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The Master Detective

P >> Percy James Brebner >> The Master Detective




"A fairly full day's work," I said with a smile.

"I am going to be busy, too, with a theory I have got. To-morrow we will
see if your facts fit in with it."

To avoid repetition I shall come to the results of my inquiries as I
related them to Quarles next day. I got back from Grange Park soon after
two o'clock, had a couple of sandwiches and a glass of wine in the Euston
Road, and then took a taxi to Chelsea. Zena and the professor were
already in the private room, Zena doing nothing. Quarles engaged in some
proposition of Euclid, apparently. On the writing table were a revolver
and some cartridges.

"I have told Zena the whole affair as far as we know it," said Quarles,
putting his papers on the table, "and she asks me a foolish question,
Wigan. 'Why didn't the butler run for the police instead of Miss
Crosland?' Have you got any information which will help to answer it?"

"It doesn't seem to me very strange that she went," I returned. "I have
been busy, but there is not very much to tell. I have got the house
watched as you suggested. The Paris police telegraph that an Englishman
named George Radley is at the Hotel Vendôme, a harmless tourist
apparently, going about Paris seeing the sights. Schuster was able to
give me Bush's address, and I called upon him, but did not see him. He
had gone to a case in Yorkshire, but may be back any time. He lives in
Hampstead, in quite a pleasant flat overlooking the Heath."

"Is he married?"

"No, he has a housekeeper, rather a deaf old lady who speaks of him as
the doctor."

"You didn't chance to see a portrait of him?"

"No, there were no photographs about of any kind. His hobby seems to be
old prints, of which he has some good specimens. I should say his
temperament is artistic."

"That is an interesting conclusion," said the professor. "You didn't get
any idea of his age?"

"No. This morning I went to Clarence Lodge and find you are by no means
liked there."

"Indeed."

"An old gentleman called there yesterday afternoon saying you had asked
him to go and see Mrs. Crosland about her rheumatism--a Mr. Morrison."

"The silly old ass!" exclaimed the professor. "He is the man I told
Crosland of, the man who cured rheumatism so marvelously. I suppose
Morrison misread my letter and went at once instead of waiting to be
sent for."

"Crosland appears to have given him a piece of his mind," I laughed, "and
called you a meddlesome fool."

"Poor old Morrison, but it serves him right."

"He managed to see Mrs. Crosland," I said. "When the old lady heard he
was there she would see him. As the son was anxious his mother
shouldn't know of the tragedy, it was arranged that she should be told
that Morrison's visit was the outcome of a casual remark Crosland had
dropped to a friend concerning Mrs. Crosland's suffering. The old lady
appears to have put the old man through his paces, but ended by being
convinced that Morrison knew what he was talking about. He has been
asked to call again."

"Then I appear to have done the old lady a good turn after all," said
Quarles. "Did you see Mrs. Crosland, Wigan?"

"No. The butler opened the door, and I only saw young Crosland besides. I
explained to him the necessity of having the house watched, and I think
he believes I am afraid he will attempt to run away. He is a little
nervous about his position in the affair. I reassured him."

"It's a pity you didn't manage to see the old lady. Don't you think it
would be interesting to know what she is like?"

"I can't say I am very interested on that point."

"Well, we can ask old Morrison," said Quarles. "I daresay his quackery
has made him a close observer. You don't succeed as a quack unless you
have a keen appreciation of the foibles and weaknesses of human nature."

"You have my facts, Professor; now, have you progressed with your theory;
has revolver practise had something to do with it?"

And I pointed to the writing table.

"Let's go back to the Grange Park burglaries for a moment," Quarles began
slowly. "We have investigated them under the impression that they were
the work of a gang, but it is possible they were worked by one man. The
gang may have attacked Clarence Lodge, Crosland's chance though excellent
marksmanship accounting for one of the members while the rest escaped;
but on the whole the evidence seems to suggest that this man was alone,
and we might conclude that the burglaries were the work of one man."

"I shall never believe that," I said.

"Still, you cannot disprove it by direct evidence. You may show it to be
unlikely, but you cannot prove it impossible. Indirectly we can go a
little further. There were several features about these burglaries to
make them remarkable. The right house was chosen, the thieves were never
heard or seen, there were always plenty of misleading clues left about,
there was no bungling, In the case of Clarence Lodge the wrong house was
chosen--Crosland himself told us that it contained no jewelry or
particular valuables. The thieves, or rather thief, was heard, the sound
must have been considerable to arouse both Crosland and his sister; the
thief makes no attempt to conceal himself and fires the moment he is
spoken to; in short, there was a considerable amount of bungling, quite
unlike the experts we have been thinking of. We are safe, therefore, I
fancy, in considering that the Clarence Lodge affair is not to be
reckoned as one of the Grange Park burglaries."

I shook my head doubtfully.

"Since experts may at times make mistakes, I grant that my negative
evidence is not as convincing as it might be," said Quarles, "but I want
the point conceded. I want, as it were, a base line upon which to build
my theoretical plan. I want to forget the burglaries, in fact, and come
to the Clarence Lodge case by itself. So we have a dead man and we first
ask who shot him. Crosland says he did, and tells us the circumstances,
his sister confirms his statement, and the butler, the woman servant and
the nurse, who are quickly upon the stage in this tragedy, see no reason
to disbelieve the statement. We burrow a little deeper into the evidence,
and we discover one or two interesting facts. The man was shot on the
left side of the head, a clean wound above the left ear. Crosland says he
fired after he had been fired at, so the man, directly he had fired, must
deliberately have turned his head to the right, which at least is
remarkable. Further, to hit the wall of the landing in the place he did
the man must have stood in the very center of the stairs to fire. His
body was found some feet away from this central position, and a bullet so
fired and striking where it did could not have missed two people
standing on that landing. I have made a rough plan here," and Quarles
took up the papers from the table, "giving the position of the dead man,
the position of the walls and stairs. The lines show where the bullet
would have hit if fired from a spot nearer where the dead man was found."

I examined his diagram closely.

"A man shot through the brain might fall several feet away from where he
was standing," I said.

"Yes, behind where he was standing, or perhaps forward, but hardly to one
side. However, we burrow again, and we try and answer Zena's question why
it was Helen Crosland who ran for the police. Why not? we may ask. Her
close association with her brother in the affair, her anxiety on his
account, make it natural that she should dash out not only for help but
to make it certain that they had nothing to hide. Her words to Poulton,
'The burglars, and I am afraid my brother has shot one of them,' are
significant. They tell the whole story in a nutshell. Crosland's
statement merely elaborates it, over-elaborates it, in fact. The bolts on
the front door, Wigan, were very stiff; I tried them. Helen Crosland
would certainly have had difficulty in drawing them back, and it is an
absurdity for her brother to declare that she had gone before he knew
what she was doing."

I had no comment to make, and Zena leaned forward in her chair,
evidently excited.

"It is a point to remember that she ran out exactly at the moment Poulton
was passing, which may have been chance, of course, but from that room
over the hall one can see down the drive and, by the light of a street
lamp, some way down the road. Had any one watched there he could have
prompted the girl when to start."

"You seem to be overloading the theory too much," I said, "and I do not
see many real facts yet."

"I am coming to some facts presently," said Quarles. "I am showing you my
working. Now, having done away with the gang of burglars, we ask how did
the man get into the house. Your argument that no one could have escaped
through that window in the passage was sound, I think, Wigan, and
considering the immaculate condition of the latch and the lack of signs
on the sill and the flower bed, I doubt if any one got in that way,
either. On the whole, I am inclined to think he came through the front
door, which was opened for him by Hollis the butler or by one of the
servants."

"Still no facts," I said.

"Still theory," admitted Quarles. "By my theory it follows that the dead
man was known to the Croslands. We will assume that in some family
quarrel he was killed that night. The death--the murder--had to be
concealed, so they pitched on the idea of the burglars, put the body in
the hall, fired a shot into the landing wall, and threw open the passage
window. It was smartly conceived, but, of course, took some little time,
which had to be accounted for. Crosland could only say that he could not
tell how long a time elapsed between the firing and the arrival of
Poulton. Everything had to be thought of before Helen Crosland rushed out
for the police."

"You assume that the whole household was in the conspiracy?" I asked.

"Yes, and that they are exceedingly clever. What do you think of
the theory?"

"As a theory rather interesting, but I am still waiting for a fact or
two."

"Here's one," said Quarles, taking up the revolver. "This is Crosland's;
I purloined it. It is a very good weapon by a small maker. Curiously
enough the thief's weapon was exactly like it."

"That may be a coincidence," said Zena.

"It may be, but I prefer to think it a significant fact," the professor
returned; "but we'll go back to the theory again for the moment. I was
very interested in Crosland and his sister, they were not exceedingly
unlike each other. There was no portrait of Mrs. Crosland about, so I
could not tell which of them took after the mother. Had you told me that
Helen Crosland was the butler's daughter I should have believed you. Did
you notice the likeness, Wigan?"

"No," I said with a smile. It seemed to me that the theory had got
altogether out of hand.

"Well, it made me curious about the nephew," Quarles went on. "I wondered
whether the dead man was the nephew and so I asked Crosland about a
family skeleton, showed him that I had no belief in the burglar theory,
and he quickly responded by saying there was nothing in the house worth
stealing. I helped him out of a difficulty, and it was easy to talk about
his mother and her rheumatism. So we got to the specialist Bush. You see
the chief point was to find out the identity of the dead man. Now we get
to two facts. He isn't the nephew who is still in Paris, and Bush is
supposed to be in Yorkshire."

"Do you mean--"

"I am still theorizing," said Quarles. "There are no portraits at
Clarence Lodge; you noticed a lack of portraits in Bush's flat, and you
conclude by external evidence that his temperament is artistic. The dead
man's hands were curiously capable and artistic. It struck me the moment
I looked at them."

"I am not convinced, Professor."

"Nor was I," said Quarles, "so I mentioned the rheumatic specialist who
had cured me."

"You, grandfather!" Zena exclaimed.

"Ah, you have evidently forgotten how I used to suffer," was the smiling
answer. "I allowed Morrison to make a mistake on purpose and go to
Clarence Lodge, his one idea to get an interview with Mrs. Crosland."

"And you have seen him since?" I asked.

"Came home with him from Grange Park," answered Quarles. "He was roundly
abused to begin with, but, as you were told, he saw Mrs. Crosland. It was
an interesting interview. The first thing that struck him was that the
old lady was totally unlike her children, a different type altogether.
She is a hard, masculine kind of woman, not at all of the nervous
temperament he had been led to expect; and he was convinced that she had
only consented to see him to make sure that he was no more than he had
proclaimed himself--a specialist in rheumatism. My friend Morrison came
to the conclusion that the nurse, as a nurse, was incompetent, and that
the room he entered would not have been the one constantly occupied by
the invalid. He was exceedingly interested in Mrs. Crosland, seeing in
her a woman of extraordinary force of character and intellectual
capacity, and he came to the conclusion that there was nothing whatever
the matter with her."

"No rheumatism?" said Zena.

"About as much as I suffer from," said Quarles. "In short, Morrison was
rather glad to get safely out of the house. He was certain that the old
lady had a revolver under her pillow, and would certainly have shot him
had she suspected that he was any one else but a specialist in
rheumatism."

I was looking at Quarles as he turned to me.

"What do you make of my theory now, Wigan?"

"Were you Morrison?" I asked.

"Of course, and it was a trying ordeal. Do you think we have enough facts
to go on?"

"Not facts, exactly, but evidence," I admitted.

"I think we shall find that the dead man is Bush," said the professor.
"Inquiry will probably show that he has a record for quackery and has
probably sailed fairly close to the wind at times. His connection with
the Crosland family was not professional, but had other aims, and his
profession was used merely as a reason for not having a doctor for Mrs.
Crosland, who found it convenient to pose as an invalid. A quarrel
resulted in Bush's being shot that night. I hazard a guess that it was
the old lady who shot him, and that it was her brain which conceived the
way out of the difficulty."

"That is guessing with a vengeance," I said.

"Yes, but not without some reason," Quarles went on. "Let's go back to
the Grange Park burglaries for a moment, and suppose that a gang of
expert thieves under the name of Crosland took Clarence Lodge. An invalid
mother, son and daughter so called, butler, servants--a most respectable
family apparently, in the midst of people worth plundering, able by
friendly intercourse to collect the necessary information and plan their
raids. Bush is the outside representative of the firm, so to speak, and
the nephew who travels abroad occasionally sees to the selling of the
spoil. It was the plot of a master mind--the old lady's, which has
entirely beaten us until they quarrel between themselves. Now what do
you think of my theory?"

"It takes me back to Grange Park without unnecessary delay," I said,
getting up quickly.

"I thought it would. You have got the men waiting for you there, and I
should raid the house forthwith. But caution, Wigan. I don't think they
have any suspicion of Morrison, but the moment they tumble to your
intentions they'll show fight, and probably put up a hot one. And don't
forget the nephew in Paris. Take him, too."

The raid upon Clarence Lodge took place that evening, and was so managed
that the servants and the chauffeur were taken before Crosland and his
sister, who proved to be no relation as Quarles had surmised, were aware
of the fact. Faced with the inevitable they made no fight at all, but the
old lady was made of entirely different metal. She barricaded herself in
her room, and swore to shoot the first man who forced the door. She had
the satisfaction of wounding me slightly in the shoulder, and then before
we could stop her she had turned the weapon upon herself and shot herself
through the head.

The nephew was taken in Paris, and with the rest of the gang was sent to
penal servitude. The evidence at the trial proved Quarles's theory to be
very much as the tragedy had happened. The dead man was Bush, and it was
his threat to give the burglaries away unless he had a larger share of
the spoil than had been assigned to him which made the old lady shoot him
in an ungovernable fit of rage.

"A master mind, Wigan," Quarles remarked, "and it is just as well
not to have her as a neighbor. Your wound is not likely to put off
your wedding?"

"No."

"A little better aim and she would have put it off altogether."

"Don't be so horrible," said Zena.

"A fact, my dear. Murray has been very keen about getting: hold of facts
in this case, so I mention one. The Grange Park burglaries beat me
because there was no clue to build on, but with a dead body--well, it
really wasn't very difficult, was it?"

"Quite easy," I answered as if I really meant it, and then turned to
discuss carpets with Zena.

It was not always wise to let the old man know you thought him clever.


THE END

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