Chapter XI

On the following Wednesday, after returning to the office from the inquest, which was adjourned for seven days at the request of the police, Matheson asked me to go round to the Adelphi to remonstrate with Francis McNab.

"He seems to have fallen out with Snargrove," Matheson said disagreeably. "The _Record_ will suffer for it. This will never do. Snargrove has turned uncommunicative."

He lifted a police bill with the usual heading, and handed it to me.

"Take that round to him; it is all Snargrove has seen fit to give us about the case. Nothing more than is to be read on every hoarding. Show him what he has done. And you can add that it will be difficult for Lord Babbington to secure him special privileges for his work if he becomes--er--_persona non grata_ with the authorities."

While Matheson was laying it off I read the bill:

"WANTED. Young, dark, well-dressed man, about six feet in height
and of strong build, but walks with a pronounced limp. Known to
have been in Ealing on the night of Monday, January 15th. Any
information should be sent to New Scotland Yard or to the nearest
police station."

"McNab won't like this; it's contrary to his own theory," I said.

Matheson pricked up his ears.

"He has a theory, then? What is it?"

"He hasn't said."

"But he thinks Snargrove wrong?"

"Astray--like a lost sheep."

Matheson ruminated for a rather long time. I knew just what was passing in his mind: he was thinking of the possibility of working up a stunt on the Ponsonby Paget case, supposing the paper took a line at variance with that taken by the authorities. In other words, he was thinking that even if a break with the police were inevitable it needn't be unprofitable.

"Tell him," Matheson said at last, "this paper will back him in any reasonable line he cares to take."

"Against the police?" I asked.

"Against any one," he snapped.

I found McNab in his eyrie overlooking the river.

"Matheson says he'll back up any attack you make on our police methods," I announced.

"Does he? Well, I'm not proposing to begin one. The police do their best, and that more often than not is pretty good." He walked up and down for a little. "A fine thing if I were to attack the police!" Stopping, he eyed me quizzically. "Look here, you once asked me why I took up this kind of work. The true answer is that it's in my blood--my father was a policeman."

"Oh, I didn't know."

He nodded.

"Yes; though he ended a county inspector he was once a humble village constable who did fine work in the matter of some Irish Fenians just before I was born." McNab looked down thoughtfully. "Still, of course, this Snargrove isn't the police; we must not commit the fallacy of arguing from the particular to the general."

I seized the moment to produce the police bill.

"Matheson wants to know if you wish to write him anything on this," I said.

He read it through, making a running commentary:

"'_Young, dark, well-dressed man_'--ay, all that's because his hair was kept well brushed. They've had the microscope on it. At what age do men cease to use a hairbrush?

"'_About six feet in height_'--that's an inference from the length of the walking-stick.

"'_Walks with a marked limp_'--that's the stick again, a _non sequitur_, I think." He looked up at me in disgust. "Man, the thing fair reeks with fallacies." Then he thrust the bill back on me. "No, tell Matheson I've nothing to say." And with that he bundled me with the police bill outside.

* * * * *

When, however, the day of the resumed inquest arrived I went round, at Matheson's request, to see if McNab would accompany me to the court. But he met me with a point-blank refusal.

"I've washed my hands of that case," he declared shortly.

"Well, of course, it is a rather difficult case," I admitted.

He met the remark with a snort.

"Matheson," I continued, "is keen about it. He will give you carte blanche as regards expense, if you are sure you can make a big splash of it on _Record_ lines. But he won't stand a penny piece, he says, if all you can do is to say 'Amen' to what Snargrove says."

He wheeled round on me.

"Is that likely?"

"It's not what I gathered from what you said to him at Ealing. Still, as you now refuse to get on with it I suppose, after deeper thought, you've changed your mind."

"Look here, Chance," he cut in, "I'll at least go out with you to hear the evidence offered at the inquest. It's just possible Snargrove may have modified _his_ notions."

That was all I wanted.

We arrived at the court rather early, and to pass the time went into the small ante-room in which the various exhibits connected with the case were laid out on a table. While we were there Snargrove came in to post a constable in charge of the productions. He affected not to see McNab.

The little court was crowded to excess by the curious public. But, after I had repeated my evidence as already recorded, I secured a place at the press table. In the small gallery at the back of the hall I saw McNab's intent face as Inspector Snargrove gave his evidence in the presence of a hushed court. Before that evidence--unaltered in any particular of vital importance--had closed, however, I was startled by a change of countenance in McNab. Seen against the dark woodwork of the gallery his face had previously looked pale, worn and harassed--the face of a man disgusted and disagreeing with what he heard, yet unable to say why--but now there was a complete change. His face, still pale, had become--it is the only word--illuminated! His dark eyes shone like lamps. Catching sight of me he rose, made a gesture towards the door, and left his place. My heart began to thud. Something big had happened. I got up from the table. There was no real need to wait for the verdict, it would come through on the tape later. After Snargrove's evidence the finding was a foregone conclusion--wilful murder by some person or persons unknown. I hurried out.

McNab stood in the corridor waiting for me, with his eyes shining. Seldom have I seen a man so eager. Beyond all doubt he had lighted on something startling and unexpected. And knowing the kind of man he was I felt certain it was no mare's nest but something that threw fresh light on the perplexing case.

"Just let us have one more look at the exhibits," he said, taking my arm.

We passed into the ante-room with a nod to the policeman guarding the door. He gave little heed to us, for with outstretched neck and awe-struck eyes he was trying to catch the evidence then being given by the great detective from the Yard.

McNab almost pounced on the walking-stick, examining it all over, top and bottom. It trembled in his hands.

"Ye heard me suggest the room was in darkness when those hands with blood on them marked that wall?" he demanded, his voice vibrating in suppressed excitement.

"Yes, I did. You were wrong, of course, for the room was brilliantly lit when I entered."

He shook his head with decision.

"I was not wrong, lad. You see this stick? Examine it well and tell me what you make of it."

I took the stick and examined it narrowly.

"Describe it," he ordered.

"It is a common, cheap, heavy, oak stick. Except that it must have been used by a very tall man it is not different from others of its kind," I said, wondering and mystified, for I had expected something big.

"There is a difference, though. Look! Hold it out straight as if you were walking. Do you see the _sole_ of it bevelled towards what you may call its heel? A stick you used would be bevelled slightly on the side next your right leg. Because you are right-handed it would sooner or later get worn down on the nearest side. Similarly in the case of a left-handed man his stick would have a bevel towards his left leg. For no man holds a walking-stick quite perpendicular; it is always closer to his flank than to his boots."

"But this is neither," I interrupted, turning up the end. "It is worn, very much worn, not at either side but right across the heel."

"Precisely. I said that man did his fell work in darkness. I was right. He did. This stick proves that."

To me it seemed McNab had gone off his head, for all his assured tone. I watched him anxiously as he stood eyeing the wretched stick, now in his hands again. There was an expression of rapture on his face. In fact, he looked like some professor reverently handling the body of some vile but uncommon reptile. What to make of it I did not know. It was one of those moments when thought is paralyzed. Some vague remembrance of Moses and the rod that turned into a serpent came to me. Then McNab looked up and began to talk just like a professor starting to lecture.

"Here," he said, "we have a demonstration of the value of the logical method. In spite of Inspector Snargrove's presentation of the case, and in spite of your own confident evidence in support, I just could not believe the room was lighted up when those marks were put on that wall. No, that I could not believe. Such an act was devoid of sense. And all actions have some sense traceable in them somewhere. So as a reward of my fidelity I come on the amazing truth."

He was as maddening then as any long-winded, fossilized professor.

"Don't see how that stick can tell you anything," I said to hurry him up.

"No? Well, it quite transforms the case. A queer man that! But the rope is already as good as around his neck."

He replaced the stick on the table and, as it were, awoke from his ecstasy.

"Must see Matheson at once," he said in a new tone. "Money will be needed--lots of it. But, Lord, it will be worth it to his paper! This is a case that will make a noise in the world, Chance."

He began to make for the door. I stopped him, eager enough now.

"Tell me more," I urged.

But he shook me off.

"You bat! You unbeliever! It's all before your eyes. If you can't see, it will be a good discipline for you to wait."

Again I seized his coat. But he broke free.

"No, no! Matheson must be the first to hear of this."

Then he fairly ran for the door.