Wallace of the Secret Service (10 page)

‘The car with the finest engine in London is below,’ he said firmly.

Wallace grinned.

‘Well, you shall have the privilege of driving Cousins and me to East Minster,’ he declared.

‘Thanks for nothing,’ retorted Brien.

Wallace rang up his wife to inform her that he would not be home for luncheon, then the three of them started in Brien’s somewhat ancient but thoroughly efficient car. They halted for some minutes outside New Scotland Yard where a startled Commissioner listened in amazed and angry silence to Sir Leonard’s story.

‘What a dastardly crime!’ he exclaimed when the Chief of the Secret Service had finished.

‘The theft of the formula,’ commented Wallace grimly, ‘and there is little doubt that it has been stolen, is even more dastardly. Can you imagine what the loss of that may signify?’

‘My God!’ ejaculated the Commissioner, and he spoke in little more than a whisper, while the blood drained slowly from his face. ‘That aspect did not strike me before. It may result in an appalling calamity.’

‘Of course it may. Even in the possession of a weak nation it would mean world domination until some sort of defence against it could be invented.’

They sat looking at each other for some seconds, the faces of them both indicating the grave nature of their thoughts. At last the Commissioner spoke.

‘You won’t want us to take a hand,’ he surmised. ‘A case of this nature comes under your purview, not mine. Besides, it asks for
the unrestricted methods of your department, not the restrained red-tapism to which we have to submit in our investigations.’

‘Exactly,’ agreed Sir Leonard; ‘but once I obtain a line leading me to the formula and thus to the murderer, you’d better take up the affair, and treat it as a common case of murder. The motive for the crime, in fact everything respecting the discovery of Veronite, must be hushed up.’

The grey-haired Chief of Police nodded.

‘We shall simply declare robbery to have been the motive,’ he said. ‘God grant you are able to recover the formula,’ he added earnestly as Wallace rose to go.

An hour’s rapid run took the car to Professor Mason’s house at East Minster. The building stood on a cliff overlooking the sea in grounds that had been badly neglected, and was half a mile from any other dwelling. It was a peculiar place having originally been a cottage of five rooms to which had been added others, from time to time, eventually to give it a strange appearance as though it was endeavouring to face in three directions at once. Only the front remained unaltered probably because it would have been impossible to extend in that direction.

Brookfield met them, and conducted them to the drawing room, where a sharp-featured woman was waiting with a stout, undersized man of about fifty-five. The latter, his little eyes gleaming angrily through his pince nez, greeted them with a snort of indignation.

‘I demand an explanation for my reasonless detention in this house,’ he commenced, looking from Brien to Wallace and back again. ‘It is scandalous that a man of my position and calling should have been treated in such a manner. During my thirty years’ experience I have never—’

‘Is this the doctor?’ asked Wallace turning to Brookfield.

‘Yes, sir,’ was the reply. ‘Cousins and I thought it would be as well if he stayed here until you arrived. He didn’t approve, and I’ve had a great deal of difficulty in persuading him to remain.’

‘Approve!’ barked the doctor. ‘Of course I did not approve. I have been in this house for three and a half hours, and it is now past my luncheon hour. I want to know the meaning of it, sir. It is—’

‘All right, doctor,’ interrupted Wallace soothingly, ‘you’ll be paid for the time you have spent here. It was important that you remained on the premises.’ The little man was mollified to a great extent.

‘Well,’ he conceded, ‘that alters the complexion of the business somewhat. I did not understand that I was to be remunerated for the hours I have – er – wasted here. My time is valuable, and I have many patients – many patients. All the same I am mystified. Are you from Scotland Yard, sir?’

‘Not exactly from Scotland Yard,’ replied Sir Leonard, ‘but somewhere close by.’

The doctor blinked at him, and was about to ask further questions, but he turned away and, taking Brookfield by the arm, led him to a corner of the room.

‘Is everything as you found it?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir, except the contents of the safe,’ replied the fair-haired, well-built man who had acted as the professor’s guardian and watch-dog. ‘Cousins sorted the mass of documents we found there in the hope that the formula for Veronite would be amongst them.’

‘I know that. The body has not been moved?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good. It was your habit to sit outside there in the passage when the professor was in here?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You were there last night?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did you hear anything – a noise of any kind?’

‘No, sir. I can’t understand why I didn’t hear the shot. Of course the walls are thick and there are double doors, but even so, I should have expected to hear a muffled sort of sound.’

‘Perhaps the murderer used a silencer. Was the professor in the habit of working at night?’

‘Not quite in the habit, but he did pretty frequently.’

‘I see. Have you searched anywhere else besides the laboratory for the papers?’

‘Yes; I have examined all Professor Mason’s clothing, drawers and cupboards. I have even looked inside his books.’

‘No result I suppose?’

Brookfield shook his head.

‘I can’t tell you how I feel about this, sir,’ he confided dismally. ‘I would give five years’ pension if it could be undone.’

Wallace nodded.

‘I can understand your feelings,’ he observed, ‘but it can’t be helped. You weren’t to blame as far as I can see. Take me to the laboratory.’

It was a large apartment built onto the rear of the house, the walls and floor of which were lined with slabs of white marble. Two long tables of the same material stood parallel to each other in the centre of the room. On these were various appliances of modern chemistry. Three of the walls contained shelves covered with bottles, most of them nearly full of powder or liquid, retorts,
burettes and other articles. The other side of the room was bare except for a solitary chair and a large safe, the door of which was wide open. The laboratory was lit by six powerful electric bulbs so placed that no shadows could be thrown by anything, no matter where its position might be.

Wallace stood looking round appreciatively for a few moments; then walked to the silent form lying in the centre of the room between the two tables. Kneeling down, he examined the tiny hole in the forehead, and took note of the position in which the body was lying. Someone had closed the eyes, but Wallace raised the lids, and gazed long and earnestly into the glazed depths. Suddenly a puzzled frown wrinkled his brow. He raised the head, and carefully felt the back of it; then once more gazed into the eyes.

‘Ask Major Brien and the doctor to come here,’ he instructed Brookfield.

The two were soon standing by his side, and he looked up at the medical man.

‘How long do you think the professor had been dead, doctor, when you saw him?’ he asked.

‘Between six and eight hours without a doubt,’ replied the little man fussily. ‘There is no—’

‘What time was it when you saw him?’

‘Precisely at ten.’

‘That means that he died between two and four.’

‘Most decidedly.’

‘I suppose you have examined the body thoroughly?’

‘I have,’ returned the doctor – his tone was almost indignant.

‘Did you find anything unusual about it?’

‘Unusual! My dear sir, a violent death can never be considered anything but unusual.’

Sir Leonard rose to his feet, and looked straight into the other’s eyes.

‘I’m sorry to have to say it,’ he observed coldly, ‘but I have come to the conclusion that you are no ornament to your profession.’

‘How dare you, sir!’ cried the doctor angrily. ‘How dare—’

‘Not so loud,’ commanded Wallace. ‘May I remind you that a certain amount of respect is due to the dead.’

He turned his back on the angry little man, and spoke to Brien.

‘Ring up Scotland Yard, Billy,’ he instructed, ‘and ask the Commissioner to send down his most competent police surgeon. Brookfield, I want you and Cousins to comb the neighbourhood, and find out if any strangers have been seen about recently. If so, get descriptions of them, names if possible and, in fact, all the information you can. Before starting out, ask the housekeeper if she can give you a meal of some sort. I could do with a snack myself.’

He was left alone with the doctor and the dead body of the professor.

‘I hate to show my contempt for any man,’ he remarked, addressing the still fuming medico, ‘but you call yourself a doctor, and apparently fail to notice what even I saw, and my knowledge of the science of medicine is remarkably vague.’

‘What did you see?’ demanded the doctor, interested in spite of himself.

‘Did you examine the professor’s eyes?’ counter-questioned Wallace.

‘Of course I did. I closed the lids.’

‘And you saw nothing peculiar about them?’

‘No; I can’t say I did. They were no different to any other dead eyes.’

Wallace gave an exclamation of impatience.

‘You can go home, doctor,’ he said. ‘But please remember to keep absolutely silent regarding this affair for the present. Send your bill to Room 12 at the Foreign Office, and you will receive payment.’

The doctor looked at him curiously; then bowed slightly and went out.

‘Of course, the little fool
will
blab,’ muttered Sir Leonard to himself, and added philosophically, ‘but he can’t do any harm, simply because he is such a fool.’

He was examining the doors of the room, when Brien came back and announced that Scotland Yard’s most competent surgeon was engaged at the moment, but would be down before four o’clock.

‘That will do,’ commented Wallace. ‘Get hold of Brookfield and Cousins before they go off on their little jaunt, and tell them to carry the body to the bedroom, will you?’

Brien nodded.

‘Have you any theories?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid not. Two peculiar things have struck me. One I will keep for the police surgeon, the other is that after murdering the professor the criminal probably took the keys of the safe from his pocket, opened it, then put them back. Now why did he bother to do that? Any ordinary individual would have left them in the door.’

‘Ask me another?’ remarked Brien. ‘I’ll bite. Why did he?’

‘That’s what I want to know.’

‘I don’t see that it matters very much. Perhaps the safe was opened by the professor.’

‘He’d be no more likely to return the keys to his pocket until he had locked it again than anyone else.’

‘No; I suppose not. Let us go and eat. I believe a meal is awaiting our attention in the dining room. At any rate, Cousins and Brookfield are tucking in already, and I’m famished.’

While they were eating Wallace’s mind was busy, and he hardly spoke a word. Directly the meal was finished he went back to the laboratory, and once more examined the doors. The lock of the first, the common type, had been smashed in by Cousins and Brookfield; the second was impossible to break open, and the two Secret Service men had been constrained to send to the dockyard at Sheerness for a steel cutter, with which they had cut out the lock and thus opened the door. The keys still lay on the table where they had been found. One was a powerful affair with a double flange. Sir Leonard inspected it carefully; then put it down and took up the other. That also he subjected to the same careful scrutiny. Brien sat on the solitary chair, smoking a pipe, and watching his colleague. As the latter placed the smaller key by the side of the other, Billy took the pipe from his mouth, and gazed wide-eyed at him.

‘What’s the matter, Leonard?’ he queried. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look quite so grim. Have you discovered anything?’

‘I’m getting on.’ The speaker smiled mirthlessly. His grey eyes were as cold in their expression as the steel door by which he stood. ‘What is the name of the maker on that safe?’

Brien rose and looked; then told him.

‘Go and ring them up, and ask – no; wait a minute!’ He walked out into the passage, and called to the housekeeper. She came quickly, and entered the room timidly in his wake. ‘Can you tell me, Mrs Holdsworth,’ he asked, ‘if the professor ever mislaid the keys of the safe?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied promptly. ‘It was about a fortnight ago. There was a great fuss, and we ransacked the house for them. The maids and I had a bad time. You see, sir, the professor couldn’t get at some papers he wanted very badly, and he stormed and raved until Mr Brookfield advised him to communicate with the makers. They sent duplicate keys down. Then two days afterwards the others were found.’

‘Oh! Where were they?’

‘The professor had left them in the pocket of a pyjama jacket which had been thrown into the soiled linen bag. I found them when I was getting the laundry ready.’

‘Was he usually absent-minded?’

‘No, sir, very rarely.’

‘When they were found, what did he do with the duplicates?’

‘That I can’t tell you, sir.’

‘Never mind. Perhaps Mr Brookfield may be able to tell me. Would you mind showing me to the professor’s bedroom?’

She led the way, and left him and Brien alone in the pleasant chamber which had been the professor’s sleeping apartment. The body of the old scientist now lay on the bed covered by a sheet, having been carried upstairs by Cousins and Brookfield.

Wallace walked round the room apparently taking a very perfunctory interest in it. A medicine cupboard was the first object to rivet his attention. It was locked, but the key was in the keyhole, and he opened the door and examined the orderly rows of bottles arrayed within. Presently, with a low whistle, he took down a phial which was labelled differently from the others, pulled out the stopper, and sniffed the contents. Then he closed it tightly again, and put it in his pocket. After that he went downstairs, and once more called Mrs Holdsworth.