People afflicted with the tragedy of blindness had always evoked in Vereker as long as he could remember a faint sense of the uncanny. This feeling he could not wholly dispel by reasoning, nor could his quick sympathy for those who suffer misfortune entirely eradicate it. That blindness had some powerful, morbid appeal for the imagination was evident from the very fact that it had been used as a basic theme in both literary and dramatic art. Secretly ashamed of this irrational attitude in himself, he had often tried to discover from what source it sprung. He had seen Maeterlinck’s drama and read Wells’s story in his youth and had at first been inclined to ascribe his sensations to an echo of the bygone impressions made on his mind by these two powerful imaginations. Later, he felt certain that they were due to some curious association in his mind of blindness with the mystery of death. The eyes of the blind were as the eyes of the dead. The faces of the sightless lacked the quick responsiveness to things seen. When reacting to things heard and felt, the living flash that lit the ordinary man’s eye with excitement, fear, hatred, anger or desire was missing. On meeting David Cornell for the first time, he was again conscious in a marked degree of this sense of uncanniness. In spite of himself he could not keep his eyes off the man’s face which in repose wore a strange resignation, some faint likeness to the marmoreal fixity of death, and as he watched he observed how his host’s sense of touch and hearing rose to the difficult synthesis called perception by an added quality of sharpness.
Soon after his arrival at the bungalow, Miss Cornell had gone out and left him to talk music with her father. The topic was not long in coming to the surface of their conversation, and once roused the old man held forth vigorously. Vereker, ignorant of the subject, was pleased to play the part of a patient listener. David Cornell deplored the recent trend of musical art. He said it was the expression of an age without faith or belief in itself. Music was an emotional expression and our cold intellectualism and cynicism were antagonistic to greatness in the art, Vereker combated this theory by hinting that the mind of to-day was explorative and that modern musical art must necessarily be tentative, searching for a new outlook on which to base a faith. At length, after a disquisition on the beauty of the nineteenth-century romantics, the topic died out and David Cornell apologized for riding his hobby horse so long. To change the subject he suddenly asked: “What’s your real profession, Mr. Vereker?”
“I’m supposed to be a landscape artist, but some time ago I took up criminal investigation as a mental relaxation and now it’s playing a very prominent rôle in my life.”
“It must be extremely interesting,” said Cornell, “and do you think you’ll manage to unravel the mystery of my unfortunate young nephew’s death?”
“I came down to Marston with that intention. Success depends on so many things and hangs on such delicate threads that it’d be foolish to say just now how the business will turn out.”
“Of course, of course, but I daresay you’ll have formed some idea as to who committed the murder.”
“No, I would hardly say that. You see, Mr. Cornell, in detective work the facts you gather range themselves together in your mind, then they seem to cluster in associated groups and finally turn your suspicion towards a person or several persons. You don’t start with suspecting a person and then see if the facts agree. Preconceptions are amazingly easy to form and are often most dangerous to success. They frequently lead down the wrong road and are terribly hard to eradicate when once formed. Valuable time is wasted and your work rendered futile and exasperating.”
“The facts you’ve already gathered must have given you some direction in the matter. You must surely suspect someone?”
“Oh, yes, I suspect two or three people in a tentative way,” agreed Vereker, highly satisfied that the conversation had taken the turn he desired. He wanted Mr. David Cornell to talk. He was one of the Cornell family; he was the cause of the exhumation of his brother’s body. He might unconsciously reveal some factor which up till now had evaded the investigator’s pursuit. “Are you interested in detection, Mr. Cornell?” he asked.
“Yes, in a general way, but in this particular case certainly,” replied Cornell at once. “I suppose you start on such a job by hunting for the weapon?”
“Well, yes, that’s a very important factor, but so far we’ve been unsuccessful. The search is still proceeding.”
“Have you searched the music room?” came the next question to Vereker’s great surprise.
“Yes, but I hope you won’t think me impertinent if I ask you what prompted your question?” replied Vereker observing the old man’s face closely. A slight quiver of the upper lip, almost a hint of a smile was born on his passive features. The gentleness and nobility of his general expression gave place to a certain contemptuous hardness.
“No, I don’t think you’re impertinent. It’s part of your job to ask questions. I mentioned the music room for the simple reason that Mrs. Cornell used to keep her automatic pistol in a drawer of the bureau near the door.”
“Ah, yes, I see,” said Vereker and decided that he must be cautious in dealing with Mr. David Cornell. Apart from his musical leanings, the broad forehead and shrewd, sensitive lines of the face hinted at an unusual breadth of intellect and quickness of intuition.
“It was a miniature automatic, what they call a vest-pocket automatic. I took a large .45 automatic out with me to France, satisfied that I had the latest thing in destruction. But for warfare they’re not so useful as one would imagine. The mechanism is comparatively delicate and the action jams easily, especially when there’s mud about. They’re not nearly so good as a revolver for accurate shooting in my opinion. I gave up the .45 for the regular service revolver.”
“You’ve never seen Mrs. Cornell’s pistol?” asked Vereker casually.
“Hardly, but I’ve felt it,” replied Cornell with a wan smile.
“Can you tell me if it was anything like this?” asked Vereker and drawing from his pocket the pistol he had borrowed from Heather, he handed it to Cornell. Cornell took the weapon in his hands and felt it carefully.
“Exactly similar, I should say,” he remarked and holding the pistol by the barrel extended it to Vereker. The latter, satisfied that Cornell’s finger-prints were now on the barrel, took the weapon by the grip and slipped it very carefully into his pocket once more.
“Not much of a weapon if you mean to kill,” continued Cornell, “but, of course, useful to scare anyone in self-defence. Frank Cornell was an unlucky young man; he got the packet, so to speak, in the most deadly spot from such an uncertain weapon. Had he been hit anywhere else, he’d have been alive to-day. I should say the shot was fired at close range. What d’you think?”
“That’s my opinion, but it would be unwise to be too definite,” commented Vereker, an expression of surprise on his face.
“Of course. Were there any marks of powder?”
“I believe not. In any case with modern, smokeless powder they are not always present even when the shot has been fired at close range.”
“That’s very interesting, very interesting. I should say the shot was fired from the music room, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I concluded it had from the fact that the report was not heard by anyone on the first floor corridor,” replied Vereker, again surprised at David Cornell’s power of drawing a likely inference.
“Quite so, but there’s one thing that must puzzle you. How on earth did Frank Cornell stagger up the second half-flight of steps with a bullet in his brain? Seems impossible to me.”
“Unlikely, but not impossible,” commented Vereker now hanging on every word the man spoke.
“Might I make an amateurish suggestion, Mr. Vereker?”
“Do so by all means. I’m open to all kinds of suggestions bearing on the case.”
“Well, I suggest the murderer dragged the body up the stairs after the shooting and left it there.”
“And your reasons?” asked Vereker promptly.
“His reason was to try and hide the place of execution,” replied Cornell blandly.
“You’ve settled the gender of the murderer, I see,” said Vereker quickly.
The remark was received by Cornell with a sharp upward jerk of the head. “Well, yes, in a way. As a matter of fact I used the word, his, to cover male and female. But a woman seldom uses a revolver or pistol to kill, I’m told. They resort to gentler methods like poisoning. Isn’t that so?”
“Generally speaking, yes, but everything depends on the circumstances. In this case the automatic pistol in Mrs. Cornell’s drawer may have been the first means to hand and therefore a cardinal factor.”
“You have an idea that it was Mrs. Cornell’s weapon?” asked Cornell.
“I’m inclined to think it was but time will prove. We shall probably find the gun before long,” replied Vereker with a smile.
“You must drag the lily pool if you haven’t done so already.”
“Inspector Heather is getting that job done to-day, I believe.”
“Of course, it’s an obvious measure. I hope I’m not boring you talking your ‘shop,’ Mr. Vereker.”
“No, no, I’m never tired of talking detection. You must remember it’s not exactly shop with me. I might soon tire if we began to discuss painting.”
“Good, because I’ve thought a good deal about this crime. I have so much time to think that it’s natural in a way I should brood on it. My idea of the shot being fired from the music room was based on a suspicion that the murderer entered the house by the music room.”
“That implies possession of keys to unlock the doors,” remarked Vereker at once.
“Naturally. There’s a duplicate set missing. It’s a set I once had in my possession. I’m certain I returned them to my brother John, but I wouldn’t be positive. If I did, someone must have pinched them from Crawley’s pantry.”
“That someone must know the Manor customs. He must have known where the keys were kept,” suggested Vereker.
“Your argument’s sound, Mr. Vereker, but don’t infer from my remark that I’m pointing the accusing finger at any inmate of the Manor. It was merely a factor which struck me as important.”
“It’s very important. We’d very much like to know how those keys disappeared, and more important still, who took them. May I ask why you possessed a duplicate set of keys to the music room, Mr. Cornell?”
“I used to sit and compose there at the grand piano. To be confidential with you, Mr. Vereker, I’ve never got on very well with my sister-in-law. I didn’t think John was wise in marrying a woman so much younger than himself and I’m afraid I was indiscreet enough to say so openly. That indiscretion flung up a barrier between my sister-in-law and myself which our subsequent knowledge of one another failed to remove. I have no positive dislike for the lady, but I couldn’t take her to my heart as I should have liked to. I absented myself from the music room after a year and trumped up some excuse about not caring for the atmosphere of the room. I traded rather blatantly on the ghost nonsense that had gathered round the apartment and John, who was a confirmed believer in spirits, swallowed my excuse. He bought me a piano as a result. I like the instrument; it has a finer tone than their old box of wires.”
“I suppose your move in getting an exhumation of your brother’s body didn’t improve your relations with your sister-in-law?” asked Vereker pointedly.
“It fairly tore things!” exclaimed Cornell vehemently. “I couldn’t help it. I won’t go into details, but there seemed something fishy about John’s sudden death. It preyed on my mind till I took action. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have done so. The result simply knocked my suspicions on the head. In any case, I’m satisfied now and the less said about the subject the better.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” continued Vereker boldly, “but I was inclined to think the affair had some obscure connection with Frank Cornell’s murder.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Let us suppose that Frank Cornell by some means learned that his father’s death was brought about by foul means. The murderer of your brother might, on learning this, take steps to remove your nephew.”
“Yes, but that theory at once brings my old suspicions up again. The inquest settled the matter of my brother’s death as far as I’m concerned, but you must, of course, work out the problem on your own lines. I think you’ll eventually find your idea isn’t worth considering. Seeing that your suspicions are so comprehensive, I daresay they include Miss Mayo, my daughter and myself?”
“A detective has to keep an open mind,” replied Vereker with some embarrassment at the direct question.
“Certainly, no one is sacrosanct. I felt from the very first that suspicion would fall on Stella.”
“It’s a very delicate matter, Mr. Cornell, for you and me to discuss but the relations which existed between your daughter and the dead man were bound to attract inquiry.”
“I suppose they were,” said Cornell and a worried expression came over his impassive face. “My daughter loved Frank very deeply. I was dead against her choice and was rather intolerant about the whole matter. I forbade her to marry him. Girls of to-day don’t seem to heed what their parents say and, of course, she could have ignored my wishes altogether if she had chosen. The old patriarchal days are gone. Still, she wisely refrained from marrying him. I say, wisely, because I knew Frank’s character. He was an altogether lovable man up to a point. Generous, amiable, easy-going, but he had no guts, to put it bluntly. An invertebrate, without definite ambitions, no steadfastness of character, and no serious outlook on life. He thought of nothing but pleasure. Drink and women were his ruling passions. His genial, inoffensive nature might have carried him through life without any serious mishap as a bachelor, but I couldn’t see him in the rôle of my Stella’s husband. Stella is of a finer texture than most women. In time he would have broken the girl’s heart and her whole life would have become embittered and futile. I couldn’t allow this to happen and I did all I could to frustrate it. This may sound a bit high-falutin to you, Mr. Vereker. I don’t know. The cynical modern laughs at our old-fashioned faith in decent, purposeful lives. They say we lack a sense of humour and don’t look at life from a progressive, scientific point of view. Sexual freedom, they aver, is merely a frank acceptance of Nature’s law, and that to look upon work as the foundation of ordered living is merely mistaking the means for the end. Some even go as far as to say that the gospel of work is the invention of the hypocritical industrialist to feather his own nest. To return, however, to Stella. She is naturally bound to be suspected. She was the wronged woman, cast aside by her lover who had transferred his affections to Miss Mayo. In a spirit of revenge she shot the faithless fellow and trusted, if her crime were discovered, to some hope of mercy at the hands of her fellow creatures.”
“I’m afraid she’d get little mercy at the hands of English law,” said Vereker. “A murderer is a murderer and the unwritten law, as it is called, is merely a negation of all law.”
“Just so and to add weight to the suspicions that the police and you yourself must entertain, Stella knew where the music room keys were kept and also where Mrs. Cornell’s automatic pistol was hidden,” continued Cornell bitterly.
“Those factors not only apply to her but to everyone in the house and even to yourself and Mrs. Cornell,” said Vereker.
“Ah, yes, I’d quite forgotten myself,” said David Cornell with strange gusto. “I shot Frank Cornell because he had broken my girl’s heart. Quite a likely proposition when you come to examine it closely enough. I’m blind and would feel fairly safe from discovery behind my misfortune. Dear, dear, it’s an amazing world!”
The old man ceased talking and letting his head sink on his breast seemed lost in profound thought and completely oblivious of the presence of his guest. Suddenly a light scratching noise was heard in the studio in which the two men were sitting. At once David Cornell rose to his feet and, crossing the room with remarkable assurance for a man who couldn’t see, turned the door handle and flung open the door. It swung inwards on its hinges with an unpleasant creaking sound.
“Misty wants to see my visitor,” he said as a grey Persian cat entered the room and stalked with uplifted tail to where Vereker was seated. Vereker stroked the animal which at once returned the friendly greeting by rubbing himself against his leg.
“That infernal door gets on my nerves,” said Cornell irritably. Crossing to a writing-desk, he pulled open a drawer and extracted a small can of oil. The action at once arrested Vereker’s attention and he immediately rose to his feet.
“Let me do it for you, Mr. Cornell,” he said.
“Thanks very much,” replied the old man extending the oil can to his guest. “You’ll find that it’s the bottom hinge that’s got the soprano voice.”
Vereker took the can, oiled both the hinges, swung the door noiselessly to and fro, and returning to his chair handed the small can back to his host.
“Splendid stuff that ‘Three in One,’” he remarked with suppressed excitement. “It really does the work thoroughly. But I must be getting back, Mr. Cornell. It’s nearly lunchtime and I’ve a lot of work ahead of me.”
“Very well, don’t let me detain you. Drop in whenever you feel like it. You’re a good listener and I’m fond of talking. Besides, I’d like to know how you’re getting on with your detective job. It’s more interesting than reading about the game in books or rather having them read to me.”
“I don’t know so much about that,” replied Vereker. “I think it was a gangster called Jack Diamond who said detective yarns were ‘bunk,’ but I’m afraid he found out at last that actual crime was the sublimest bunk of all. I’ll take you at your word and look in when I’ve got a moment to spare. Good morning.”
On leaving David Cornell’s bungalow, Vereker made his way across the paddock towards the belt of woodland which cut off the grounds of Marston Manor from the surrounding lands. His intention was to pass through the Manor grounds, see what success had attended Heather’s dragging and searching operations, and then pass out by the lodge gate nearer Marston village. As he slowly crossed the paddock he was lost in his own thoughts and those thoughts were centred on David Cornell. Swift as he usually was in weighing up the general character of a man as left on him by first impressions, he found on this occasion that no such picture would form clearly in his mind. He ascribed his inability to form a rough and ready judgment in the first place to Cornell’s blindness. In his conversation with him he had felt all the time the presence of a curious barrier. It was as if he had been talking to someone standing on the other side of an opaque screen. Secondly, he had formed the opinion that David Cornell did not present a mere portrait of himself with his words. He had talked openly, even volubly, but the ideas and opinions expressed might be merely intellectual counters flung about in the game of conversation and not rising straight from the heart. It was a common trick among sophisticated people. Even when the words were charged with emotion, it was merely the simulated emotion of an actor playing a part. That part was almost invariably the character the player wished his hearer to ascribe to him. Vereker had entered the bungalow harbouring only the tentative suspicion against Cornell which facts forbade him as a detective to disregard. He had been prepared to leave it completely convinced that the blind man had no vestige of connection with the murder of Frank Cornell. Now he was not so sure. There was something about Cornell’s inferences regarding the manner in which the crime had been committed, the spot from which the shot had been fired, the theory of the removal of the body from the half-landing to the first storey corridor, which was very unusual, to say the least of it. For a man without trained observation his theoretical deductions were startling enough to rouse suspicion. He had jocularly designated the motive that could have driven him to such an act as if to minimize its cogency as a motive. All this might be the astute attempt of a cunning brain to mislead the investigator. The one great safeguard against suspicion Cornell possessed was his inability to see. The man who fired the shot was either an expert marksman or had reached the most deadly spot by mere chance. Was there any method or ruse by which Cornell could have made sure of hitting the desired mark, were he the man who had used the automatic pistol? He was well acquainted with the type of weapon. He had also known where to lay his hand on one. Vereker asked himself these questions and began to formulate all sorts of theories which would render such a feat possible. Suddenly as he was about to leave the paddock and enter the boundary wood of the Manor grounds, he stopped dead.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that before? I really must pull myself together; I’m getting rusty!”
For fully five minutes he stood almost motionless. His eyes seemed to be examining the beautiful markings on the bole of a silver birch in front of him, the forefinger and thumb of his right hand caressed his chin with a slow, rhythmic motion, his lips were tightly compressed. Inwardly he was bubbling with excitement over some bright intuition, his thoughts playing round it swiftly with the most searching criticism. Having evidently decided the matter to his satisfaction, he quickly passed through a gap in the thorn hedge bordering the wood and walked rapidly along the beaten path that traversed it and led out to the gate in the Manor garden wall. He had not gone far when he heard voices ahead of him. He stood and listened. The speakers were evidently a man and a woman and they were approaching at a slow pace. All at once they came into view in the distance and Vereker saw that they were Roland Carstairs and Stella Cornell. They were so engrossed in the subject of their discussion that they failed to notice him. Not wishing to meet them at this moment, Vereker swiftly stepped off the path and secreted himself behind a dense clump of hazel undergrowth nearby. He would let them pass and then proceed on his way. As they approached their voices grew more distinct and the tones disclosed that the speakers were labouring under strong emotion. Vereker, not altogether an unwilling eavesdropper, listened intently and when the pair passed within a few yards of where he stood he heard Stella Cornell say:
“It’s no use, Roly. I wish you wouldn’t plead with me.”
“Stella, I implore you to change your mind. I’ll stand by you and take all the blame if you’ll only consent to marry me. Can’t you see it’s the only effective way out of the situation?”
“It’s a heroic suggestion on your part, Roly, but I cannot consent. I’ve made up my mind. It wouldn’t be fair to drag you into the mess. I’ll face the music alone.”
“Think it over before you act, Stella. I’m showing you the one way out and you are foolish to refuse to take it.”
“I’ve done all the thinking I’m going to do.”
“Am I to take that as final?”
“Absolutely final!”
Here the pair got out of definite earshot but the conversation continued and it appeared as if Carstairs’ words became almost angry in tone, for Miss Cornell sought refuge in sobbing which was distinctly audible. Vereker, satisfied that they had almost passed out of the wood, regained the path and made his way rapidly to Marston Manor.
He entered the formal garden by the door in the north wall and saw to his surprise Heather seated alone on the oak seat by the lily pool. He was quietly smoking his pipe and appeared the picture of contentment.
“Well, Inspector,” said Vereker as he came up and took a seat beside his friend. “Any important discoveries?”
“None,” replied Heather.
“You’ve dragged this pool for the pistol?”
“Yes, we’ve scraped every inch of the bottom for pistol and missing keys. No luck. Simply ruined the lilies and scared the goldfish off the gold standard. It’s only a couple of feet deep and my men took off their boots and socks and paddled in it. Goss said it was a cushy job and very refreshing for the feet. I promised to buy him a tin bucket and a wooden spade if he found the pistol. Where have you been hiding?”
“I’ve had a long chat with Mr. David Cornell over at the bungalow.”
“What do you make of him? Rather a rum sort of customer in my opinion. I interrogated him about his daughter’s relations with young Cornell. He fairly let fly on the subject of his nephew. Thinks he was a young wastrel. The old boy seems to have his wits about him and made some very shrewd remarks on the whole case. He’s blind, but he sees more than most men once he gets the hang of the facts.”
“I agree, but I don’t quite know what to make of him at the moment. I went into his bungalow thinking he wasn’t worth worrying about in this business, but I left with quite a different notion, Heather.”
“Ah!” said Heather with a curious note of surprise in his voice. “You were always good at reading between a man’s words. I had a similar experience with him.”
“There’s something about David Cornell’s knowledge of this case, Heather, that intrigues me,” said Vereker. “He seems to know just a shade too much about the whole business.”
“It puzzled me, too,” replied the inspector, “but his is the type of mind that troubles to draw conclusions from facts. You see, Mr. Vereker, he gets the case minutely described to him, questions the speaker for more details, arranges the facts and begins to think. In a way he resembles yourself. He makes intuitive deductions and, being blind and having nothing much to do, has plenty of time to think things over very carefully. Besides, he’s a musician and I’m sure after all my experience that in a way an artist has a peculiar knack of jumping at the truth where men like myself have to climb up to it slowly step by step.”
“First time I’ve heard you admit it,” said Vereker smiling.
“I’m in the mood, a peculiarly fair mood at the moment. Of course the artist frequently jumps into a nasty mess of error which the practical detective always avoids, but we’ll not argue the point. What struck you as unusual about Cornell’s ideas?”
“He came to the conclusion that the shot was fired from the music room. Now unless he had a very careful account of the bloodstains, he could hardly arrive at such an opinion. He would have to be certain that there were no bloodstains in the hall or on the lower half-flight of stairs. We know there are no stains on the lower half-flight, but we’re not sure there was none in the hall because the maid washed the linoleum before the arrival of the police. He doubtless got his account of the affair from his daughter Stella, and I don’t think it likely that that young lady would give her father such a detailed, almost professional, description as would be necessary for him to work out such a theory.”
“He also has an idea that the body was dragged up to the first-storey corridor,” remarked Heather.
“He would strike on that explanation because, like me, he probably thought a man shot in the brain couldn’t run up the steps himself. But his reason for coming to such a conclusion was that the murderer wanted to conceal the way he entered the house and left it. As you know, Heather, there must be some point in such a concealment, and the only point I can see is that the murderer wanted to hide the fact that he had possession of the duplicate keys of the music room. Mr. Cornell once had possession of them. Those keys are a very dangerous pointer to a detective. They narrow the question by giving some idea as to the person who could easily get hold of them or had possession of them.”
“Now, Mr. Vereker, you’re getting into your old form. I like to hear you talk like that. Anything else?” asked Heather puffing vigorously at his pipe.
“Another point. In talking about the missing weapon he promptly asked me if we had searched the music room.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Heather with some surprise.
“I pulled him up rather too abruptly, I’m afraid. I’m not as clever as you at leading witnesses up the garden. I asked him his reason for putting the question. His reply, Heather, was an amazing one to me. He replied that he had asked it because Mrs. Cornell used to keep an automatic pistol in a drawer of the bureau near the music room door.”
“By Jove, Mr. Vereker, this is the real stuff!” exclaimed Heather. “You naturally wondered why he should drag in Mrs. Cornell’s miniature automatic. He couldn’t possibly have known that the weapon that had fired the shot was an automatic. He had heard nothing about the nature of the bullet. Only Doctor Redgrave and ourselves know anything about the bullet and Redgrave was particularly cautioned not to mention anything about it. Not that he would in any case. He’s a professional man and knows his job better than to talk about such things even in confidence.”
“Exactly, Heather. How could he possibly have known that the murderer had used a miniature automatic? I think Cornell at once saw he had made a dangerous mistake. He went on to talk about a .45 pistol he’d taken out to France and so forth to fling up conversational dust in which to hide his slip. I let him ramble and asked him if he’d ever seen the weapon. He had felt it, was his reply and I promptly produced the one you lent me and asked him if Mrs. Cornell’s resembled it. After carefully feeling it, he said it was exactly similar. I’ve handled your gun very gingerly since because he has left some nice finger-prints on the barrel. You might get these photographed and developed. They may come in useful,” said Vereker and extracting the pistol carefully from his pocket, handed it back to the inspector.
“Everything’s useful at times,” commented Heather and placed the weapon in its original cardboard box which he produced from some obscure part of his anatomy.
“I tried to bowl him a body-liner on the pistol business a little later, but he was too wary. Referring to the weapon we want he naively said, ‘You’ve an idea it was Mrs. Cornell’s pistol?’ I’m afraid it wasn’t too bright an effort to cover up his former mistake, but it showed me clearly that he knew he’d made a mistake and was eager to retrieve it. Then after further polite conversation he boldly broached the subject of suspects in the case and jokingly said that our list probably contained his daughter and himself.”
“Shrewd chap,” remarked Heather. “If you’re fishing for information there’s something very disarming about a blunt question. It has a knack of toppling over a man’s finer judgment.”
“I must admit it was embarrassing, but I’m rather good at slipping round the direct thrust. He saw I was going to be diplomatic and then gratuitously supplied reasons why his daughter should be one of our chief suspects. It was a novel experience for me, Heather. It was the first time I’d encountered this bold type of gambit. He may have thought it amazingly clever, but its only effect was to rouse my suspicions all the more. He was trading on the assumption that no man would supply damaging suggestions to the police for suspecting his daughter unless he knew his daughter was absolutely above suspicion. I didn’t rise to it and he learned nothing about how his daughter stood in our eyes. He tried the same move by giving me a motive why he should be the man who shot Frank Cornell. This was trying a supreme bluff if he had anything to do with his nephew’s murder. I was all on my toes to catch every shade of expression on his face, every intonation of his voice…”
“Did you learn anything?” asked Heather with some impatience.
“There was something in his whole attitude which struck me as false and artificial. An absolutely innocent man might do it as a joke, but it’s not a subject that any innocent man would joke about. A guilty man would have to be a supreme actor to be natural enough to carry it off successfully. Of course Cornell was only toying with an amateur like myself, but the stratagem was weak. As you know, Heather, jocularity is a very common resort of the criminal. His conceit in his astuteness leads him to try this bluff and it’s a feeble one to try on any experienced police officer. The younger the man is in crime, the greater his readiness to undervalue his official opponent’s intelligence.”
“Thanks, Mr. Vereker,” interrupted Heather complacently. “Not often we get such a nice pat on the back. You’ve certainly got your teeth in Mr. Cornell’s trousers and he’s a poor, harmless, blind man. Not quite fair but as I’ve got him down in my bad books, I’ll not blame you on this occasion. Did he give himself away on any other point?”
“Be patient, Heather. After all this talk which, to put it briefly, seemed to me only a move on Mr. David Cornell’s part to see how his daughter and he stood with regard to us in the business, something made a scratching noise at the door. Cornell rose and opened the door, which creaked loudly on its hinges, and in walked a fine grey Persian cat.”
“I thought you were going to say that the ginger tabby made its bow,” interrupted Heather.
“You’re too eager, Inspector, and jump too hastily to conclusions. The grey cat doesn’t concern us, but here’s a striking detail. After Cornell had opened the door he complained about the grating noise it made on its hinges. Crossing the room to a desk, he took from a drawer an oil can and was going to oil the door hinges when I offered my services. The offer was accepted and I found to my delight that the can was a ‘Three in One’ oil can.”
“That’s excellent, Mr. Vereker. We both know that the lock of the outer door of the music room was recently oiled with ‘Three in One’ oil. It gives point to a very curious remark he made to me. When we were talking about the music room he said the lock and hinges of that door creaked very badly and if he had been the murderer he’d have oiled them thoroughly before trying to enter the house that way, because from the bedrooms over the music room it was easy to hear the music room door opened if the occupants of those bedrooms slept with their windows open.”
“Amazing! It looks as if the man knew every clue we were likely to pick up and was cleverly trying to bluff us off tracing them down to him!” exclaimed Vereker thoroughly perturbed at this piece of information.
“To tell the truth, Mr. Vereker, I’m getting very uncomfortable about Mr. David Cornell. He worries me in a way I’ve seldom been worried before and I don’t know exactly how I’m going to deal with him.”
“I’m not surprised, Heather. I’ve reached the point of asking myself how he could possibly have shot a man with such deadly aim in a dark room.”
“Ah, that’s the rub!” exclaimed Heather. “But it’s getting near lunchtime and I propose we return to Marston and refresh. I’ve a lot to tell you and I daresay you’ve got a packet of news for me. We’ll discuss things over our grub. We’re going to have a roast capon for lunch and an apple pie with real Marston cream, I can’t be bothered with business with that staring me in the mind’s eye.”