Crime at Tattenham Corner (25 page)

The inspector took his leave with a promise to return in the morning – a promise which the manager received with a suppressed groan.

The rest of the evening passed in making a few changes in the inspector's appearance and in a chat with Harbord, who called for the photograph he was to show to Mrs. Johnson's slavey in the morning. 

The inspector made him sit down. There was a light of suppressed triumph in his eyes that his subordinates knew well.

“I fancy I shall want you to-morrow for special duty. Report at the Yard on your return from Fountain Street, and wait there until you receive my instructions.”

Harbord looked surprised and extremely curious.

“Any fresh discoveries, sir?”

“Nothing but trifles corroborating what I have suspected all along,” the inspector said slowly. “Straws that show how the wind blows.”

Harbord sat up, his folded arms on the table and gazed at his superior. The inspector looked back at him, the suggestion of a smile on his closely folded lips.

“I have always felt that you had some very definite suspicion with regard to the murderer in the Burslem case,” Harbord said at last. “But though the Burslem Mystery has intrigued me more than any case I have ever heard of, though I have puzzled over it by day and dreamed of it by night, I haven't been able to think of any explanation that seems at once natural and feasible.”

“No, I suppose not.” The inspector sat back in his chair and leaned his head on the top, his elbows supported on the arms of his chair, his fingers joined together at the tips. “Have you ever gone over the data on which you had to work right from the beginning, putting each fact in its proper place and giving each happening, however small, its own significance?” 

“Well, I don't know,” Harbord said, his gaze still fixed on the inspector. “Put like that, perhaps I haven't. Not in words anyhow. Though, upon my word, I don't see how the veriest trifle can have escaped me. The only theory I have ever formed is that of impersonation, and that you –”

“Meaning?” the inspector interjected. “Put it into words, lad.”

Harbord hesitated a moment.

“Well, roughly speaking, I have asked myself whether it could be possible that some man, some lover of Lady Burslem's – not, I think, Stanyard – met the Burslem car by arrangement with Lady Burslem at Hughlin's Wood, that Sir John was shot and thrown into the ditch, and that his murderer, who had previously been made up to resemble his victim, came back with Lady Burslem, signed the will, or produced one already signed, managed to deceive the servants and then possibly thinking that at the garage he might be recognized and asked inconvenient questions took the car to that parking ground near the river.

“What became of him afterwards?” the inspector questioned abruptly.

Harbord shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know. I suppose – the only thing I can think of is that he is keeping dark until a decent interval has elapsed and he can marry the widow.”

“And Ellerby?” Stoddart snapped out. 

“I suppose he knew too much and was got rid of,” Harbord hazarded.

There followed a pause. Both men sat silent for a minute or two. Then Stoddart leaned forward and clapped Harbord on the shoulder.

“Good for you, my boy! But utterly untenable from start to finish. In the first place, the most rigorous inquiry has failed to discover the slightest trace of any old lover of Lady Burslem's except Stanyard. And he was not disguised when he left Epsom. I should say it would have to be a very clever chap who could so disguise himself – sitting in his car – that he could deceive Sir John's servants, even his trusted valet Ellerby.”

“But don't you see that that is the point?” Harbord interrupted. “I don't think Ellerby was deceived. I fancy he either pretended to be just at the time or else he was in the plot at the beginning.”

“Wrong, wrong all through. Though, mind you, the theory is well reasoned out, and does you credit. But, now, let us look at the facts.” The inspector fidgeted about among his notebooks. “We will begin with what we know – surmises can follow later. Sir John and Lady Burslem, to all appearances the best of friends, start out after dinner in a two-seater driven by Sir John himself to Epsom, to Harker's stables to see Sir John's colt Peep o' Day, which is expected to win the Derby the next day. They leave the car some little distance from the stables, why, I don't know, and appear to have met several acquaintances and talked to them. They leave Epsom about half-past twelve, and we know nothing more definite about their movements until they reach 15 Porthwick Square just after two o'clock.

“They leave the car outside, and come into the house, Sir John carrying his light overcoat over his arm. James is sent to summon Ellerby, finding him in his room, you observe. The two men then witness Sir John's extraordinary will. Sir John goes out to the car and now wears a dark overcoat. Her ladyship, according to James, remains in the library with Ellerby. James himself goes to bed. But Sir John doesn't take the car to the garage. Instead he, or some one singularly like him, drives it to a parking ground in South London. Another car driven by a woman is brought on next. This woman is observed by the parking ground attendant suspiciously near the Burslem car, and she then bustles away after Sir John. Nothing more is known of Sir John or his movements. But about 7.30 a message is received at 15 Porthwick Square saying that Sir John is believed to have met with an accident at Hughlin's Wood. I am also summoned, being informed that a body believed to be that of Sir John Burslem has been found in a ditch at Hughlin's Wood.

“We are on the scene before Ellerby, and I identify the dead man as, to the best of my belief, Sir John Burslem, with whom I am slightly acquainted. Ellerby's identification is more positive and is followed by that of Sir John's doctor and solicitor. The body is in evening-dress, everything marked with Sir John's initials, but the body, mark this, wears no overcoat, and at the time no trace of either dark or light overcoat can be found. Two questions confront us now: what made Sir John go back to Hughlin's Wood, and who put the light overcoat, stained with blood, under the thrall in the cellar at 15 Porthwick Square?”

“It seems to me that both questions are answered by my theory of impersonation,” Harbord broke in eagerly. “If Sir John had been murdered and his impersonator returned to Porthwick Square carrying his overcoat and after he had gone, finding it marked with blood, it was hidden where we found it later, by Lady Burslem or the impersonator.”

The inspector got up, and leaning against the mantelpiece regarded Harbord fixedly for a minute or two. Then he said:

“Good for you, my lad. But remember this – nothing is more fatal than a preconceived theory. You will find yourself trying to make every happening fit into it; instead, take your happenings and form your theory to fit them. For instance, that will of Sir John's was written in his own handwriting, as is testified to by his solicitor, his friends and, last but not least, the experts. The writing may be a little hurried, but otherwise it is in his handwriting. That is a bit of a snag for you, Alfred.” 

Harbord looked crest-fallen, but he was not inclined to give way at once.

“Handwriting may be forged,” he said quietly.

The inspector raised his eyebrows. “Your impersonator must be a pretty cool customer if after having committed a particularly cold-blooded murder he could make himself up to represent his victim, drive back to town and then have his hand steady enough to forge that will. Not only the signature, mind, but the body of the will was all in the same writing.”

“I know,” Harbord said, his tone growing more mystified. “But if I had any idea what you were working on, sir –”

“You shall have very soon,” the inspector promised. “Shall I tell you something, Harbord? To-morrow – yes, I think I may say to-morrow afternoon I shall want your help to arrest the murderer in the Burslem case.”

“The – the murderer?” Harbord stammered. “Inspector, I have no idea who –”

Stoddart put his hand on the younger man's shoulder.

“I know you have not, my boy, and I know you feel aggrieved that I have not taken you into my confidence before; but it is one of those cases in which the veriest breath may blow away in a moment everything one has been trying to build up. Even now tomorrow's arrest is only a possibility, not a certainty. A great deal depends upon you.”

“Upon me!” Harbord echoed in amazed accents.

“Upon you,” Stoddart confirmed. He took a sealed envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to his subordinate. “Take that with you to Fountain Street when you go to meet your slavey friend tomorrow. I trust to your honour not to break the seal until then. You will find that it contains the photograph I promised you. Just ask her whether it is a photograph of the man she knew as Mr. Ellerby, Mrs. Johnson's brother.”

Harbord drew a long breath as he put the photograph carefully in his pocket-book.

“Yes, sir. And then –”

“And then,” said the inspector with his slight, curious smile, “make your way back to the Yard as soon as you can and wait for me and for developments.”

The new waiter at Stormount's was a smartlooking man. The head waiter gazed at him curiously as he reported after breakfast. But the new-comer appeared to be in no way anxious to avoid his duties and proved himself quite an adept in the art of clearing away, balancing trays and plates and dishes with the skill of a professional juggler. He was making remarkably good progress from the waiter's point of view, when the manager made an unexpected appearance. He did not glance at any of the astonished faces as he passed, but stopped momentarily beside the new man.

“The car is ordered in a quarter of an hour to take her ladyship to the city.”

“Right, sir.” The man went on with his clearing up, but in a minute or two he slipped quietly and unobtrusively away, and one of the others, looking round for the new waiter, stared in bewilderment when he found that he had apparently disappeared.

Stoddart went upstairs in the lift and reached the corridor into which Lady Burslem's suite opened, just as she came out. He stood aside with an absolutely impassive face and she passed him without a glance.

He waited until she had entered the lift and then went on and tried the door. It opened at once, but as he stepped in the French maid came down the passage dangling the key in her hand.

“Vot are you doing 'ere?” she began. “Milady, she is all of most particular zat no one shall come in her apartments wizout sounding ze bell. And 'ere I find you walking as if vot is it you say – all de place belong to you.”

Marie's dark grey eyes made very effective play under her black lashes as she spoke.

The inspector gazed at her admiringly.

“Her ladyship could not keep your admirers out if they knew you were here.”

“My admirers!” Marie repeated with a giggle. “But I 'ave not such t'ings – me!”

The inspector laid his hand on his heart. “You have one anyway.” he said gallantly. “But you will get me into trouble with the manager, mademoiselle, if your beautiful eyes keep me from my work. The manager has sent me –”

“My beautiful eyes!” interjected Marie. “But you are ze bad man, monsieur.”

“It is you that are making me so then,” the waiter responded. “But now, mademoiselle, there is something wrong with the electric light. I have got to test all the switches and so I must be getting on. See you again when I come out, mademoiselle.”

“Oh, vell, I do not know,” Marie said with a pout as he passed her. “I do not wait
pour les messieurs – moi
.” She tossed her head as she went on and locked the door. “Now you will 'ave to say to me ven you want to go out,” she said apostrophizing Stoddart's back as he went into Lady Burslem's sitting-room. “He is not young, zat one,” she said to herself, “but he is brave homme and he has ze gay 'eart – ze very gay 'eart.”

Meanwhile Stoddart found Lady Burslem's sitting-room empty, but there was a door on the opposite side by which he entered, and he knew that it opened into the room Lady Burslem used for her work and where she gave instructions to her secretary. He turned the handle. The door was latched, but not locked or bolted.

He pushed it open and entered, then stopped as if surprised when he saw the room was tenanted. A dark, foreign-looking man was sitting at the writing-table immediately opposite the door. He looked up as he heard the sound.

“This room is private,” he said quietly. “No one at all is allowed to come in.”

“I am very sorry, sare.” And now it was noticeable that the new waiter spoke with a distinctly foreign accent. But his keen eyes were taking in every detail of the foreign secretary's appearance – the dark, abundant hair, the dark eyes of which he got just one glimpse before Señor da Dominiguez put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles that were lying on the table beside him, the dark beard streaked with grey and the regular features that looked as if they had been refined and pointed by illness.

“It ees ze manager zat is to blame,” the intruder went on volubly. “It ees he who sent me, de lights” – pointing to the electric globes – “went all what you call wrong last night. And because dat ees what you call my job, I have to go round every room in ze hotel, and see dat it ees right.”

“It is quite right here,” the secretary said, regarding the waiter fixedly. “That is all, I presume. Have you seen what you want?” with a wave of his hand to the open door.

“Yes, sare. Thank you, sare.” The new waiter retired, bowing and muttering confused, inaudible thanks.

He did not attempt to look at the electric light in the other room, not even that in which Marie was eagerly awaiting him, but using his keys he opened the door into the corridor, and turning away from the lift he spoke a few hurried words to a man, apparently a workman, who was engaged in attending to the sashline of the nearest window.