Mr. Zero (20 page)

There was a moment when Mr. Patterson broke his ferocious silence to observe that the country was an unendurable place in winter and it passed his comprehension how any civilized man could endure it. “Barbarous—completely barbarous,” he said, and reverted to sipping hot water.

There was a moment when Mr. Brewster, in a desire to make harmless conversation, addressed himself with an air of diffidence to the company at large.

“It's a pity that the evenings are still so dark. If it had been lighter, I should have been so much interested in seeing the grounds. There is a famous yew hedge, is there not?”

Colonel Anstruther brought out a most undoubted “Tcha!” Fellow was a secretary, wasn't he? In his young days secretaries spoke when they were spoken to.

Algy gazed almost reverentially at the unconscious Cyril.

“There is certainly a yew hedge,” he murmured. “Oh, my only aunt!”

“You mean?” Mr. Brewster raised anxious eyebrows.

“Oh lord,
yes
, man! That's where Colesborough was shot!”

“Indeed—I had no idea.” The embarrassed tone faded out.

Montagu Lushington went on talking about birds.

It was over at last. Colonel Anstruther and Mr. Patterson withdrew, presumably to the study. Mr. Lushington expressed a wish to see Mr. Brook, who presently appeared. Algy Somers and Cyril Brewster left the room.

XXVIII

The door of the Butler's pantry opened and Mr. Zero came in. He shut the door behind him and said in an easy, affable voice,

“Well, Sturrock, have you got them?”

Sturrock had turned round at the first sound, but he showed no surprise. He was expecting Mr. Zero, and expecting to make a very good thing out of him. There would be some haggling and chaffering, but he wasn't going to come down in his price. He had the letters, and that was all the same as having Mr. Zero's neck in a noose. What a bit of luck—what a really remarkable bit of luck his being first down to the yew walk. They had all come streaming away without so much as a thought for the letters and left him to find them where they had dropped, right down beside the hedge, under the window. Well, he'd got them cheap and he meant to sell them dear, and he didn't mean to run any risks neither. No meetings in dark gardens for him, not if he knew it. If Mr. Zero wanted to talk, he could do it here where he wouldn't be tempted to try any more of his fancy stuff. All this took no time. It was in his mind, a settled policy, all thought out and clear. He didn't have to think about it. So when Mr. Zero said, “Have you got them?” he had his answer ready.

“I've got them all right, if you've got the money, sir.”

“Fair exchange,” said Mr. Zero. Then he looked across at the other door. “How private are we? What's through there?”

Sturrock glanced over his shoulder.

“Private enough,” he said. “No one comes eavesdropping on me. There's a passage between this and the servants' hall, and they've got the wireless on there—military band programme. We're private enough. Have you got the money?”

“I have got it,” said Mr. Zero. He put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. “Lucky I had them by me—for emergencies. You never know, do you? Quick, man—show me the letters!”

Sturrock's eyes were on the notes. Money for jam, that's what it was—big money, and not the last of it neither, because as long as he knew what he knew he could cut and come again. As long as he knew … He dived into an inside pocket and brought out a knotted green silk handkerchief checked with brown. It had been untied, and tied again, since Sylvia Colesborough had fastened the stolen letters in it, and the knots were loose and slipping. Sturrock pulled out the letters—there were no more than three of them—and pushed the handkerchief back into his pocket. He'd burn it presently. It would be better burned. It was the letters that were worth their weight in gold—and more.

Mr. Zero threw the bundle of notes down upon the
News of the World
which lay spread out on the pantry table.

“Count them while I have a look at the letters,” he said. He stretched out his left hand for them.

The butler hesitated, leaned forward, reached for the notes, and saw Mr. Zero's right hand go down into his pocket again—a gloved right hand.

But it hadn't been gloved just now—

Mr. Zero smiled, took a long step forward, and shot him dead.

There was very little noise. The pistol had been fitted with a silencer. This Mr. Zero removed.

Sturrock had fallen across the table, but the heavy body would probably slide down on to the floor. With his gloved hand Mr. Zero clasped the limp right hand about the pistol butt. He put the letters and the notes into his pocket. Then he left the room.

William gave the alarm ten minutes later, rushing white-faced into the study.

“Mr. Sturrock—oh, sir, he's shot himself! Oh, sir!” And then an incoherent story of how he had tried the door of the butler's pantry, the one on the kitchen side, and found it locked—“And when I couldn't get an answer I went round by the other door—and he's shot himself! Oh, sir, whatever made him do it!”

Inspector Boyce went quickly out of the room. The study faced the terrace, with the dining-room behind it, and the butler's pantry behind that. As he ran through the hall, he saw Algy Somers on his way downstairs. He ran on.

The door through which William had entered the pantry opened from the dining-room. It stood wide open now, and Inspector Boyce could see the heavy figure of the butler fallen in a heap beside the table. That he was dead was past all question. That it was suicide seemed likely enough. And if it was suicide, then perhaps they need not look any farther for the murderer of Sir Francis Colesborough.

The Inspector tried the second door, and found it locked. Then he went over to the telephone and rang up the police station.

XXIX

“Not suicide?” said Colonel Anstruther.

“Well, I shouldn't say so. It's not impossible, you know.” Dr. Hammond's voice was brisk. “I'm not going to say it's impossible, but he was shot through the left temple, and he wasn't a left-handed man. Work it out for yourselves. I don't say it's impossible that a man who's going to commit suicide should take the pistol in his left hand and shoot himself through his left temple, but I don't believe it's ever happened. I mean, why should he? The thing's absurd. Besides—”

“There's this, sir,” said Inspector Boyce. He leaned across the writing-table at which Colonel Anstruther was sitting and laid upon the blotting-pad a green silk handkerchief checked with brown.

“Bless my soul—what's that?”

“Handkerchief the missing letters were tied up in, sir. Lady Colesborough has identified it. You can see where the edge of the letters has marked it, and where the corners have been knotted.”

“Well?” said Colonel Anstruther, staring.

“Where are the letters, sir? That's the point.”

“He burnt 'em. How's that, Brook?”

Mr. Brook shook his head.

“There was only a very small fire, sir,” said the Inspector—“pretty well dead. Sturrock had been out for the afternoon, you know. If he'd tried to burn the letters, there'd have been some ash about. There wasn't any. And if he was Mr. Zero and he'd got back letters incriminating him by murdering Sir Francis, he'd have destroyed them right away, and destroyed the handkerchief too.”

“How do you know he didn't destroy 'em at once?”

Marks on the handkerchief,” said Inspector Boyce. “Very soft silk, sir. See—there's the shape of the envelopes quite plain, but the crease wouldn't last tumbling about in his pocket like he had it—not in that soft silk, not above an hour or so.”

“What do you say to that, Brook?”

The four men were alone in the study. Mr. Patterson, whose firm would as soon have touched divorce as murder, had gone back to town outraged in every susceptibility. Mr. Montagu Lushington had not gone yet. He was, at the moment, in the drawing-room with his two secretaries.

“What do you say to that, Brook?”

Mr. Brook nodded slightly.

“The Inspector is quite right, Colonel Anstruther. That handkerchief would only keep the shape of the letters for a very short time. If they hadn't been tied up in it for a good many hours, it wouldn't have kept it at all. I don't think it was suicide. Sturrock was the first on the scene of Sir Francis Colesborough's murder after Mr. Somers and Miss Hardwicke ran up to the house. Lady Colesborough has said all along that she didn't know what happened to the letters. Either she dropped them on her side of the hedge, or Mr. Zero dropped them on his side. The brown and green silk covering would make the packet very inconspicuous. By some accident Sturrock found them. I think it is quite impossible that he should have been Zero, but I think the letters told him who Zero was. I think he tried to make use of this knowledge, and I think it brought him to his death. I think Mr. Zero is a very dangerous man to blackmail.”

Colonel Anstruther said, “Bless my soul!” in an extremely startled voice. Then he rallied. “Sounds like a lot of guesswork to me,” he growled. “What about the pistol—what about fingerprints? They'll show who handled it.”

“Only Sturrock's fingerprints on it, sir,” said Inspector Boyce. “But of course anyone who was out to make it look like suicide wouldn't go leaving fingerprints of his own. Mr. Brook is quite right, sir—Mr. Zero is a dangerous one. And I don't think we've got to look very far for him either. It's getting enough evidence for a jury that's the trouble.”

Colonel Anstruther looked up at him frowning.

“There's no doubt about the pistol being the missing one of Sir Francis Colesborough's pair?”

“Absolutely no doubt at all, sir. And who had the best opportunity of taking it? Why, he'd half an hour to do what he liked before we got here—hadn't he?”

Dr. Hammond had been listening with brisk attention, turning his head from one speaker to another with rather the air of a terrier who is watching several ratholes at once. Very bright eyes and a head of tousled grey hair assisted the likeness. He burst now into speech.

“You mean Mr. Somers?”

Colonel Anstruther pushed back his chair with a jerk.

“Oh, have him in—have him in! It's a crazy case, if you ask me.”

The Inspector made for the door, but stopped with his hand on it. Mr. Brook was speaking.

“Perhaps we had better see Mr. Brewster first. Mr. Lushington will be wanting to get back to town. If you have no objections, Colonel Anstruther—”

Colonel Anstruther had no objection, and presently Mr. Brewster came in.

Before the door was shut Dr. Hammond was up and taking his leave.

“I'd like to stay, but I've got to go. Twins at Railing, and a broken leg out at Oldmeadow. And it's Sunday evening. What a life!”

When he was gone Colonel Anstruther turned to Mr. Brewster.

“Sit down, won't you? We won't keep you long, but we think you may be able to help us.”

“Anything I can do.” Mr. Brewster registered an earnest desire to be helpful.

“Naturally. I believe you and Mr. Somers left the drawing-room together after tea.”

“Oh, yes, Colonel Anstruther, we did.”

“Did you happen to notice the time?”

“Oh, yes—I glanced at my watch. It was twenty minutes past five. I thought Mr. Lushington—”

“Yes, yes!” Colonel Anstruther's tone was testy. “Can you tell us what happened after you left the room?”

Mr. Brewster assumed an intent expression.

“Yes, I can, Colonel Anstruther. And I assure you that I shall take great pains to be accurate. We came out of the drawing-room together—that is, Mr. Somers and I came out of the drawing-room—and when we had got about half way across the hall—I think it was just about half way, but it may not have been quite as much—the butler came towards us from the direction, or what I now understand to be the direction, in which the domestic offices are situated.”

“What? You saw Sturrock after you left the drawing-room?”

“If that is his name. We saw the unfortunate man who is the subject of the present enquiry.”

“Bless my soul!” said Colonel Anstruther. “Make a note of that, Boyce. Well, that narrows down the time considerably. You saw Sturrock alive at twenty past five, and William found him dead at five-and-twenty to six. Well, go on, sir. What was he doing?”

“He approached us,” said Mr. Brewster, speaking in his precise way, “and he informed Mr. Somers that he was wanted on the telephone.”

“What?”

“I will endeavour to give you his exact words. To the best of my recollection he said, speaking to Mr. Somers, “There's a London call for you, sir. Perhaps you wouldn't mind taking it in my pantry as the gentlemen are using the study.'”

“Go on,” said Mr. Brook. “What happened after that?”

The Inspector wrote at Sir Francis Colesborough's table. Mr. Brewster cast an interested glance at him and continued his narrative.

“Mr. Somers disappeared in the direction from which the butler had come. I then enquired where it would be convenient for me to wait until Mr. Lushington had finished his conversation with Mr. Brook, and the butler indicated a room he called the Parlour. It is reached by a passage on the opposite side of the hall behind the drawing-room.”

“Yes, yes!” Colonel Anstruther was impatient. “Did Sturrock accompany you along this passage?”

“No—he merely indicated the room.”

“You went there?”

“I did.”

“And remained there?”

“I remained there until about a quarter to six, when I thought I had really better make sure that Mr. Lushington was still engaged. I found the house in a turmoil, and was informed that the butler had shot himself.”

“That,” said Mr. Brook, “is by no means certain.”