Death-Watch Page 7

  “In the neck of the dead man, Mr. Carver. He was killed with it.

  You looked at the body. Didn’t you see this?”

  “I—Good God, no! I don’t look for such things in—well, in burglars’ necks,” returned Carver, a note of protest in his voice. “This is appalling. And ingenious, by George!” He fell to musing, and peered at a shelf of books over a writing desk. “I cannot recall, in the whole history of … extraordinary! The more I think of it—”

  “We can return to that later. Sit down, Mr. Carver. There are a few questions …”

  He answered the first of them somewhat absently, sitting with his big body stooped over in a chair and his eyes wandering towards the shelf of books. He had lived in this house for eighteen years. He was a widower, the house having belonged to his wife. (By certain vague digressions Melson gathered that the Carver household had been supported by an annuity which had died with his wife.) Eleanor was the daughter of an old friend of the late Mrs. Carver’s— herself an invalid—and had been taken in on the death of Eleanor’s parents because there seemed to be no prospect of having children of their own. Mrs. Millicent Steffins was also a heritage, having been a friend who faithfully attended Mrs. Carver through all her illness. You gathered that the late Mrs. Carver had surrounded herself with people as though with trinkets.

  “And the lodgers?” pursued Hadley. “What do you know of them?”

  “Lodgers?” Carver repeated, as though the word startled him. He rubbed his forehead. “Ah yes. Mrs. Steffins said it was necessary to rent a part of the house. You want to know something about them, is that it? Hum. Well, Boscombe’s intelligent. Got a lot of money, I believe, but, frankly, I certainly would not have sold him that Maurer watch if Millicent—Mrs. Steffins—hadn’t insisted.” He brooded. “Then there’s Mr. Christopher Paull. Quite an amiable young man. He gets drunk and sings in the hall sometimes, but he’s very well connected socially and Millicent likes him. Hum.”

  “And Miss Handreth?”

  Again the faint gleam of amusement showed in Carver’s eyes.

  “Well,” he said, deprecatingly, “Miss Handreth and Millicent don’t get along, so I hear quite a lot about her. But I don’t suppose it would interest you to know that she has no law clients and does not wear under-vests in winter and is probably leading an immoral life; hum, especially as most of the statements are matters whose truth or falsity my age prevents me from verifying … Um, she has been here only a short time. Young Hastings brought her here and helped her unpack. They are old friends, so I fear Millicent suspects the worst—”

  “Young Hastings?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? That’s the ‘Donald’ you were asking about, the young man who falls out of trees when he comes to see Eleanor. I must speak to him about it. He might hurt himself … Oh yes, he and Miss Handreth are old friends. That was how he met Eleanor.” Here Carver seemed to stumble over a memory, as though he were trying to recall something; but he blinked, rubbed his cheek, and forgot about it.

  “Finally, Mr. Carver,” Hadley went on, “you have an underhousekeeper here—a Mrs. Gorson—and a maid?”

  “Yes. Extraordinary woman, Mrs. Gorson. I believe she was once an actress. She speaks in rather a lofty strain, but she has the utmost cheerfulness about doing all work no matter how heavy, and gets along well with Millicent. Kitty Prentice is the maid … Now, sir, that you know the household, will you answer me a question?”

  Something in the man’s voice arrested Melson. He did not raise his voice, he did not move. But he suddenly took on the cool alertness of a fighter behind a shield.

  “You believe, I understand,” he said, abruptly, “that one of the people in this house stole the hand off that dial and, for some fantastic reason, killed the man upstairs. Doubtless you have some cause for thinking so, even if it happens to be ludicrous. What I should like to know, sir, is which one of us you suspect?”

  This time he glanced at Dr. Fell, who was sighting down the stump of his cigar, piled dangerously into a light chair. The sudden challenge did not startle Hadley.

  “Perhaps you can tell me better,” he suggested, leaning forward. “A number of people in this house, I understand, are in the habit of frequenting a public house in Portsmouth Street?”

  Mildness—but a watchful mildness—had again taken possession of Carver.

  “Oh yes. I frequently go with Boscombe myself, and Miss Handreth sometimes goes with Mr. Paull. Now I wonder,” he said with a faint frown, “how you knew that? I have been thinking back, and I remember that the man upstairs made frequent and often painful efforts to draw all of us into conversation.”

  “Yet you had trouble in recognizing him when you saw him dead upstairs?”

  “Yes. The light—”

  “But you did recognize him? Yes. He was a watchmaker, Mr. Carver, and introduced himself to you as such. But you didn’t recognize him upstairs, or said you didn’t, even a member of your own profession. Why didn’t that occur to you? Why did you say ‘the burglar’ and not ‘the watchmaker’?”

  “Because he wasn’t a watchmaker, you see,” Carver explained, mildly. His brow was ruffled. “Whereas there seemed good evidence of his being a burglar.”

  Hadley’s expression hardly altered; yet Melson knew that he had caught one of the most difficult witnesses of his career, and was just beginning to realize it.

  “I know he introduced himself in that capacity,” Carver went on, clearing his throat. “But I couldn’t help seeing he wasn’t, the first words he said. He pointed to the timepiece in the pub and referred to it as a ‘clock.’ Every watch-and clock-maker says ‘dial.’ It is the customary word, the only word. Then he asked me for work. I happened to have in my pocket a watch I was repairing for, hum, a client of mine, and I said, ‘My friend, you will see that I have got to set a new hair-spring in this. It is a valuable watch,’ I said, ‘so don’t tamper with it; but tell me how you would go about setting a hair-spring.’ He mumbled some nonsense about taking out the main-spring.”

  Carver’s deep, chuckling laugh echoed in the smoky room. For the first time he showed some enthusiasm.

  “‘Well,’ I said, ‘then tell me how to put in a new cylinder and balance-wheel? Come, that’s simple enough,’ I said. ‘But you don’t know it. You don’t, in fact, know a blessed thing about watches, do you? Then,’ I said, ‘pray accept this half-crown and go into the public bar and don’t bother me.’”

  There was a silence. Hadley swore under his breath. But Carver was not through.

  “No,” he affirmed, shaking his head, “he wasn’t a watchmaker. Um, at the time, sir, I rather suspected he might be a police officer or a private detective.”

  “I see. You had some reason to think, then,” said Hadley, “that a police officer might be interested in your movements?”

  “In all our movements. No, no, not at all. Tut, sir! But I noticed that when Boscombe spoke to the landlord about keeping this fellow from dogging us and bothering us (especially as he seldom paid for drinks)—in short, to keep him out altogether—the fellow remained.” Carver rubbed his cheek reflectively. “I have observed, um, that only cats and policemen can remain in pubs without paying for drinks.”

  Muscles tightened along Hadley’s jaw, but he still sat quietly. “Mr. Boscombe,” he said, “wanted this man thrown out of the bar, although he later offered to give him a suit of clothes and didn’t recognize him when he saw him dead upstairs?”

  “Is that so?” enquired the other, with a sort of polite interest. “Well—er—you’ll really have to ask Boscombe. I don’t know.”

  “And since you’ve observed things so closely in pubs, you will have noticed whether any of your party ever had a private conversation with the man?”

  Carver meditated, seeming mildly harassed. “I’m fairly certain nobody did. Oh! With the possible exception of Mr. Paull. But then Mr. Paull, as he says, would drink with an archbishop if there were nobody else handy.”

  “I see … And t
his terrible persecution you were being subjected to, did anybody comment on it?”

  “Feelingly. I—er—I believe Miss Handreth said that he would get himself killed one day. She seemed quite bitter about it.”

  “He bothered her?”

  From under thin wrinkled eyelids Carver threw a curious glance at the chief inspector. “No. I believe he rather avoided her. But then … it is scarcely permissible…”

  “Did either Mrs. Steffins or Miss Carver ever visit the ‘Duchess of Portsmouth’?”

  “Never.”

  “We come to tonight. I think you told Dr. Fell that you locked and chained the front door at ten o’clock. Then you went upstairs …” Carver fidgeted. “I know, Inspector—is it Inspector?—I know the police wish people to be painfully exact. I did not go instantaneously upstairs; hum, like an explosion, you know. I first went into my showroom,” he nodded towards the left, towards the front room giving on the street, “to see that the alarm was set. Then I came in here to be sure the alarm was set on my wall-safe. Lastly, I went to Millicent’s room,” he nodded towards the right-hand wall, “to wish her good-night. She had been occupied with some china-painting, and said it had given her a headache and she was going to bed directly; in fact, as I told Dr. Fell, she had asked me to lock up …”

  “Go on.”

  “I went to Boscombe for something to read. We exchange hobbies, and … ah! This would interest you, Dr. Fell. I borrowed his Lettres à un gentilhomme russe sur L’Inquisition espagnole, Lemaistre’s book. I had been plodding through Pelayo’s Historia de los Heterodoxos Españoles, but my Spanish is poor and I much prefer Lea.” Melson stifled a whistle. He had it now, the elusive fact which would explain the curious designs painted on Boscombe’s leather screen and the brass box on the table. The hobby of this enigmatic Mr. Boscombe was the Spanish Inquisition. Melson glanced at Dr. Fell, who opened his eyes and let out a wheezy sigh as though he were being roused from sleep.

  “He got rid of you quickly, didn’t he?” enquired Dr. Fell.

  “I didn’t stay long, no. Then, Inspector, I went to my room at the front, read for about an hour, and went to sleep. That is all I know up until the time Eleanor woke me.”

  “You are sure of that?” asked Hadley. “Of course. Why not?”

  “When you went to Mr. Boscombe’s room, you told Dr. Fell, Mr. Peter Stanley had not yet arrived … We don’t question your powers of observation there,” said Hadley, never taking his eyes from Carver’s face, “but only your statement.”

  “I—I certainly did not see him.”

  “No. In fact, you definitely stated that he arrived later. You said he rang the bell, Boscombe’s bell, and Boscombe went down to let him in. There’s an elaborate lock on that door, and a chain that makes a good deal of noise. This is your explanation of how the door came to be accidentally open so that the ‘burglar’ could get in afterwards. I suppose you sleep with a window open? Just over that door, didn’t you hear somebody being let in?”

  Carver stared past him at the glass cases, rubbing his cheek.

  “I did,” he said, suddenly. “Come to think of it, by Jove! I did! I thought I heard somebody rumbling at that door much later, when I was dozing off. Perhaps about half-past eleven.”

  He seemed excited, but puzzled. Hadley watched him narrowly. “Half an hour, then, before the murder was committed? Yes.

  You heard voices, footsteps, the door open and close?”

  “Well … no. I was half asleep, you know. All I can swear to is that the door was opened, because the brass slot in which the knob of the chain fits is bent. It gives a kind of screech unless it’s handled gently. That’s what I remember. I’ve heard it on certain nights when people have come home late.”

  “And this didn’t surprise you, although you knew that everybody in the house was in when you locked up?”

  Melson had a feeling that Carver’s nerves were wearing thin, despite his air of muddled ease. Possibly Hadley thought so too.

  “Mr. Paull was not in,” Carver answered, after a hesitation. “He has been spending some days with his uncle, Sir Edwin, in the country. Sir Edwin ordered the dial that was … yes. I thought Christopher might be returning unexpectedly. I wanted to tell him it would take me several more days to replace the hands. Otherwise it was not damaged, except that the pin and washers—holding the hands to the spindle, you see—were also stolen.”

  Hadley leaned forward.

  “We come to that clock, now, and also something else that was stolen from you. You finished and painted the clock yesterday …”

  “No, no. I finished and tested it two days ago. That is, in the interests of strictest accuracy. It gave some trouble, although it was the ordinary short-pendulum movement; nothing of a job. The day before yesterday I applied the waterproof enamel … No, no,” he explained, rather irritably, as Hadley’s eyes strayed to the minute-hand, “not the gilt. The enamel that will keep an outdoor clock from rusting in all weathers. So that it should dry more quickly, I put it out in the scullery, in the cold air, two nights ago. I hardly thought any thief would carry off a mechanism weighing over eighty pounds. In that exposed place, where anybody could have got at it, nobody touched it …”

  Melson heard Dr. Fell give a muffled exclamation.

  “… and yesterday evening I applied the gilt. I had it wheeled in here, put in that closet over there, and I covered it with one of the bigger glass cases so that the fresh gilt should not catch up dust. And I always lock the door of this room in addition to the burglar alarm on the safe. On the night, then, when the door was locked and the key upstairs with me, somebody picked the lock of this door and removed the hands. Inspector, it is fantastic! Shall I show you?”

  There was a somewhat wild expression on Hadley’s face. But he waved his hand as Carver started to get up.

  “In a moment. Who knew that the clock was here last night?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Would removing the hands have been a difficult task? For an unskilled person, I mean?”

  “Not at all. In this case, extremely simple. I had fitted the pin with a groove so that a heavy screw-driver would remove it. True, it might take some time and manoeuvring to remove both hands from the spindle, but …” Carver lifted his big shoulders and gestured wearily. He looked now only weak and worried.

  “There is just one more question, then, that I want to ask you for the moment. But it’s important. So very important,” insisted Hadley, with a suavity that caught Carver’s wandering attention, “that if you don’t answer me frankly it may be damned dangerous for you.” He waited. “I’ll make it absolutely definite. I want to know where you and all the other members of this household, especially the ladies, were on a certain date at a certain time. Tuesday, the twenty-seventh of August, between five-thirty and six o’clock in the afternoon.”

  Carver looked genuinely bewildered. After a silence he said: “I’d like to help you. But I frankly don’t know. Tuesday the—I can’t keep track of dates. I don’t know. How can I tell a particular day; to fix it definitely, I mean?”

  “You’ll remember this one,” said Hadley, stolidly, “if you forget every other day in the calendar. It was the day on which a valuable watch belonging to you was stolen out of a display at Gamridge’s in Oxford Street. You haven’t forgotten that, have you?”

  “I don’t know. I still don’t know,” repeated Carver, after a rather terrible silence. “But I understand a little better now. That man was a police officer. You believe that the same person killed him who killed the poor fellow at the department-store.” He spoke in a dull, trancelike voice, and his hands closed over the arms of the chair. “And you think it was a woman. You’re mad!”

  Hadley made a significant gesture to Melson; a gesture of one turning the knob of a door and leaving it an inch open, enjoining silence. Standing with his back to the door, Melson felt his heart pound when he softly eased it a little open. He had a feeling that the whole house was waiting and listeni
ng.

  Then Hadley spoke. His words were clear in the night stillness. “Somebody in this house,” he announced, “accused some one else of murder. Thanks to Inspector Ames’s last report, delivered to Scotland Yard this evening, we know the name of the accuser. If the person cares to repeat that charge to us now, very well. But that’s the most I can promise you, Mr. Carver. Otherwise we must put that accuser under arrest for being accessory after the fact and suppressing vital evidence in a capital charge.”

  He gestured swiftly to Melson, the door closed, and Hadley resumed his normal tone.

  “If you should happen to remember how your household spent that half-hour, Mr. Carver, I will give you tonight to think it over,” he said. “That’s all, thank you.”

  Carver rose. His steps were not steady when he went out of the room, and he made several attempts before he snapped shut the latch of the door. Melson was conscious that the house stirred; that the loud words were still ringing, and had brought terror with them. In a quiet thick with suspicion, Dr. Fell tossed the stump of his dead cigar into the fireplace.

  “Was that wise, Hadley?”

  “I’ve thrown a bomb. Damn it, I had to!” retorted Hadley. He began to pace the room. “Don’t you see it’s the only way to use our advantage? It would be all very well if I could conceal the fact of Ames’s being a police officer—then it’s an ace in the hole. But I can’t. It’ll have to come out tomorrow. Even if it doesn’t come out tomorrow, there’s got to be a public inquest the day after. They’re all going to know why Ames was here … And before they realize we don’t know which one of ’em accused a woman here of stabbing the shop-walker, we’ve got to scare the accuser into talking. Why shouldn’t he—or she—talk? He accused somebody of murder to Ames. Why not to me?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Dr. Fell, ruffling his big mop of hair. “It’s another of my worries. But somehow I don’t think he—or she— will.”

  “You don’t disbelieve the report, do you?”