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The Master Detective

P >> Percy James Brebner >> The Master Detective




"Don't forget the artistic temperament," he answered.

"Surely it would be the very temperament to be influenced," I said.

"Presently we shall find out, perhaps," he whispered as Sister Pomona
went to the piano.

It was Chopin she played to-night, and Quarles, who had been more
interested in her than in the rest of the company, immediately lost
himself in the music. He applauded as vociferously as any one in the
audience, and after the performance would talk of nothing but music. It
pleased him to become learned on harmony and counterpoint; at least, I
suppose it was learned; I could not understand him.

I had suggested that he should make the acquaintance of the pierrots as
soon as the curtain was down, but this he would not do.

"To-morrow will be time enough; besides, I want to see them with the
paint off."

We called on them on the following morning. They had rooms in a quiet
street in Fairtown. The landlady was accustomed to have strolling
companies as lodgers, and evidently had the knack of making them
comfortable. Quarles had a word or two with her before seeing her
visitors, and learnt that they were the nicest and quietest people
she had ever had. The poor gentleman who was dead was the quietest of
the company.

"Perhaps he was in love," laughed Canaries.

"I shouldn't be surprised," the landlady answered.

"With whom?"

"He seemed to spend most of his time looking at Miss Day when he
didn't think she would notice him. I don't wonder. She is well worth
looking at."

"Admiration is not necessarily love," remarked the professor. "By the
way, have you been to the mortuary to see the body?"

"Me!" exclaimed the landlady in horror. "No. I am not one of those
who take a morbid pleasure in that kind of thing. Nothing would
induce me to go."

"Very sensible of you," Quarles said.

We were then taken to the Watsons' sitting-room, and I explained the
reason of our call, speaking of Quarles as a brother detective. He did
not at once act up to his part. Mr. and Mrs. Watson were alone when we
first entered, but the others joined us almost at once, and I fancy they
were prepared for a visit from me; the local inspector may have said it
was likely. Quarles began to talk of music, and judging by Miss Day's
interest I concluded that he knew what he was talking about; in fact, all
of them were immensely interested in the old man, and for at least half
an hour the real reason of our being there was not mentioned.

"Bach, no, I am not an admirer of Bach," said the professor, in answer to
a question from Miss Day. "Bad taste, no doubt, but I always think
musical opinion is particularly difficult to follow. By the way, I
suppose Mr. Henley played some instrument?"

The sudden question seemed to change the whole atmosphere. Watson, I
fancy, had been ready to enter upon a defense of Shaw, and Miss Day to
convert Quarles to Bach worship; in fact, I firmly believe that every one
except myself had forgotten all about the dead man until that moment.

"Why do you ask!" Watson inquired after a pause.

"You are such a musical set, it would be strange if one of your company
could not play any instrument at all. I am told he sang tenor songs, and
was wondering whether that was all he could do."

"As a fact he played the banjo and the guitar," said Watson, "but he has
not done so in Fairtown. The people here are high-class people, and we
have to vary our performance to suit our audiences. At Brighton, where we
go next week, Henley's banjo playing might have been the most popular
item on the program."

"I can understand that. You know very little about Mr. Henley, I am
told," and he waved his hand in my direction to show where he had got his
information.

"Very little," Watson replied. "He told us he had no relations, and he
received very few letters, which seemed to be from agents and business
people. I did not question him very closely when he applied to me. I
judged that he was down on his luck, but he fitted my requirements, and
my wife was favorably impressed with him."

"And you have no reason to regret taking him into your company?"

"On the contrary, he proved a great acquisition, a far better man than
the one whose place he took."

"That is not quite what I meant," said Quarles. "Companies of
entertainers vary, not only in ability, but in individual tastes, in
personnel. By engaging Mr. Henley you were obliged to admit him into your
private circle, and I imagine--"

"That is what I meant by saying my wife approved of him," said Watson. "I
wouldn't engage the finest tenor in the world unless he were a decent
fellow. It wouldn't be fair to the rest of us."

Quarles nodded his appreciation of such an attitude.

"Of course, as long as he behaves decently I am satisfied," Watson went
on. "I don't make my enquiries too particular. For instance, I shouldn't
bar a man because he had got into trouble."

"Have you any reason to suppose that Henley had done so?" Quarles asked.
"That might account for his mysterious death."

"I have no such suspicion," Watson answered; "indeed, he was not that
kind of man. It is my way--my clumsy way of explaining what I mean by
decent. Many a decent man has seen the inside of a prison. By being there
he pays his debt, and afterwards, in common justice, he should be free,
really free, free from his fellow-man's contempt."

"You have started my husband on his pet hobby," laughed Mrs. Watson. "He
always declares that our prisons hold some of the best men in the world."

"Some of the strongest and most potential," corrected her husband.

"I am inclined to agree with him," said Quarles.

"But I am taking up your time and not asking the one or two
questions I came especially to ask. You dress for the performance in
the tent, I suppose?"

"The men do. The ladies dress here and go down with cloaks over their
costumes."

Quarles undid a small brown paper parcel--I had wondered what he had
brought with him--and produced the pierrot's hat.

"That is Henley's, I suppose?"

Watson looked at it.

"Undoubtedly. There is an 'H' in it, you see. We all put our initial in
like that so that we should know our own."

"Now, can you suggest why Henley was wearing his dress?" asked Quarles.

"That has puzzled us all," Watson answered. "I am inclined to think the
doctor is wrong as regards the time he had been dead. The last we saw of
Henley was when we left the tent that night. He was not coming back with
us, he was going straight to the station. He was a long time changing,
and I told him he would have to hurry to catch his train."

"Is there such a late train up?"

"Only during the summer."

"And none of you went down to the tent until the evening of the
next day?"

They all replied in the negative.

"We are perhaps fortunate in being able to substantiate the denial," said
Watson. "We all drove to Craybourne and spent the day there, starting
soon after ten and not getting back until six."

"And in the ordinary way Henley would have gone with you?"

"Certainly. It was only just before the performance that evening that he
announced his journey to town. He said it was a matter of business."

"One more question," said Quarles, "a delicate one, but you will forgive
it because you are as desirous of clearing up this mystery as any one.
Have you any reason to suppose poor Henley was in love?"

"I have no reason to think so," said Watson.

"Nor you, Miss Travers?" said Quarles, turning to Sister Penelope.

"He certainly was not in love with me."

"I ask the question just to clear the ground," said the professor after a
short pause, and rising as he spoke. "The man whose place Henley took
might have fallen in love with one of you young ladies, and if he thought
Henley had supplanted him he might have taken a mad revenge. Such things
do happen."

"There was nothing of that sort," said Mrs. Watson. "Russell, that was
the other man, has gone on a voyage for his health. Only a week ago I had
a picture postcard from him from a port in South America."

"That absolutely squashes the very germ of the theory," said the
professor with a smile. "Sometime I hope to enjoy your charming
entertainment again, and to hear you play, Miss Day. I hope it won't be
Bach. Good-by."

As we walked back to the hotel I asked Quarles why he had not suggested
that Henley might be in love with Miss Day instead of Miss Travers.

"My dear Wigan, you have yourself said she is undoubtedly a lady. Can
you imagine her allowing a man like the dead man to have anything to do
with her?"

"Circumstances have thrown them into each other's company," I answered.
"In such a small circle she could hardly avoid him."

"I am inclined to think the company will get on better without him,"
he answered.

To my astonishment the professor insisted on going back to town that
afternoon. No, he was not giving up the case, but he wanted to be in
Chelsea to think it out, and to see if Zena had got any foolish questions
to ask. This was Saturday, and on Monday I received a telegram from him,
requesting me to come to town. It was important. Of course I went, and
the three of us adjourned to the empty room.

"I am sorry to bring you off the Beverley affair, Wigan, but I think we
ought to settle this pierrot business."

"Then you have formed a theory?"

"Oh, yes, and it is for you to prove whether I am right or wrong. If my
theory be correct, it is rather a simple case, although it appears
complicated. We will accept the doctor's statement that the man had been
murdered that day, and not on the previous night. He was done to death,
therefore, during the morning probably, when for some reason he had
visited the tent, and for some reason had put on his pierrot's dress.
Watson is inclined to think that the doctor is wrong as regards time, but
we may dismiss his opinion. The dead man's face had no make-up on it; had
the murder been committed on the previous night before he had got out of
his costume, the grease paint would have been still on him."

"I think that conclusion is open to argument," I said.

"I base the conclusion rather on the doctor's opinion than on the
paint," said Quarles. "Now, it seems to follow that Henley's tale about
being called to town was false, was apparently told for the purpose of
getting out of the excursion with his comrades; and we may fairly assume
that his visit to the tent was for some purpose which he did not want his
companions to know anything about."

"Why did he put on the dress?" said Zena.

"That is her persistent question, Wigan, and she also asks another almost
as persistently: Why, in spite of friendly words concerning Henley,
should they look upon the dead body with such repugnance?"

"You make too much of that idea of mine, as I have said before," I
objected.

"Let me put it another way," said Quarles. "How was it possible for
them to show so little concern about a comrade they liked! They might
screw themselves up to go through their performance and hide their
sorrow from the public, but in private one would have expected to find
them depressed. I hardly think they showed great sorrow while we were
with them."

"They did not, certainly."

"May I say that Watson and Miss Day seemed the least concerned, and even
venture a step further and guess that they were the two who seemed to you
to look upon the dead man with repugnance?"

I admitted that this was the case, and it was then that Zena, having
heard the whole story from her grandfather, accused me of lingering in
the tent that night for the purpose of seeing Sister Pomona again.

"Now, two points as we go," said Quarles, interrupting our little
side-spar. "Miss Day volunteered no statement when I talked of love.
Could she have made an unqualified denial I think she would have done so.
I did not ask her a direct question on purpose; I thought she would be
more likely to answer an indirect one. Her silence, I fancy, was the
answer. In view of what the landlady told us, I think we are safe in
assuming that Henley admired her, and that she was aware of the fact. The
second point is Watson's defense of the men who had been in prison, his
hobby, as his wife called it. We will come back to both these points in a
moment. Let us consider the dead man first. The face was evidently that
of a fast liver, not that of a decent man such as Watson spoke of; the
throat and neck were not of the kind one expects in a singer, but, of
course, we must not argue too much from this; the hands showed breed,
certainly, but they had never been used to twang the strings of a banjo
or guitar."

"But Watson distinctly said--"

"And the hat with 'H' in it had never fitted the dead man," said Quarles.
"Oh, I remember perfectly what Watson said, and, moreover, I believe I
heard a good many of his thoughts which were not put into words--you can
hear thoughts, you know, only it is with such delicacy that the very idea
of hearing seems too heavy and materialistic to describe the sensation.
Watson said the hat was Henley's, he also said that Henley played these
instruments; but the pierrots all wore hats that fitted, well-made hats,
and for this reason each of them marked his hat, and the skin at the
finger tips of a banjo player always hardens. The dead man was certainly
not Brother Pythagoras, and so far the deduction is simple."

I made no comment.

"Now it is obvious since these entertainers agreed that it was the body
of their comrade, they are in a conspiracy to deceive. Why? More than one
complicated reason might be found, but let us remain simple. They knew
who the dead man was, and because of what they knew of him concluded that
their comrade was responsible for his death. Have you any fault to find
with that deduction, Wigan?"

"I don't think it follows," I said.

"If they did not know the dead man, if they had nothing to conceal, why
did they allow it to be supposed that the dead man was Henley?" said
Queries. "There would be no object. They were running a risk for nothing.
As it was, their action protected Henley. No one was likely to question
their identification. The dead man would be buried as Henley, and there
would be an end of the matter."

"But the dead man might be identified by his friends," I said.

"Evidently they thought it worth while to run that risk, knowing perhaps
that it was not a very great one. Apparently it was not, for up to now no
one has made anxious inquiries for the dead man."

"But some of the people about the sea-baths and the tent attendants would
know it was not Henley," said Zena.

"We have evidence that he was a very quiet, reticent man," said Quarles.
"They probably hardly saw him in the daytime, and at night he would have
a painted face, and the fact that he was wearing the dress would go a
long way to convince any one who chanced to see him in the dim light at
the back of the stage that night."

"And who do you suppose he was?" I asked.

"We will go back to Watson and Miss Day," said Quarles. "Miss Day was
silent on the question of love, fearful, I take it, that her natural
repugnance to the man might serve to betray the conspiracy. I believe
the conspiracy was formed on the spur of the moment, just before Watson
came from behind the curtains that evening and asked whether you were a
doctor. I should say the dead man had pestered her, and that she was
relieved by his death. I find some confirmation of this in Watson's
attitude. He talks of some of the best men having been in prison, in such
a way, in fact, that his wife hastens to laugh at his hobby, afraid that
he will betray himself. Now he could hardly have been referring to the
dead man; he declared himself that he was not thinking of Henley; I
suggest that he was thinking of himself."

"And you accused me of jumping to a conclusion!" I exclaimed.

"I haven't finished yet," answered the professor. "Here is my complete
theory. The dead man knew something of Watson's past, and was holding
that knowledge over him, blackmailing him, in fact, and I think the
company knew it. At the same time he pesters Miss Day with his
attentions, which Henley, more than half in love with Miss Day himself,
resents and determines to rid the troupe of a blackguard. He begins by
pretending some friendship for his victim, and after giving out that he
is going to town, suggests to the dead man that his absence may be an
opportunity for the other to get into Miss Day's good graces. Why should
he not dress up and take his place on the following evening? I have
little doubt that Henley expected him to come to try on the dress that
night after the performance, which would account for his being such a
long time changing. The victim did not come; by the look of him in death
I should say he had not been sober, which would account for his not
coming. Next morning Henley goes to find him, takes him to the tent, not
through the door, which would be fastened probably in some way, but
surreptitiously, through some weak spot in the pegging down very likely."

"But why should he wait until the man had got into the pierrot's dress
before murdering him?" said Zena.

"Because, my dear, he hoped the body would not be discovered until
another troupe took possession of the tent. A dead pierrot would be
discovered, and the troupe at Brighton would be communicated with. In the
meanwhile Henley would have warned them, and the same tale would have
been told, and the body been identified as Henley's. There would be no
hue and cry after the murderer. Had it not been for Miss Day's pompon
being torn off, I have no doubt this would have been the course of
events. You will have to travel to Brighton, Wigan, and put one or two
questions to our friend Watson."

"And who was the man?" I asked.

"Since no one seems to have missed him I should say he was a man not too
anxious to have inquiries made about him, one careful to cover up his
tracks, perhaps one not altogether unknown in criminal circles, a man of
the type of your Beverley, for instance. By the way, have you ever seen
Beverley?"

"No."

"How were you to know him, then?"

"By the man in whose company he would be."

"And you have good reasons for expecting to run him to earth at
Fairtown?"

"Excellent reasons," I answered.

"Wigan, get some one who knows Beverley to go and look at the dead
pierrot. The result might be interesting."

It was. Quarles admitted that the idea was a leap in the dark, but he
pointed out that the dead man was the type he imagined Beverley to be.
The fact remains he was right. The dead man was Beverley. And, moreover,
the professor's deduction was right throughout as far as we were able to
verify it. Watson had been in prison, quite deservedly he admitted, but
having paid the debt for his fall, he was facing the world bravely. Then
came Beverley, who knew of the past, and Watson admitted that his death
was a thing that he could not help rejoicing over. He had heard nothing
from Henley, who had no doubt read of the discovery in the paper, and
thought it wiser to obliterate himself altogether.




CHAPTER VI

THE TRAGEDY IN DUKE'S MANSIONS


I believe Beverley's exit from this life was a relief to his family.
Whether any very strenuous efforts were made to find Henley, I do not
know. Possibly the "Classical P's" are interrogated concerning him from
time to time, for they are still appearing at well-known watering places,
though whether Miss Day is still of the company, I cannot say.

I quickly forgot all about Henley, being absorbed in a new case, which
created considerable attention. At the outset it brought me in contact
with rather a fascinating character, a man whose personality sticks in
your memory.

He was an Italian by birth, cosmopolitan by circumstances, and by nature
something of an artist. Fate had ordained that he should be man-servant
to an English M.P.; he would have looked more at home in a Florentine
studio or in a Tuscany vineyard, but then Fate is responsible for many
incongruities.

In well-chosen words, and in dramatic fashion, he drew the picture for
me.

"The little dinner was over," he said, using his hands to illustrate his
speech. "I had removed everything but the wine. It had not been a merry
party, no; it was all business, I think, and serious. When I enter the
room to bring this or take that, they pause, say something of no
consequence--evidently I am not to hear anything of what they are
talking. They talk English, though only my master was English. One of his
guests was German, the other a countryman of my own, but not of Tuscany,
no, I think of the South. So there was only the wine on the table, and
cigars, and the silver box of cigarettes. My master had in his hand a
sheet of paper, and the German had taken a map from his pocket, and my
countryman was laughing at something which amused him. I can see it all
just as it was."

He paused, closed his eyes, as if he would impress for ever on his memory
what he had seen.

"And now--this," he said, throwing out his arms. "This, and not two hours
afterwards."

This was certainly tragic enough. A shaded electric light hanging over
the table left the corners of the room in shadow. The wine, the cigars,
the silver cigarette box were still on the table, the smoke was heavy in
the atmosphere. A tray contained cigar and cigarette ends. On either side
of the table was a chair pushed back as it would be by a man rising from
it. At the end was a chair, with arms, also pushed back a little, but it
was not empty. In it was a man in evening dress, leaning back, his head
fallen a little to one side, his arms hanging loosely. But for the arms
of the chair he would have fallen to the floor. He was dead. How he had
died was uncertain. A casual examination told nothing, and I had not
moved him. I had arrived first and was expecting the doctor every moment.
I happened to be in my office when the telephone message came through
that Arthur Bridwell, M.P., had been found dead under suspicious
circumstances in his flat at Duke's Mansions, Knightsbridge. I went there
at once and found a constable in possession. It was barely half-past
nine now, and the Italian manservant said he had last seen his master
alive at seven o'clock.

"He dined early to-night?" I said.

"Yes, at six. He was going to the House afterwards. It was important, I
heard him say so to his guests."

"And you went out at seven?"

"About seven. It is my custom to go for a walk after serving my master,"
was the answer. "I came back just before nine. I looked into this room,
not expecting to find any one here, but to put the wine away and take the
glasses, and I find this. I have moved nothing, I have touched nothing. I
called to the porter, and he fetched the police, and the policeman used
the telephone to call you."

The Italian, whose name was Masini, was the only servant. Duke's
Mansions, as you probably know, is a set of flats, varying in
accommodation, with a central service. There is a general dining-room,
and there are smoking rooms and lounges which all the tenants may use;
or meals are served in the various flats from the central kitchen.
To-night Mr. Bridwell had had dinner served for three at an early hour
in his flat.

The telephone was in the corner of the room, and I was going to it to
call up Christopher Quarles, convinced this was a case in which I should
need all the assistance I could get, when the telephone bell rang.

"Hallo!" I said. "Who's that?"

"I left my bag on the Chesterfield," came the answer. "Better not send
it. Keep it until I come again."

"When?" I asked.

There was a pause.

"Is that you, Arthur?" came the question.

"About the bag," I said, then paused. "Are you there?"

No answer. My voice had evidently betrayed me. The woman at the other
end had discovered that she was speaking to the wrong man. I looked at
the Chesterfield. There was no bag of any kind upon it now. Then I
telephoned to Quarles, telling him there was a mysterious case for him to
investigate.

"Had your master any other visitors to-day?" I asked casually, turning
to Masini.

"Not to my knowledge. All the afternoon I was out."

"Where were you?"

"Out for my master. I took a parcel to a gentleman at Harrow."

"To whom?"

"It was to a Mr. Fisher. It was a small parcel, a big letter rather, for
it was in an envelope that--that size. There was no answer. I just told
my master that Mr. Fisher said it was all right."

"So Mr. Bridwell might have had visitors while you were out?"

"Certainly."

"Did he have many visitors as a rule?"

"Sometimes from what you call his constituency."

"Any ladies?"

"Ah, no, signore; my master was of the other kind. He did not like the
vote for women."

"And you say you have moved nothing in this room?"

"Nothing at all."

Quarles arrived soon after the doctor had begun to examine the dead man,
so I could not then give him the particulars as far as I knew them. It
chanced that the doctor, a youngish man, was acquainted with the
professor, and was quite ready to listen to his suggestions.

"What do you make of it, Professor?" he asked.

"Is it poison!" said Quarles interrogatively.

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