The rest of Tuesday and all of Wednesday were a complete blank so far as really interesting developments were concerned. In the first place I had hardly a moment to myself. The publicity given me by the newspapers quickly brought every American in Cambridge to call on me, and whenever I sought security behind my sported oak, Sergeant Rollings, would come and bang on it and ask me a lot more foolish questions. And Comstock, who hovered around me all the time, was no help; he took a malicious delight in showing me off to all and sundry.
Michael Grayling and Stuart Somerville kept out of my way. The one was doing a last hour rush of work for the examination on Thursday and the other spent all of Tuesday practicing at “the nets,” whatever they were. And on Wednesday the match against the M. C. C. started. Stuart had been given Baumann’s place on the Varsity team and was grimly determined to deserve his vicarious laurels.
Each day I scanned the papers for news of the recapture of William North. Apparently he was still at large. So far Horrocks’ trip to London had not been successful.
Once or twice I ventured out into the streets, and once I went to a lecture in the vain hope of seeing the Profile. She seemed to have gone out of my life as mysteriously as she had come. The idea persisted, however, that I should see her at the inquest, which I had been summoned to attend on Thursday at 2:30PM.
But I was doomed to disappointment, for when I reached the coroner’s court she was nowhere to be seen. The newly returned Inspector Horrocks was chatting informally with Dr. Warren as I entered.
The small room seemed running over with people and, despite the fact that there was a Varsity match in progress at Fenners, I noticed a fairly large proportion of undergraduates. A shudder passed through me as I reflected how that shrouded form in the back room was one of the undergraduates who ought now to be engrossed in cricket rather than in this gruesome game of death.
A roll was called, and a number of rather seedy-looking individuals segregated themselves with little smirks of self-importance. These were the jurors. I watched the simple proceedings, fascinated. Though I am the son of a judge, I have always been very vague about courtroom ceremonies and coroners’ inquests in particular. In fact, I had rather imagined that in England they were endowed with the pomp and ceremony—the wigs and robes—of a murder trial at the Old Bailey. But this was almost as informal as a breakfast party with the Dean.
The coroner, a sleek man of middle age, reminded me of a croupier at Monte Carlo. When he gave a little rap with his gavel and announced, “I declare this court open in the King’s name,” it was as if he had cried, “Faites vos jeux, messieurs et ’dames. ”
The wheel of the inquest had now started to spin. The jurors were asked if they had viewed the body. They nodded. The witnesses were then called. Aloysius Hilarion Fenton—
I flatter myself that for a normally truthful young man I gave my evidence in the calm, cool manner of an accomplished prevaricator. There was, however, no occasion for me to tell a direct lie. What I should have done if the temptation had arisen, I cannot say.
As it was, I merely described how I had banged on Baumann’s door and, receiving no answer, had climbed in by the roof. I went on to tell about the position of the body and the cleaning materials.
I repeated for the hundredth time that I was not a close friend of the deceased. I knew of no reason why he should wish to commit suicide and certainty knew of no one who might wish to take the South African’s life. The coroner thanked me for my evidence as though I had just put a hundred-franc note in the croupier’s box.
He then gave the wheel another turn and produced Inspector Horrocks. His evidence dealt chiefly with the fingerprints, or rather the lack of fingerprints, on the pistol. He was soon followed by Dr. Warren, who did little besides corroborating my testimony. The tutor added a brief summary of Baumann’s position in the college, his enviable record in South Africa. The jurors looked slightly bored.
Dr. Beaverly was much more interesting. He described almost dramatically how he had been sent for at about ten-thirty pm on Monday night to examine the dead body of a young man about twenty-four years old. Death had been caused by a bullet from a .32 calibre revolver which had entered the head in the region of the superior maxilla, been deflected by one of the frontal bones and finally lodged in the cerebrum, whence it had been extracted at the autopsy.
Death had not been instantaneous—but must have occurred very shortly. This, he opined, probably accounted for the fact that the revolver lay by the side of the dead man and was not clasped in his hand.
Here the coroner interrupted with what seemed to be a very sensible question: “Would you say that the shot was fired at point-blank range, Doctor Beaverly? If so, were there any powder marks on the face of the deceased?”
The police doctor hesitated a moment. Finally he said, “In my opinion, the bullet was fired at very close range. There were no discoverable powder marks, however, since the skin around the wound became obscured by clotted blood. If, however, the gun had been fired at a distance of two or three inches, as might have happened in the case of suicide, there would be traces of burnt skin around the wound. Such traces were not found, and it is my opinion that the pistol was at least a foot away from the deceased’s face when it was discharged.”
At this point one of the jurors, who was obviously a medical man, asked whether it was significant that the bullet had lodged in the head without passing through the skull, as might have been expected.
Dr. Beaverly looked very judicial when this question was propounded. “Of course,” he finally elucidated, “the cerebrum and the medulla are well known to be very soft. In seven cases out of ten a bullet fired at close range will pass right through the cranium, but in some instances, when deflected by a bone, it follows the course of the bone and finally drops downward.
“That, in my opinion, is what happened in this present case. I do not think that we must necessarily argue that the bullet was fired from some distance on this account. A few yards or a few inches make very little difference; the bullet might have acted as it did if fired from anywhere in the room.”
Everyone seemed completely satisfied and I noticed that Dr. Warren regarded the police surgeon with cold approval.
The next witness was a complete stranger. He gave his name as Johann Van der Walt, lawyer, and head of the London branch of the South African law firm who had handled Baumann’s affairs. His evidence dealt with the family life and financial status of Julius Baumann.
The deceased, he explained, was the adopted son of Heinrich Baumann (bachelor), deceased, of Bloemfontein, Orange Free State. When he came of age, Julius had inherited ten thousand morgen of farm land in the Orange Free State, and several thousand pounds in cash. Now that he was dead the property reverted automatically to a nephew of the late Heinrich Baumann, also of the Orange Free State.
The money, however, over which Julius had complete control, could have been willed in any way the deceased wished. In this connection the lawyer added that the young man had withdrawn money fairly heavily of late and only about eighteen hundred pounds remained to his credit. This would normally have been supplemented in due course by revenue from the farm.
Mr. Van der Walt was not prepared to say what Julius had done with the sums he had withdrawn lately, though he had every reason to believe that he had a considerable amount of cash by him at the time of his death. The estate would be settled as soon as it was definitely established that the deceased had left no will.
Sergeant Rollings was called next and gave some routine information with regard to the revolver found by Baumann’s side. It was made by Hinder and Dapp, of Cape Town, and carried a .32 calibre bullet such as had been extracted from the dead man’s brain. Nor, indeed, was there any doubt as to its ownership since the name Julius Baumann had been engraved on the handle.
A search through the dead man’s personal belongings had revealed nothing of any significance.
There was no more testimony to be called.
The coroner looked amiably around him, twiddled his thumbs, and then rose to make his summing up. “Rien ne va plus.” … The jury was whisked off to consider the verdict and returned in a very few minutes with the only possible decision according to the evidence presented—Death by Misadventure.
No one was surprised. Indeed, everyone seemed quite gratified. I was delighted at my own success at compounding a felony without any deliberate lies. I passed out into the May sunshine, cocksure that I had put something over.
But Nemesis was stalking close behind, and caught up to me soon after I reached my own room.
As I threw myself down on the couch, I began to take stock of my position. I had kept faith with Baumann by posting his letter and saying nothing about it. I had stood by the Profile in destroying any evidence that there had. been a second party in my neighbour’s room on Monday night; I had followed the line of least resistance at the inquest. But my conscience kept telling me that the Law is not mocked for long. I was restless and uneasy.
Then as though it were the echo of my own uneasiness, I heard, sounds in the room which had lately belonged to the ill-starred South African. Someone was moving the heavy trunks and boxes which I had noticed yesterday by the doorway—the trunks that contained Baumann’s personal effects—the trunks which were now all packed and corded, ready to be sent to Mr. Van der Walt in London.
Curiosity impelled me to go and see who was there. Through the half-open door I caught a glimpse of a broad man’s back bending over the largest packing cases. As I entered the room, Inspector Horrocks straightened himself and mopped his brow with a large purple handkerchief.
There was an expression on his face which made me think of a naughty little boy who had been caught stealing apples. In his hand he held a recently disinterred bundle which looked as if it could do with a wash.
“Looking for the missing link, Inspector?” I asked with every appearance of innocent unconcern.
The detective shut the trunk slowly and deliberately.
“Mr. Fenton,” he said without smiling, “I’d like a word with you—a word in confidence like you might say, sir.”
“All right. Come into my room. I’ve got two bottles of Guinness. We need a pick-me-up. I’ve also got some gin so you can fix yourself a dog’s nose if you like.”
“Guinness is mine,” he replied, and again the purple handkerchief was passed over the florid countenance.
Clasping the bundle beneath one arm, he followed me into my room. There was an uncomfortable sensation in my bones that a noose was being slowly but surely tightened.
The inspector cleared his throat. “Mr. Fenton,” he remarked, as he laid his bundle on the table, “I’m in what you might call an awkward predicament, sir. I thought perhaps I could talk to you as man to man—”
“Shoot,” I murmured, inwardly cursing those previous sessions at the Plumed Cock and the inverted snobbishness which had made me so anxious to be “buddies” with a police inspector.
“You see, sir,” he continued, “the coroner is satisfied as to the cause of Mr. Baumann’s death, but I can’t honestly say that I am. And that’s where the awkwardness of it comes in, Mr. Fenton. As you know, it was not, strictly speaking, my case. I only came into it to oblige Colonel Warren, as you might say, Mr. Fenton.”
“What on earth do you mean, Horrocks?” I asked, filling up his glass with a none too steady hand. “Have there been any fresh developments?”
The inspector took a long pull at his stout, taking meticulous care not to get any froth in his moustache.
“No, sir, nothing fresh. Only the things that would have been obvious to any man in the world except Sergeant Rollings. That man, Mr. Fenton—” he tapped his broad forehead with a significant gesture, “—of course, this is all confidential and would be very bad for the Cambridge force if it got out, but what with me being called to London after North on a fool’s errand and Dr. Warren having saved my life—well, you see my position, sir.”
His incoherence positively took my breath away. “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” I answered, “but I have half a dozen more Guinnesses in the cupboard if that’s any help. And why not fill your pipe?”
I pushed a crested tobacco-box towards him and fetched two more bottles. When Inspector Horrocks had made himself comfortable on the sofa he said in a voice whose quietness accentuated the gravity of his words:
“I think, Mr. Fenton, you appreciate my position better than you are prepared to admit. I think you know in your heart of hearts, that Baumann was murdered in cold blood, and murdered by one of the cleverest and luckiest criminals that you or I ever came across. Isn’t that the truth?”
At home in America I had been told by speculators that, when they lost everything they owned in the Stock Market collapse, their first feeling was one of relief. I did not believe them at the time. Now I understand what they meant. In trampling down my carefully raised structure of half-falsehoods, Horrocks had taken from my mind a terrific load of responsibility.
“So you are a psychologist as well as a detective, Horrocks,” I said, lighting a cigarette with exaggerated insouciance. “But I really think that before you go any further you ought to substantiate such a very damning remark. You haven’t by any chance got a warrant for my arrest—as an accessory after the fact?”
“No, sir,” he smiled, “I know you didn’t have anything to do with it. I was watching you all through the inquest and I think you were telling the truth. The only trouble is you weren’t telling all the truth. I’d only just got back from London so I didn’t have time to work out your reasons for acting as you did. I know there are a great many things that are puzzling you, too. Perhaps we can help each other.”
“You are talking through your hat, Horrocks,” I cried. My voice, however, sounded thin and far away.
Horrocks gave me a comfortable smile. “Now, Mr. Fenton, as the son of a judge and being, like you might say, older and more experienced than the average undergraduate here, I can surely ask you to listen to reason. The thing is as plain as the nose on your face, begging your pardon, sir. When I first came in on Monday night I was prepared to accept things at their face value. But while I was in London hunting for William North, I suddenly got to thinking about young Baumann, how he was a cricketer and a South African and how he was probably a good shot too. They live by the gun out there, I understand—”
“But what on earth—?” I interrupted.
“Just a minute, just a minute, Mr. Fenton,” he continued. “If you’d lived with firearms as long as I have, you’d realize that ten o’clock at night is the worst possible time to clean them. You can’t even see down the barrel properly. And then, if Mr. Baumann was used to firearms, he would never have started out to clean his pistol without first removing the bullets. In the middle of a thunderstorm, too. The thing just doesn’t fit.”
He looked at me quizzically and reached out a hand for his glass. It was empty. Mechanically I filled it.
“But, hasn’t it struck you, Horrocks, that you might easily be working up an excellent case for a rather deliberately planned suicide?”
The inspector spread out his hands in the hopeless gesture of schoolmasters faced by wilful stupidity of their pupils.
“I thought I had explained to you,” he said patiently, “that Mr. Baumann was born with a gun in his pocket as you might say, sir. Well, if he wanted to make his suicide look like an accident, he would hardly have left on his desk materials that are never used to clean guns or revolvers. When all’s said and done, Mr. Baumann had some brains.”
“But I don’t follow you, Horrocks,” I cried, now really mystified. “There were cleaning materials on the desk!”
Horrocks shook his head. “Brasso is used to clean brass buttons and not gun-metal or blued steel. I wonder the colonel didn’t tumble to it himself.”
This appeared to make excellent sense. I stared in undisguised admiration.
“I have just established two further facts, Mr. Fenton,” he continued quietly. “Facts that I should have established long before the inquest if I had not been called away like that. In the first place there was nothing made of brass in Mr. Baumann’s possession—nothing on which he might reasonably have used Brasso. I have also found the materials which he did use when he wanted to clean his revolver.” He pointed to the dirty bundle on the table. “They were in the bottom of a trunk and I’d say they have not been used for some months, but they are the kind of things a real shooting man might use and not be ashamed of, sir.”
The man was obviously headed for a high place in Scotland Yard.
“Now look Mr. Fenton. Here’s my own revolver.” He whipped it from his pocket. “And here’s a tin of Brasso. See what happens when I try to clean it.”
He sprinkled some Brasso on the gun-metal and rubbed it with his handkerchief. A nasty gray smudge was the result.
“Demonstratio ad oculos, and very conclusive, Mr. Holmes.”
“Then you agree with me that the tin of Brasso and the chamois leather were deliberately planted, Mr. Fenton? Planted by a clever murderer, but one who was not clever enough to find out the first thing about cleaning guns?”
“But how on earth did he know where Baumann kept his revolver?” I asked.
“I don’t imagine Mrs. Bigger was very backward in coming forward about a thing of that sort, sir. You know what women are when they have a grievance. She knew herself where it was kept and probably broadcast the news around like you might say, Mr. Fenton.”
“Well, your murderer had a lot of luck,” I commented briefly.” The storm to drown the noise of the shot. The blood to hide the fingerprints. You’d have a job to convince a jury, Inspector.”
“You may call it luck, but I think it was mostly good management, Mr. Fenton. And then, there are some more facts to come out, sir. You are not the only one who is keeping information to himself. There are other people on this staircase, sir.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you are not relying on what I can tell you, because I assure you that my knowledge won’t get you far.
“My only suggestion is that you find out from the porter who came in or left the college around ten o’clock on Monday. If it really was murder, it was probably an outside job.”
“I’ve already done that, sir.” He produced a dirty piece of paper from his pocket and passed it on to me. It was a list of the exits and entrances on Monday night. Before ten o’clock there was no record of importance.
After ten there was the mention of numerous undergraduates, a few college servants and the Master’s guests. After twelve there was one entry only—“Dr. Warren and friend.” I should love to have known the sex of that “friend.”
“Why do you show all this to me?” I asked suspiciously.
“Well, Mr. Fenton, my position is awkward, sir. Any disclosures now would discredit Sergeant Rollings and besides, if the Coroner is satisfied, the matter should really be closed. But I am convinced that Julius Baumann was foully murdered. I hoped,” he added simply, “you might be interested in helping me to prove it.”
It was obvious that he disliked as much as I did the conclusions which his intelligence had forced upon him.
“Horrocks,” I said, “I want above all things in the world to find out who murdered Baumann. I will do everything I can to help you—under two conditions. The first is that you trust me sufficiently to let me keep to myself the things that concern me only—” he nodded without smiling—“and the second is that you tell Dr. Warren what you have just told me and let him know that you intend to continue your investigation in spite of the coroner.”
“It will break his heart,” he murmured sadly.
“Nonsense, Horrocks. Now, finish up your stout and I’ll go down with you right now. Courage, my friend—the devil is dead, but we’ll find out who killed him.”
Reluctantly Horrocks followed me down to Dr. Warren’s rooms. There he told the story which he had just imparted to me. Dr. Warren listened to him in silence, staring at his fingernails through his monocle and fidgeting occasionally with his feet. It was obvious that he wished his old friend Horrocks in Jericho.
“So you see, Colonel,” finished the inspector, “as soon as I’ve traced North, I can turn my attention to this case and work on it myself. Tactfully like you might say, sir. I hate to reopen old wounds, but I did feel it my duty …”
“Of course it’s your duty,” snapped the tutor. “Facts are facts and we have to face them. I think we’ve been very lucky with our coroner’s verdict. Now no one need know that you suspect foul play. Mr. Fenton, you will be discreet, of course.”
“I’ve promised the inspector to help all I can, sir,” I replied, “and I shall, of course, keep it to myself.”
“Good. Then you have my full permission to go ahead, Horrocks. I can trust you to keep it out of the papers.”
“You can indeed, sir, and thank you. It will be a great thing for my reputation on the force if—”
“And a great thing for the reputation of the college,” said the tutor, grimly. “Still, a duty is a duty, even if it is an unpleasant one.”
We realized that we were dismissed.
As I shook hands with Horrocks outside, I felt that the clasp sealed a pact. I was glad, at last, to have the Law on my side.
When I returned to my room, I was surprised to see that someone was standing by my bookcase, casually pulling out a volume. My visitor was a girl wearing a red hat and a smartly cut white silk dress. As I entered the room, she wheeled round and faced me. It was the Profile….