main electric lead of the flat runs under this floor. All Wellman has done is to fit a simple attachment to it, so that when the bell-push is pressed down the circuit is broken and the current turned off. The dog’s basket was on this board. That meant that when the dog lay down out went the light in the bedroom—and any other light that happened to be on, only he took care to see that there wasn’t any other light on. When the dog begins to get restless in the morning and goes down the passage to see what’s the matter—you said he was an intelligent dog, didn’t you?—on comes the light again. And anybody in the street outside, seeing the lamp extinguished and lighted again, would be prepared to swear that there was somebody alive in the room to manipulate the lamp. Oh, it really is ingenious!”

  “But——” the divisional inspector objected.

  “Yes?”

  “But the light didn’t go off when I was standing there.”

  “How much do you weigh?”

  “Eleven stone seven.”

  “And I’m—well, quite a bit more than that. That’s why. You see, there’s a fraction of space between the board and the bell-push, and you couldn’t quite force the board far enough down to make it work, except when you jumped. I had the advantage over you there,” he concluded modestly.

  “But hang it all,” protested the other, “I may not be a heavy-weight, but I do weigh more than a dog. If I couldn’t do the trick, how on earth could he? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “On Wellman,” said Mallett reflectively, “were found a pencil, a small piece of cork, a pocket-knife, two shillings silver and sixpence halfpenny bronze. Have you observed that the little hole in the board is directly above the button of the bell-push?”

  “Yes. I see now that it is.”

  “Very well. If the small piece of cork doesn’t fit into that hole, I’ll eat your station sergeant’s helmet. That’s all.”

  “So that when the cork is in the hole——”

  “When the hole is plugged the end of the cork is resting on the bull-push. It then needs only the weight of the basket, plus the weight of the dog, to depress the spring, which keeps the end of the board up, and the cork automatically works the bell-push. Now we can see what happened. Wellman rigged up this contraption in advance—an easy matter for an experienced electrician. Then, on the evening which he had chosen for the crime, he put his wife to bed, killed her, with the coal hammer most probably—if you search the flat I expect you will find it missing—and shut the door of the bedroom, leaving the bedside lamp alight. He next inserted the cork in the hole of the board and replaced the dog’s basket on top. With a couple of dog biscuits in his pocket, he then took the dog out for a run. He kept it out until he saw Police Constable Denny outside the flats. Probably he had informed himself of the times when the officer on duty could be expected to appear there, and made his arrangements accordingly. Having had a word with Denny, he slipped upstairs and let the dog into the flat. But before he came downstairs again he took care to give the dog his biscuits in the hall. It would never have done if the light had been put out before he was out of the building, and he left the dog something to keep him the other end of the passage for a moment or two. He knew that the dog, as soon as he had eaten his supper and had a drink of water, would go and lie down in his basket. I expect he had been trained to do it. Alsatians are teachable animals, they tell me. Down in the street he waited until the dog had put the light out for him, and called Denny’s attention to the fact. His alibi established, off he went. But he had to get back next morning to remove that bit of cork. Otherwise the next person who trod on the board might give his secret away. So we find that when he came to the flat the first thing he did was to go down the corridor—before ever he went into the bedroom. That little bit of evidence always puzzled me. Now we know what he was doing. He was a fool not to throw the cork away, of course, but I suppose he thought that nobody would think of looking at that particular place. So far as he knew, nothing could work the lights if the cork wasn’t in place. He thought he was safe.”

  “And,” Mallett concluded, “he would have been safe too, if there hadn’t been that little extra bit of weight put on the board. He couldn’t be expected to foresee me.”

  * * *

  Which explains, if it does not excuse, the slight but unmistakable touch of condescension with which Inspector Mallett thereafter used to treat his slimmer and slighter brethren.

  “It Takes Two . . .”

  It takes two to make a murder. The psychology of the murderer has been analysed often enough; what qualifies a man to be murdered is a subject less frequently discussed, though sometimes, perhaps, more interesting.

  Derek Walton, who was killed by Ted Brackley on a dark December evening in Boulter’s Mews, Mayfair, was uniquely fitted for his part in that rather sordid little drama. He was a well-built young man, five feet eight inches high, with dark hair and hazel eyes. He had a toothbrush moustache and walked with a slight limp. He was employed by Mallard’s, that small and thriving jewellers’ establishment just off Bond Street, and at the time of his death had in his pocket a valuable parcel of diamonds which Mallard had told him to take to Birmingham to be reset. The diamonds, naturally enough, provided the motive for the murder, but Walton would not have died exactly when and how he did had he been fat, or blue-eyed, or more than five feet nine, for Brackley was a cautious man. There was one other fact in Walton’s life which finally loaded the scales against him—he was given to gambling on the dogs, and fairly heavily in debt.

  There was very little about Walton that Brackley did not know, after a period of intense study which had extended now for a matter of months. Patiently and remorselessly he had studied his quarry in every aspect. Every detail in his physical appearance, down to the least trick of gesture, gait or accent, had been noted with a more than lover-like devotion. A creature of habit, Walton was an easy subject for observation, and his goings-out and comings-in had long since been learned by heart. Brackley knew all about the lodgings in West London where he lived, the pubs he frequented, the bookies he patronized, his furtive and uninteresting love affairs. More than once he had followed him to Birmingham, where his parents lived, and to the very doors of Watkinshaws, the manufacturing jewellers there who carried out the exquisite designs on which old Nicholas Mallard’s reputation had been built. In fact, Brackley reflected, as he waited in the shadows of Boulter’s Mews, about the only thing he did not precisely know about Walton was what went on inside his head. But that was an irrelev
ant detail, as irrelevant as are the emotions of a grazing stag to the stalker the moment before he presses the trigger.

  Walton was later than usual that evening. Brackley took a quick glance at his wrist-watch and frowned. In ten minutes’ time the constable on his beat was due at the end of the Mews. He decided that he could allow himself another two minutes at the most. After that, the margin of safety would be too small, and the operation would have to be called off for the night. A later opportunity would offer itself no doubt, and he could afford to wait, but it would be a pity, for the conditions were otherwise ideal. The shops had closed and the sound of the last assistants and office workers hurrying home had long since died away. The tide of pleasure traffic to the West End had not yet set in. A faint mist, too thin to be called a fog, had begun to rise from the damp pavements. What on earth was keeping Walton back?

  The two minutes had still thirty seconds to run when Brackley heard what he was waiting for. Fifty yards away, in Fentiman Street, he heard the back door of Mallard’s close, and the rattle of the key in the lock as Walton secured the premises behind him. Evidently he was the last out of the shop as usual. There was a pause, long enough to make Brackley wonder whether his quarry had defeated him by deciding to walk out into Bond Street instead of taking his usual short cut through the Mews; and then he heard the unmistakable limping footsteps coming towards him. He realized, as he slid back into the open doorway behind him, that the steps were decidedly faster than usual. That was unfortunate, since everything depended on precise timing. Now, at the critical moment, so long prepared, so carefully rehearsed, there would have to be an element of improvisation, and improvisation meant risk. Brackley had been to endless pains to eliminate risk in this affair. He resented having any put upon him.

  After all, he need not have worried. The business went perfectly according to plan. As Walton passed the doorway Brackley stepped out behind him. A quick glance to either side assured him that the Mews was deserted. He took two soundless paces in time with his victim. Then the rubber-handled cosh struck once, behind the right ear, precisely as he had intended, and Walton pitched forward without a groan.