Drury Lane’s Last Case (29 page)

“Six p.m. Sunday, if this went off at six last night. It was a twenty-four hour bomb.”

“Six o'clock Sunday,” repeated Patience slowly. “Then it was planted before Maxwell was assaulted Sunday night!”

“Looks as if you were right, Pat,” murmured Rowe. “If whoever set the bomb knew the document was in the house, then he planted it to destroy the document. That means he knew it was in the house but didn't know exactly where. It's hard to take——”

“Focal point of the explosion,” said the expert, spitting at a blackened rock, “was the cellar.”

“Ah,” said Lane again.

“The second visitor, the one who got the document out of the little secret compartment,” said Patience with a thoughtful squint at Lane, “couldn't have been the one who set the bomb. That's obvious. That second visitor
knew
where the document was; the bomb-setter didn't, as you've just said, Gordon …”

She was interrupted by a hoarse shout from one of the workmen digging in the ruins of the cellar. They all turned quickly.

“What's the matter?” cried Bolling, breaking into a run.

Three men were stooping over something, their heads just visible above the lip of the excavation. One of them turned, white and shaking. “There—there's a body in here, Chief,” he croaked. “And from the—the looks of him he was
murdered
.”

The young people dashed through the blackened ashes to the rim of the foundation. Lane followed slowly behind, pale and worried.

Rowe took one look and turned to shove Patience roughly away. “No good, Pat,” he said huskily. “You'd better go off there under the trees. It's—not nice.”

“Oh,” said Patience; and her nostrils flared nervously. Without another word she obeyed.

The men stared, fascinated, down into the pit. One workman, a young red-cheeked policeman, crept off to a corner of the cellar and bent double, trembling and sick.… The remains were fearfully charred, wholly beyond semblance to human form; a leg and an arm were horribly missing, and the clothes were completely burned away.

“How do you know,” asked Lane harshly, “that he's been murdered?”

An older man in uniform looked up, lips compressed. “He wasn't so burnt I can't see the
holes
,” he said.

“Holes?” choked Rowe.

The man sighed queerly. “Three holes. Neat as hell in his belly. Those are bullet holes, mister, and don't forget it.”

Three hours later Lane, Chief Bolling, Patience, and young Rowe were seated silently in the office of the District Attorney at White Plains. An urgent call had been sent through for a vehicle and arrangements made to cart the corpse off to the Medical Examiner's office in White Plains, the county seat. Bolling would permit no one to touch the body beyond the handling necessary to assemble the scattered remains. A search had been conducted for fragments of clothing, particularly buttons, which might provide a clue to the murdered man's identity in the absence of more specific identification; but the body had been in the vortex of the explosion and the searchers soon gave up. It was a miracle, the bomb expert said cheerfully, that the body had not been smashed to atoms.

They sat about the district attorney's desk staring at the object upon it. It was the only article taken from the dead body which might be construed as a clue. It was a wrist-watch of British manufacture, a cheap timepiece with a leather strap; it would have been futile to attempt to trace it. Nothing remained of the glass except a single triangular bit of glass clinging to the frame. The alloy metal of which the watch was made had not suffered from the explosion, except for its smoky blackish appearance. There was one thing about it, however, which was odd. The hands stood fixed at 12.26; and there was a deep gash on the face. This gash had not only bitten into the number
10
but extended beyond the
10
into the very metal of the frame.

“That's a funny one,” said the District Attorney, a youngish man with worried eyes. “Didn't you tell me, Bolling, that the body was found face down and the arm on which this watch was strapped was folded
under
the body?”

“That's right.”

“Then the gash on the edge of the dial wasn't made by the explosion.”

“There's something else too,” murmured Patience. “The explosion occurred at six o'clock; if it had caused the watch to stop then the hands should show six o'clock. But they don't.”

The District Attorney surveyed her with admiration. “Right! I never thought of that, to tell the truth. Inspector Thumm's daughter, did you say?”

The Medical Examiner came in hurriedly—a bald little man with a pink face and tender jowls. “Hallo, hallo! Well, I suppose you want the good news. I've just finished looking over that mess inside.”

“He was murdered, wasn't he?” asked Rowe eagerly.

“Yes, indeed. Of course in the condition of the corpse it's hard to tell, but it's my opinion that he's been dead about thirty-six hours, which would make the time of death approximately midnight Sunday.”

“Midnight Sunday!” Patience stared at Rowe, and he stared back. Mr. Drury Lane stirred a little.

“That checks pretty well with the wrist-watch,” remarked the District Attorney. “Twelve-twenty-six. The watch must have stopped during the murder-period. He was killed at twenty-six minutes past twelve early Monday morning.”

The bald little man continued: “He was shot from the front, at very close range. Three slugs.” He tossed three smashed and shapeless bullets on the desk. “Funny thing about the gash on that watch. There's a corresponding gash on the wrist which cut pretty deep. The wrist-gash starts just where the gash on the watch leaves off.”

“In other words,” asked Rowe, “you think the same blow caused the gashes on both wrist and watch?”

“That's the ticket.”

“Then there's our axe-wielder,” muttered Rowe with a hard glitter in his eyes. “Or at least it's somebody who used an axe.… Doctor, could these gashes have been caused by a small axe?”

“Sure. Couldn't have been a knife. Anything with a broad blade and a handle for leverage.”

“Then that's settled,” grunted Bolling. “Somebody used an axe to carve this bird, hit him over the wrist, broke his watch and stopped it, wounding the wrist at the same time; and then, I suppose in a fight, filled his belly full of lead.”

“There's something else, too,” said the doctor. He produced from his pocket a small key wrapped in tissue paper. “One of your men, Bolling, just brought this in. Found in a scrap of trouser-pocket they managed to dig up in the ruins near the body. It's been identified by somebody——”

“Maxwell?”

“Man who took care of the house? Yes. Maxwell identified it as the original key to the front door.”

“The
original
!” cried the young people in chorus.

“Funny,” muttered Bolling. “Hold on a minute.” He seized the district attorney's telephone and called his headquarters in Tarrytown. He spoke shortly to some one, then replaced the receiver. “Sure enough. My man tells me Maxwell said this was Dr. Ales's key. The one that the masked man took from Maxwell the night he tied him up in the garage was just a duplicate.”

“The only original?” breathed Patience.

“That's what Maxwell said.”

“Then I don't think there's any doubt about it,” said the District Attorney with a sigh of satisfaction. “The corpse must be that of Dr. Ales.”

“Indeed?” murmured Lane.

“You don't think so?”

“A key, my dear sir, doesn't make an owner. However, I suppose it's logically possible.”

“Well, I'm busy,” said the Medical Examiner. “Only one other thing. I suppose you want a description of this cadaver. Five feet eleven, sandy or blond hair, must have weighed somewhere around a hundred and fifty-five pounds, and he was anywhere from forty-five to fifty-five years old. I couldn't find any identifying marks.”

“Sedlar,” whispered Patience.

“On the dot.” Rowe spoke brusquely. “One of the men involved in this case, an Englishman, Dr. Sedlar, disappeared from his hotel in New York City on Saturday. That description fits him perfectly!”

“You don't say!” growled Bolling.

“I do say. At the same time there seems to be a confusion of identities. This man Sedlar has been accused of being Dr. Ales——”

“Then there's the answer,” said Bolling hopefully. “Don't forget the corpse was carrying around Dr. Ales's key. If Sedlar was Ales, then everything's hunky-dory.”

“I'm not so sure, on second thought,” muttered Rowe. “There are really only two possibilities, and we're muddling about here because we haven't analysed thoroughly enough. The first possibility is that Sedlar and Ales are the same man, as you say, Mr. Bolling, in which case the corpse—which is remarkably like both—clears up the major mystery of both men's disappearance. But if Sedlar and Ales aren't the same, then there's only one conclusion to come to: they bear an uncanny resemblance to each other! We've been evading that conclusion because it seems—er—pulpy and penny-dreadfulish; but I don't see how you can get around it.”

Lane said nothing.

“Well,” grumbled Bolling, struggling to his feet, “all this talk may get you people somewhere, but it leaves me with a headache. All I want to know is: Whose corpse is this, Dr. Ales or that Englishman Sedlar's?”

On Wednesday morning two things of importance occurred. Inspector Thumm returned victorious from Chillicothe, Ohio, his jewel thief caught and safely behind bars; and the mystery of the “uncanny resemblance” was solved.

26

Resurrection

“The reason we're up here again—Patty tells me she and this young brute have practically been living here!” said the Inspector genially to Lane the next morning as the two old men and the young couple sat under a spreading oak in one of Lane's serene gardens, “is that we've got some interesting news for you.”

“News?” The old gentleman shrugged; he looked listless and wan and tired. Then he smiled feebly; a bit of the sonorous vigour of old time leaped into his voice. “Ram thou thy fruitful tiding in mine ears, that long time have been barren.' I trust they're fruitful?”

The Inspector grinned; he was in high good humour. “Judge for yourself.” He dug into his pocket and produced an envelope. “Heard unexpectedly from good old Trench this morning.”

The message said:

FURTHER INVESTIGATION INTO HAMNET SEDLAR REVEALS INTERESTING DEVELOPMENT IN LAST CABLE I INFORMED YOU H S HAD A BROTHER WILLIAM WHOSE WHEREABOUTS WERE UNKNOWN WE HAVE NOW FOUND THAT WILLIAM AND HAMNET ARE TWINS WILLIAM HAS BEEN TRACED TO THE UNITED STATES HAVING EMBARKED FROM BORDEAUX FOR NEW YORK ON A SMALL TRAMP IN LATE MARCH HE IS WANTED BY BORDEAUX POLICE DEPARTMENT OF GIRONDE ON CHARGE OF ILLEGAL ENTRY AND FELONIOUS ASSAULT HAVING BROKEN INTO PRIVATE LIBRARY OF WEALTHY FRENCH BIBLIOPHILE OF BLAYE AND APPARENTLY ATTEMPTED TO STEAL A RARE BOOK FRENCHMAN WAS FOUND BADLY BEATEN HAD SURPRISED WILLIAM IN ACT OF MUTILATING BINDING BOOK A 1599 JAGGARD EDITION OF QUOTE THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM UNQUOTE BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE ACT IS PECULIAR SINCE WILLIAM SEEMS TO BE A MAN OF MEANS HE IS A BIBLIOPHILE LIKE HAMNET AND HAS WRITTEN LITERARY ARTICLES UNDER THE PSEUDONYM OF DOCTOR ALES BEFORE HIS DISAPPEARANCE FROM ENGLAND THREE YEARS AGO HE HAD ACTED AS EXPERT AT RARE BOOK AUCTIONS BUYING FOR MILLIONAIRE COLLECTORS HIS BEST PATRON WAS SIR JOHN HUMPHREY-BOND RECENTLY DECEASED NO FINGERPRINTS OF EITHER WILLIAM OR HAMNET AVAILABLE NOR DISTINGUISHING MARKS KNOWN ALTHOUGH FROM INFORMATION AT HAND WILLIAM IS IMAGE OF HIS BROTHER HOPE THIS INFORMATION IS OF ASSISTANCE TO YOU IF YOU FIND TRACE OF WILLIAM SEDLAR ALIAS DOCTOR ALES NOTIFY PREFECT OF POLICE BORDEAUX FRANCE REGARDS AND GOOD HUNTING

TRENCH

“That explains it, don't you see?” cried Patience. “Being twin brothers Hamnet and William must have been as alike as two peas in a pod. That's why everybody's been mixing them up!”

“Yes,” said Lane softly. “This is exceedingly valuable information. It's clear, then, that Sedlar was Sedlar, and Dr. Ales was William, Sedlar's brother, the fugitive from French justice.” He placed the tips of his long fingers together. “But the
embarras de choix
still remains to plague us. Whose body was found—Hamnet's or William's?”

“And then there's this business of William trying to get his hooks into a copy of the 1599 Jaggard in Blaye,” remarked Rowe. “You must have heard of that old Frenchie, Mr. Lane. Pierre Gréville. In fact, I visited him last year.” Lane nodded. “He's the owner of the second copy. Saxon had the third, and the other is Lord knows where. Mutilating the binding, eh? Nonsense. He was looking for that Shakespeare holograph!”

“Figure it out, kids,” chuckled the Inspector. “I've washed my hands of
this
case. But it's beginning to show improvement, hey?”

“Do you want to know,” said Patience suddenly, smoothing her frock with absent fingers, “who murdered that man in the cellar?” They all started, and Patience laughed. “Oh, I can't give you any names. It's like an algebraic problem where you're dealing with a flock of unknowns. But of one thing I'm sure: the murderer was the wielder of the axe!”

“Oh,” said Rowe, and sank back on the grass.

“We know he was in the study at midnight from the evidence of the grandfather-clock. At twelve-twenty-four he was upstairs in the bedroom, still hacking—evidence of the broken bedroom clock. The murder occurred at twelve-twenty-six—only two minutes later! And the murderer was wielding an axe—evidence of the deep sharp gash on the victim's wrist-watch and wrist. Which was to be proved.”

“I see,” said Lane, and looked up at the blue sky.