Death-Watch (7 page)

“Very interesting,” said Hadley, without enthusiasm. “But I can’t help wishing you’d tell me what
happened
here tonight, so that I could form my own theories. This metaphysical business may be all very well—”

Dr. Fell took out his battered cigar-case, wheezing.

“You want proof, do you,” he said, quietly, “that I’m not talking through my hat? Very well. Why were
both
hands stolen off that clock?”

Hadley’s fingers closed over the arms of the chair …

“Now, now, steady. I’m not hinting at more stabbings. But let me follow it up with another question. There’s probably nothing in your life that you’ve seen more frequently than clocks, and yet I wonder if you can answer one question with absolute certainty before you look: Which hand is outside and which inside, the long minute-hand or the short hour-hand?”

“Well—” said Hadley. After a pause he growled something and reached after his watch. “H’m. The long one is outside; on this watch, anyhow. Confound it, yes! Bound to be. Common sense would tell you that. It has the bigger arc of the circle to travel—the longer distance, I mean. Well? What about it?”

“Yes. The minute-hand is outside. And,” continued Dr. Fell, scowling, “Ames was stabbed with the minute-hand. A further fact: if in your childhood you ever spent joyous carefree hours taking apart your old man’s best parlour clock to see if you could make it strike thirteen, you will know that each hand is devilish difficult to take off … Ames’s murderer presumably needed only the minute-hand. He could remove it without disturbing the other. Why, then, did he take the time and trouble—and in those steel stable clocks it’s no easy job at all—to pinch the
other hand?
I can’t believe it was any instinct of tidiness. But why?”

“Another weapon?”

Dr. Fell shook his head. “That’s the trouble; it couldn’t be, or the whole business would be understandable. By the looks of things, that minute-hand is approximately nine inches long. Therefore, in usual measurements, the short hour-hand couldn’t possibly be long enough to serve as a weapon, when any normal fist gripped round it, there would remain at most an inch and a half of steel at the business end. You’re not going to do any serious damage with that, especially as the barb hasn’t a cutting edge. So
why, why, why
pinch the little one?”

He stuck a cigar in his mouth and passed his case to Hadley and Melson. Then he broke off the heads of several matches trying to strike a light. Hadley, with an irritable gesture, drew some folded sheets of paper out of one envelope on the table.

“And that’s not the worst puzzle,” said Dr. Fell. “Most of it lies in the behaviour of a certain gentleman named Boscombe and another named Stanley. I intended to ask you about that. I dare say you remember Peter Stan … What’s the matter?”

Hadley uttered a satisfied snort. “Only a fact, that’s all! In the first line of this report. Three words of Ames tell more than six chapters of other people I could mention. Can you understand this?

“‘Following up my report dated 1st September, I now believe I can establish conclusively that the woman who murdered Evan Thomas Manders, shop-walker, at Gamridge’s Stores August 27th last, lives at Number 16 Lincoln’s Inn Fields …’”

“G
O ON,” SAID DR. FELL,
as Hadley stopped abruptly. “What else?”

Hadley was running his eye down the short, laboriously written sheet. He threw off his hat and loosened his overcoat as though to assist him. His annoyance grew.

“Damn the secretive little blighter! He says … H’m, ’m. Not a definite word in the whole business, unless there’s something in an earlier report. He’d never talk until he was ready to ask for a warrant, ever since Stanley nearly stole his thunder in the Hope-Hastings—” Suddenly Hadley looked up. “Is my hearing getting as muddled as my brain, or did I hear you mention a name like Stanley just a moment ago?”

“You did.”

“But it’s not—?”

“It’s the Peter Stanley who had your position about twelve or thirteen years ago. He’s upstairs now. And that’s what I wanted to ask you. I remembered in a hazy sort of way that he resigned, or something of the sort, but I couldn’t fix the details.”

Hadley stared across at the fireplace. “He ‘resigned’ for shooting dead an unarmed man who was making no resistance at the arrest,” Hadley said, grimly. “Furthermore, for precipitating an arrest to get the credit when poor old Ames hadn’t worked out all the details. I ought to know. I got my promotion in the shuffle; that was at the reorganization in 1919, when the Big Four were created. It wasn’t entirely Stanley’s fault. He’d insisted on active service in the war; his nerves were shot to blazes, and he wasn’t in shape to be trusted with anything bigger than a cap-pistol. That was why they let him ‘resign.’ But he put four bullets in the head of old Hope, who was a bank-absconder and timid as a rabbit—” Hadley shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t like this, Fell. Not a little bit. Why didn’t you tell me he was mixed up in this thing? It—well, it reflects discredit on the Force if some newspaper happens to dig it up. As for Stanley—” His eyes narrowed and he stopped uneasily.

“You’ve got more pressing worries for the moment, my lad.

What does Ames say in the report?”

With an effort Hadley jerked his thoughts back.

“Yes. I suppose so—no, of course it can’t be. Curse the luck, this thing would have to happen when I’m within a month of retiring! Well. Hum. Where was I? There’s not much. He says:

“‘Following up my report dated 1st September, I now believe I can establish conclusively that the woman who murdered Evan Thomas Manders, shop-walker, at Gamridge’s Stores August 27th last, lives at Number 16 Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Pursuing the anonymous information received, as indicated in report 1st September—’”

“Have you got that?”

“Yes. But wait a bit:

“‘—I have taken a room at 21 Portsmouth Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, adjoining the Duchess of Portsmouth Tavern, in the character of a down-at-heel ex-watchmaker with a weakness for spirits. The private bar of this tavern is visited by all the men and one of the women living at 16 Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and the jug-and-bottle by two others—’

“By the way,” interpolated Hadley, “how many women are there in the house?”

“Five. Three of ’em you’ve seen.” Dr. Fell sketched out the household. “The other two would seem to be a Mrs. Gorson, a housekeeper of sorts under the direction of La Steffins, and a maid, name unknown. I’ll lay you a tanner it’s the last two who visit the jug-and-bottle. It will be interesting to discover which of the other three ensconces herself in the private bar. I know the ‘Duchess of Portsmouth.’ It’s a musty enough place, but full of atmosphere and rather swank … Well?”

“‘Two days ago (2nd September) my hitherto anonymous informant paid a visit to me at my room, disclosing knowledge of who I was and how I came to be there. (I must ask leave to be excused from supplying further details at this time.) Whatever the motive, informant offered even further assistance. Informant deposed to having seen in possession of certain woman two articles listed as stolen in department-store robberies (see report 28th August for complete list). These articles were (1) Platinum bracelet set with turquoises, value £15; and (2) Early eighteenth-century watch, gold case, inscribed “Thomas Knifton at the X Keys in Lothebury Londini fecit,” exhibited in Gamridge advertising-display and loaned by J. Carver. Informant also deposed to having seen, evening of 27th August, same woman burning in a fireplace a pair of brown kid gloves stained with blood—’”

“WOW!” said Dr. Fell.

“Yes. Rather a nasty household altogether. Somebody,” grunted Hadley, “is very anxious to get somebody else hanged, and yet makes a dark and secret pact with the police officer. No, not quite. Let me read on:

“‘It will be seen that my position up until this morning was as follows. Informant was quite willing to testify in the witness box to the above statements, but refused to make the accusation that would give us a warrant, in case evidence should be destroyed. Information stated that this responsibility must rest with us, so far as making the arrest was concerned—’”

“Clever lady,” said Hadley, “or gentleman. I’ve known a good many of these amateur narks, and they’re the meanest devils on two legs. Or was the whole thing a trap? I doubt it. Well …

“‘I therefore suggested to my informant that we arrange means for getting me (secretly) into the house, where I could examine the possessions of the accused in private and satisfy my superiors that there was evidence for the issuing of a warrant—’

“Blasted fool! He shouldn’t have put that into a report. This thing will have to come out, and every ass will be braying in the newspapers for the next six months. Good old plodding, serious-minded Ames! And the rest is worse:

“‘—but my informant, although concurring in the idea, refused to give active assistance on the ground that informant might be compromised. I therefore determined to get into the house on my own responsibility.

“ This afternoon, just previous to the writing of this report, stroke of good fortune has rendered this easy. Another occupant of 16, L. I. F. (not my previous informant), who had promised to give me some cast-off clothes, suggested that I call round for them tonight. I had a good excuse for scraping his acquaintance at the beginning, as I did with other occupants of the house; in this case since he and I were of a similar height, and I said that I was in need of suitable—’”

“Boscombe, of course,” nodded Dr. Fell. He had lit the cigar and was puffing at it in a sort of puzzled obstinacy at the report. “Personally, Hadley, I don’t like the sound of the whole thing. It’s fishy. It may have impressed Ames’s mind; but then Ames died because it did. The question is, what damned sort of trick were Boscombe
and
Stanley going to put up on him? There was something, I’ll swear. And it’s a new confusing set of tracks that runs side by side with Jane the Ripper’s footprints … No, no. Boscombe didn’t intend to give a derelict any new clothes. Boscombe, in a pub, would only have cursed such a seedy beggar and had him chucked out. There was a game he and Stanley played, right enough. What else?”

Hadley ran his eye down the reports.

“That’s about all. He says that he arranged to call on Mr.— whoever it is, his benefactor—at a late hour. Then he sketches out what he intends doing. He will call on this Boscombe, receive the clothes, pretend to leave the house, hide, and then indulge in a little burglary in the room of the accused woman. He trusts that this slight irregularity will meet with the approval of his superiors— Bah! Why
write
that?—and concludes at 5 p.m., Thursday, the 4th inst, G. F. Ames … Poor devil!”

There was a silence. Hadley threw the report on the table; he discovered that he was rolling to pieces an unlighted cigar, and made an ineffectual attempt to light it.

“You’re absolutely right, Fell. It does sound fishy. What I can’t do is put my finger on the exact point where its fishiness is most apparent. Maybe that’s because I don’t know enough facts. So—”

Dr. Fell said, meditatively, “I suppose he really did write that report?”

“Eh? Oh yes. Well, there’s no question of that. Even aside from his handwriting, he brought the thing in himself. He wrote it right enough. Besides, I don’t want you to get the impression, from whatever I’ve said, that Ames was anybody’s fool; far from it. He had good reason for writing what he did. He had—”

“Did he have a sense of humour, for instance?” enquired Dr. Fell, with owlish blankness. “Was he above juggling facts a bit and indulging in a little leg-pull, if he thought he did it in a good cause?”

Hadley scratched his chin.

“Suppose he had? Ames would have needed a very remarkable sense of humour to invent a story about a woman burning blood-stained gloves merely to get a hearty laugh out of the C. I. D. Look here,” said Hadley, querulously, “you don’t doubt that this woman, this Jane the Ripper, is really in the house, do you?”

“I haven’t any reason to doubt it. Besides, there’s no need to be charitable in our suspicions; there’s certainly a murderer here, and as nasty a one as I’d ever thought to meet … Listen, now. I’ll tell you exactly what happened, and you can draw your own conclusions.”

Dr. Fell spoke briefly and sleepily; but he omitted nothing. Cigar smoke began to thicken in the room, and Melson felt his wits thickening with it. He tried to fasten on the essential points that puzzled him, to ticket them in readiness for Hadley’s questions. Long before Dr. Fell had finished, Hadley was pacing the room. As Dr. Fell waved his hand and uttered a long rumbling sniff to indicate that the picture was complete, Hadley stopped by one of the clock-cases. “Yes,” agreed the chief inspector, “it makes some things straight, and a lot more crooked. But it’s fairly clear now why you thought there was a man on that roof, and that the blonde was going up to meet him …”

Dr. Fell scowled. “The
first
part of it,” he admitted, “is easy. She said her bedroom door was slamming in a draught; that she thought the front door might be slamming, and got out of bed to see about it. But—to do this—she had carefully decked out her face in fresh cosmetics. That seemed unusual, as though a man were to rise from his bed and array himself in evening-clothes to throw a boot at a yowling cat. She didn’t turn on any lights whatever, although this would be the natural thing to do; and she hastily rubbed out the make-up when somebody suggested waking up the others in the house. It naturally suggested a clandestine appointment … where? “Now,” said Dr. Fell, vigorously, “comes the interesting part. She crept up those stairs, hearing Boscombe say, ‘My God, he’s dead’; she, saw a body lying on the floor and immediately became so hysterical that she kept on wildly accusing Boscombe of murder long after she saw he wasn’t guilty.
Ça s’explique,
Hadley. It wasn’t just the shock of seeing a dead burglar.” The chief inspector nodded.