Chapter IX

How long I stared at that shoe I cannot tell. I must have been waiting in the hope of seeing it move. There were moments when I could have sworn it did move. It must have been an illusion, created by the spurts of firelight playing intermittently on the polished toe as the fire began to break through. Emboldened by the illusion of movement, I crept round the other side of the table and found--well, instant proof that the foot had not moved, that it would never move again.

The body lying there on its back, one foot doubled awkwardly underneath, and with the arms extended, palms upward, was that of Mr. Ponsonby Paget. On his white pleated shirt front there was a dark red circle, and on the grey, thick-pile, Indian carpet, a puddle of crimson.

It was quite clear to me he was dead. I had attended police courts and inquests too often, and heard too much about the symptoms and appearances of death not to be assured of that. And the moment I was assured of his death I started off to rouse the house.

Once outside the room I found the house in total darkness, and in haste went blundering and fumbling about, seeking the back stairs to find the servants' quarters. For though I knew Ponsonby Paget to be a widower I was unaware of what relatives might form his household, and judged it safer first to establish contact with some domestic. As it happened the servants found me rather than I them; for as I stumbled up the service stairs, a man in shirt and trousers, holding a candle in one hand and a poker in the other, appeared at the top.

"What do you want?" he cried shakily.

"Hush," I motioned to him. "My name is Chance. Come and show me where the telephone is--something's happened."

As he stared down at me uncertainly some figures in white appeared behind him, huddled together with scared faces.

"Come at once," I urged.

"Are you the gentleman Mr. Paget was expecting?" he asked.

"Yes." Then to reassure him I added, "You were to give me supper."

"That's right, sir; it's laid in the morning-room now," he said, as if I had merely mounted there to ask about it.

"Oh, you fool, send those women back to bed and come at once."

But he was all right by the time I got him down. Indeed, from the manner in which he surmounted the shock of finding his master dead, he was either a man of good nerve or had small affection for the deceased. With some relief I learned from him that Mr. Paget had no relatives in the house. My first act was to ring up the local police, which did not take long, and my second was to get on to the _Record_ with the news, asking them to keep space for further particulars. One is not a good journalist for nothing. While I waited for the police I wrote furiously, knowing that already in the office they would be hunting out the obituary and the stock half-tone block of the murdered man.

The weather conditions did not delay the arrival of the local police. First one came in, off his beat apparently, and he took over charge of the room. On his heels came an inspector and two others, accompanied by a doctor. To the inspector I presented my card and told my story. But all on edge though I was to get away to my paper, he refused permission. Indeed, he seated me in a chair against the wall, with one of his men pretty well standing over me, while the doctor examined the body.

I could hear them talking together, but did not catch what passed. When the medical man came across and had a look at my coat sleeves he shook his head to the inspector after giving me a grim smile of apology.

"Must have been drenched," he said, turning to the inspector. "I'll tell you this, Green, the hand that sent that knife to the heart was expert--accustomed to the use of it. He struck upwards, not downward as is the natural inclination."

The inspector was nosing about among the _débris_ of furniture, clearly looking for some signs of the murderer's presence. Nothing was being disturbed I saw; he used his eyes only, while the rest of us watched. In a very short time we saw him stoop swiftly and fish out something from beneath the overturned screen. I could see it was a light-coloured walking-stick, and after examining it thoughtfully for a moment he came across to us.

"This seems out of place in a study," he said. "I wonder if--" He checked himself and said, "Dr. Dunn, how tall was the man who used this stick?"

The doctor took the thing in his hand. All at once he started rather violently.

"My God!" he whispered.

"What?" the officer said in surprise. "What is it?"

"Oh, I see what you mean," the doctor stammered hurriedly. "You think this may have been left by the criminal?"

The other nodded.

"Must have been at least six feet to use a stick of that length comfortably."

"At least," agreed the doctor rather eagerly, trying it at his side, "if not a bit over."

How impatiently I listened as they talked on. Would they never let me go! The provincial editions, and the home editions of my paper were already out. My only hope now was for the 3 a.m. London edition. That I must catch.

At last, when I had reached despair, the inspector, after taking counsel with his chief on the phone, and then verifying my identity by referring to the _Record_ office, let me go. But in the police car only. And it was still early morning when they set me down at the office.

I found myself almost famous, the printers on tiptoe for my copy. And when my job was completed the saturnine Matheson informed me that Babbington would want to see me later. Lord Babbington was the proprietor of the _Record_, and seeing the surprise on my face Matheson grunted.

"It is not often that keeping doubtful company leads to so great a distinction," he said.

* * * * *

It seemed to me I had not been ten minutes in bed that same morning when there came a furious knocking at the door. A note was slipped in, and on tumbling half awake out of bed I found it directed me to go at once to Ealing to assist McNab, who had been sent there to investigate on the paper's behalf. As I dressed, the clearness of the day outside made me look at my watch: it was close on noon. I had slept for nearly five hours, and the fog had gone. It was only then that I had time to think of poor Ponsonby Paget as a human being whom I had known and liked, and not as a sensational case which I had to report. But I can say that I thought of him with a personal sorrow all the way to his house.

There was little difficulty in knowing which that was once I reached Tookworth Avenue. A constable stood at the gate to prevent the scores of curious sightseers from entering the grounds. I observed, too, that a rope across the drive now prevented any one from entering that way. This was a precaution that appeared to fascinate the onlookers, for they craned their necks and pointed at the drive beyond the rope. But nothing was on the path except the wheel tracks and footprints of many who had come and gone before the rope had been placed there to stop them. On the lawn press photographers were mighty busy getting the deceased's residence from every sort of angle. My friend, the Ealing inspector, I found inside the hall, reduced now to little more than doorkeeper since the arrival of the big men from New Scotland Yard. He nodded to the officer to let me enter.

"Inspector Snargrove wishes to see you," he said, beckoning. "Come this way."

Snargrove I knew by repute. So far I had been too busy with the fact of the murder to theorize on its motive. But I had taken it almost for granted that it was the work of some burglar, or prowling vagabond, who, like myself, had come on the unlatched window. To hear, however, that the local police had called the Yard in at once dispelled the notion that this was a case without complexity.

The Ealing inspector tapped softly, as if at a sick room door, and popping his head in to announce me stood aside.

Inspector Snargrove, a magnifying glass at his eye, was on his knees closely examining the wall opposite the fireplace. As a greeting he waved me to one side without speaking. Another man stood with his back to the fire, close to McNab, who was seated. Except that the body had been removed the room appeared to be untouched since I first entered it. Neither McNab nor the thin man with the sharp ascetic face of a priest took any notice of me, both being intent on Snargrove. So I also turned to watch him.

The detective was peering at certain dark spots showing on the plain, grey wall-paper, about three feet from the floor. There was a series of these spots, disposed irregularly in sets of three, close together, the one in the centre slightly higher than the other two beside it. Each set was separated from the next by about two feet. The spots varied in density, those nearer the inner door being fainter.

Before I had ceased to wonder Snargrove pocketed his lens, rose to his feet and came across. He was a burly man with a drooping moustache, was rather high in colour, and had eyes of the cold grey-blue so frequent in men of his complexion.

"I think," he said as he took a chair, "we are now able to put a few questions, a few intelligent questions, to our young friend."

The man with the thin-lipped, priest-like face sat down also. McNab motioned me to a small chair next his own. Snargrove turned towards me pleasantly, producing from his pocket the report I had intended for the _Record_.

"Your notes have been very useful, Mr. Chance, very useful so far as they go. Still, from my point of view, they leave several details uncertain."

"All I know is at your disposal."

"Good." He waved his powerful hand. "Mr. Freely's affair."

The thin-lipped man referred to nodded curtly. His questions were quick and snappy. One somehow had to be quick in reply. Snargrove gave one time to think, but Freely didn't.

"Mr. Paget expected you last night?"

"Yes, he had asked me to dine with him."

"What hour was fixed?"

"Eleven."

Mr. Freely lifted his eyebrows. It was as if he meant to disconcert me. I recounted the telephone talk I had held with the dead man.

"He was anxious to have you here?"

"Oh, yes."

"Hm, how are you so certain of that?"

"Well, I remember he swore to himself, quite softly, when he thought I couldn't come. And I never heard him use an oath in any circumstances before."

"He was agitated?"

"Very much."

"Did you gather there were to be any others present?"

"He mentioned none, and I certainly expected to find him alone."

"Mr. Chance, if a decanter of whisky and two glasses were set out on this table, would you take it that one of the glasses was meant for your use?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Mr. Paget was aware of my habits. When I first went to his club he pressed a drink on me."

"And he never did so again?"

"Never. He was a man who remembered little things very well."

"You reached here about one, the officer says?"

"Three minutes past by my watch."

"You were so anxious to see Mr. Paget that you entered even at that hour? What made _you_ so determined to see him?"

"I debated the question of entering with myself when I got here, and finally walked round the house to see if any room showed a light. I was anxious to show Mr. Ponsonby Paget that I had not failed him without an effort."

Mr. Freely came over to me.

"Hold up your left hand," he said, fingering in his pocket.

When I held up my hand half resentfully he examined it closely through the lens he had brought out. It struck me as stupid to look at my hands after all the time that had elapsed.

"Thank you. Now tell us what first attracted your notice when you entered the room."

"The torn curtain and the overturned chairs. Then I saw a foot projecting from behind the table."

"It frightened you, and you gripped the table?"

"Startled me, not frightened; I saw the foot before reaching the table."

"You are mistaken, Mr. Chance. You did not see the foot till you stood at the table. Although the room was lit the body lay in the shadow at the far end of the table."

"I do not recall gripping the table, though."

Mr. Freely smiled.

"Don't be so eager to deny that. It is a fact which serves to clear you of any complicity in the crime. Look here."

He led me to the farther side of the big table, and, removing a newspaper, revealed four chalk marks on the outer edge of the polished wood.

"These are the four fingers of your left hand. The thumb is underneath. Excellent impressions they are, just because you gripped hard, and your hand became suddenly clammy. The man who made that impression came on an unexpected sight, in fact he broke into a cold sweat. Compare the whorl in the middle finger and the lines making a half circle as if to avoid contact with the double transverse line behind the first joint--they are your marks."

Freely was certainly right, as I had to admit on making the comparison; but I had no recollection of ever having gripped that table.

"We had a reason for demonstrating this to you, Mr. Chance. Your profession, with its acquired habit for observation, makes you a more reliable source of evidence than we usually get, but not--er--as you see--infallible. Be careful about the answer to my next question."

He paused for my nod of assent.

"James Brown, the butler, says the key of that door always remains in the lock inside. When you left the room to summon help was that door locked or not?"

It was humiliating to me not to remember, but I did not, and, after a pause, said so.

"A pity," Freely commented, "but quite natural while the one thought of getting help occupied your mind. However, here is something easier." He stepped over to the table, lifted from it the walking-stick I had seen the Ealing inspector find beneath the screen, and held it out. "Is this your stick by any chance?"

"No, I never use a stick."

"Look at it. Have you seen it before, with Mr. Paget for instance?"

It was a long stout oak stick of the ordinary kind, with a plain rather grimy handle.

"Never. It would be too long for Mr. Paget," I remarked, "and not half smart enough."

"Capital! That corroborates the butler, who scoffs at the idea of his master possessing such an article. It was almost certainly left by the criminal."

Mr. Freely's satisfaction was very manifest, and Snargrove nodded agreement. While he replaced it a knock came at the door, and an officer entered carefully carrying a square of white paper on the palm of his hand. Freely directed him to put the paper on the table. From the five smudges I could see on its upper surface I divined they were imprints of the dead man's fingers.

"Better settle this at once, eh, Snargrove?"

For answer to his confrère's question the inspector rose and approached the table. McNab remained where he was, elbows on knees, his face between his hands and his brow furrowed, obviously lost in thought. More than interested in the proceedings, I took up a position on the side of the table opposite the two Scotland Yard experts. When one is a journalist one becomes hardened to possible rebuffs. But they did not seem to mind my watching them at all.

It was now that I observed on the table an array of articles which my experience in the law courts told me the police called "exhibits." A queer lot they were to be brought into connection with each other! At the far end of the row was an overcoat with fur collar and cuffs; next to it a pair of dress shoes, followed by a little heap of broken glass, a plain envelope, a decanter half full of what looked like whisky, then a wedge-shaped splinter from what seemed a hand mirror, and, last in the row, the stout oak stick already mentioned.

The two Yard men began on the little heap of glass. With a pair of forceps Freely lifted and set out each piece into one or two separate places, and when he had finished I saw they now formed the remains of two tumblers. Snargrove, watching, took a small box from his pocket. But Freely upon reconsideration shuffled one or two pieces from the remains of one tumbler to the other heap. Then the inspector dusted the whole with grey powder from his box. Waiting a minute or so Freely began to go over the powdered surface, delicately, with a soft brush. The result amazed me. It was like watching a photographic plate being developed, for finger-prints came up on the glass as if by magic.

"Got him!" Snargrove murmured. "Got him: this is the glass he used."

Freely stood up and, after a glance at the paper with the dead man's imprints in black, nodded assent. I could see myself those fingers on the glass were different, even in size. They left untouched the other glass, which had evidently been Mr. Ponsonby Paget's.

But it was a disappointment when they returned to their seats, for I was curious about the other "exhibits," especially so in regard to what the envelope contained.

"We are now almost in a position to reconstruct the crime," said Snargrove, settling himself comfortably. "Call James Brown, the butler. I've one or two supplementary questions yet to put."

The butler seemed a trifle nervous with his hands as he entered. In the excitement of our first meeting I had scarcely looked at him. But I took note of him now as he stood in front of Snargrove. He was in the early fifties, stoutish, puffy under the eyes and with the smooth mask-like face peculiar to his calling. There was no hint of nervousness, though, in the bow he made to the inspector.

"You have said you admitted no visitors to this room last night?" Snargrove began.

"Yes, sir, that is so."

"Did Mr. Paget ever have visitors you had not admitted?"

"Frequently."

"Late at night?"

"More often than not, sir."

"You could hear their voices?"

"When I went round locking up, or as happened sometimes when the bell rang for me to serve refreshments."

"Did you ever happen to hear a woman's voice?"

"Oh, yes, sir, quite often."

Snargrove nodded.

"Of what class were these ladies?" he next enquired. And as the butler hesitated he added quickly, "Come, a man in your position must know how to 'place' people by their appearance or their voices."

"Well, they were of all classes, from ladies' maids to--well, to the lady herself, as you might say."

"And did you ever form any notion as to their business and why they came so late?"

Brown moved uncomfortably for a moment.

"Well, sir, it was generally understood--in the Room I mean--that they came on business connected with the paper, and so naturally they did not wish to be seen."

At this reply I saw McNab glance swiftly up at Brown's face. He too, I know, was asking himself if this mask-like butler was capable of the irony his answer implied. Snargrove also caught at the word.

"Naturally, you say. Do you mean they came to supply Mr. Paget with gossip for the _Eye Opener_?"

But Brown was not to be drawn. The flicker of light died from his eyes and like a man who had said more than he had intended his face became wooden again.

"That I don't know; I never heard they did, sir."

Snargrove gave a laugh--to my ear of bluff carelessness.

"And how about the men who came, Mr. Brown?"

"There never were any, leastways so late as that."

"So if a man was here about midnight last night you would regard it as exceptional?"

"Indeed yes, sir, very exceptional indeed."

"Thank you, that will do."

"And now," Snargrove said when the door closed softly behind the butler, "we can proceed to the reconstruction."

To me there was something appalling in the cold, slow, unruffled deliberation of these men. For all they knew the murderer might with every minute that passed be putting another mile between himself and pursuit. Yet here they were, slowly and methodically thinking it out; and, to judge from McNab's attitude, they might have been at it for hours. All the same at Snargrove's words McNab looked up alertly.

"Go on, inspector," he said.