Stealthy guests have secret watchwords, private entrances.
The Other Half-Rome, R. Browning.
When Henry Godfrey came out of his aunt’s flat with Nurse Edwards, they turned towards the entrance of 5B. The main door was ajar, as indeed Nurse had left it when she came down from her fruitless attempt to get in.
Brought up to “leave gates as you find them”, he once more left it slightly open, and, rather slowly, to suit his evidently exhausted companion, began to mount the staircase which led to Simon Ewing’s maisonette. No. 5B occupied the first and second floors, and above that again was the top floor containing flats 5C and D, at present unoccupied. The staircase went straight to the first landing, where Mr. Ewing’s front door directly faced anyone coming up. There was a light on the landing, which lit up the door quite distinctly. As these flats were part of a converted house, their front doors were not very substantial, and, in order to make their front lobbies brighter in the daytime, had thick panels of frosted glass let in to their upper halves.
As they came to a standstill before the door, and while his companion began to fumble with her left hand for the latch key in her bag, he looked idly about him, and, seeing her trembling fingers, spoke to her with greater softness and kindness than he had hitherto shown.
“Let me find the key for you, Nurse. It’s difficult for you with your bad hand.” And as he took the bag she willingly relinquished, he paused before opening it and added, his eyes on her pale face:
“You look rather badly knocked about, Nurse. I wonder they let you come home?”
“Oh, well, Mr. Godfrey, I’m not really badly hurt. I’m more bruised than anything, though my arm’s sprained and my wrist and face cut. The doctor at the hospital sent me back in a taxi, and he says I’m to go to bed, and in the morning get Dr. Ainslie from opposite to have a look at me.”
Henry had been looking compassionately at her, but now, as if recalled to the sense that the sooner she was in bed the better, he extracted the key from the bag, following her directions as to the compartment it was in, turned briskly towards the door, and began to insert the key into the latch.
As he did so he spoke, over his shoulder, feeling perhaps that he should prepare the woman for a rather stormy reception.
“It’s very unlucky for you, and I don’t know, but I am afraid that there may have been some little mishap here. We heard rather a crash up here while we were at tea, as if something had been knocked over.”
“Oh dear!” responded the nurse, with dismay. “I do hope not! Mr. Ewing always gets rather vexed if I’m kept out late and leave him too long alone, and if anything has gone wrong he’ll not have been able to put it to rights by himself.”
Clearly forgetting her own misfortunes in the apprehensions as to what her employer might have to add to his sense of injury, she pressed forward, and, as Henry opened the door and stepped aside, she went quickly into the flat before him.
She hesitated for the fraction of a second, and then went across the little hall in the direction of an open door from which light shone out. As she did so she turned and held up her finger to Henry, as if to beg him to stand still for a moment and give her time to go in and bear the brunt of any storm that might be about to break.
Henry obeyed her injunction, and stood still; and at this very instant a man came quietly down the narrow staircase at the back, leading to the part of the maisonette above. Mr. Ewing’s flat was composed of the middle floors of the original house, and though his drawing-room and bedroom were large, good rooms, on what was meant to be the first floor, the rooms above were very much smaller. The staircase which gave access to his upper part was simply the old back stairs of the house, now thrown open into the first floor. It was therefore of a different type from the big main stair, and was really only a narrow, wooden flight emerging at the dark farther end of the former first-floor landing, or the lobby as it was now called. The light in the hall itself was lit, but not the light for the upper stair; and consequently the man, coming down in the shadow, was not perceptible until he had actually reached the bottom of the flight and was coming across the little hall.
He advanced rather quickly, putting on a soft felt hat, which he had been holding in his hand, as he came, pulling it down low over his face and turning up his collar—evidently in preparation for meeting the cold, wet night outside.
Nurse Edwards had turned back at the sound of his footsteps crossing the marble floor of the lobby, and for a brief moment she stood still, watching him walk towards the door. She said nothing, and Godfrey accordingly stood quiet too. As the man reached the door, almost brushing past Godfrey, he nodded a good night in a pleasant sort of manner. Then, as soon as he was outside the flat, he walked quickly across the outer landing and disappeared swiftly and quietly down the stairs.
Henry hesitated, wondering, as he afterwards said, whether perhaps he ought to have called after the man to know if all was well; but the nurse, having glanced after the retreating figure, turned rather slowly towards the drawing-room, paused, as if uncertain how best to present herself in her battered and dishevelled condition, and then pushed the door open and went in.
Henry followed close on her heels. At first the room, to both his and her evident surprise, seemed empty. The lights were on, the fire blazing brightly, and there was no occupant visible. But the nurse, advancing round the centre table towards the fireplace, where stood the big invalid chair, was brought to a sudden standstill. Struck by her attitude and downward gaze, Henry instantly hurried forward. She was looking, in a dull bewilderment, at a confused heap upon the ground. A big rug was lying crumpled up—at least it seemed to be a rug.
With a sudden violent thudding of the heart Henry bent down, touched the rug, then twitched it aside. At the sight of what lay beneath, his breath seemed to leave his body. For a second or two both man and woman stood paralysed, and then the woman, wildly flinging her uninjured arm before her face, rushed headlong from the room and down the stairs, hoarse screams pouring from her throat as she ran.
The lifting of the rug had uncovered what Henry subconsciously knew must be the body of a man; but the awful, muddled heap, with pools of blood soaking into the carpet round it, at first brought to his horrified senses no clear conception whatever. Something, once alive—now dead, was the limit of what his brain, in its whirling and reeling, seemed to grasp. Then he felt as if he too would lose all self-control and break out into wild shrieking, as, from that blood-stained tangle, something seemed to protrude and move.
Sweating with anguish, he forced himself to drop to his knees and peer more closely. He saw then that the faint movement came from the fingers of one hand, lying upon a blood-stained breast. But, even as he grasped that fact, he understood that it was only the spark of a dying fire. Life might have lingered for a moment in that battered frame, but as he looked he knew that the moment had passed.
Half an hour had gone since the discovery of the crime. Henry and Anne Godfrey were efficient people, and in that brief period everything possible had been done.
Anne had eventually, with the help of her aunt and Doreen, got the distraught Nurse Edwards into their flat and into her aunt’s bed. Mrs. Dutton, while overcome with horror, kept her head, and was ready to do anything she could for the poor creature. Without either of them understanding, from the incoherent, gasping words which were all she could utter, what had happened, both realized that the fall and crash had signified that something terrible had happened to the old man above. The immediate necessity was to get help, and Doreen was sent flying across the road to fetch Dr. Ainslie, with instructions to impress upon him that something was very seriously wrong and that he must come at once. Then, leaving her aunt to deal with the nurse, Anne hastened up the staircase which led to Mr. Ewing’s flat. As she ran panting into the little lobby, Henry came out of the drawing-room. His ghastly pallor and look of shock and fear roused in Anne a sense of something appalling, which increased to utter terror as her eyes fell upon his hand, stretched out to push her back.
“Go away, go away, Anne!” hurriedly and urgently he muttered, advancing towards her, and waving her back towards the staircase.
“Henry! Henry! your hand! oh, look at it!”
Startled, he glanced down, and then, snatching out his handkerchief, began to wipe the sticky blood from his fingers.
“Oh, I know! I know! Don’t talk about it, don’t look at it!” he murmured, his whole face convulsed and twisted. “Oh, it’s too awful! Anne! Come on, come down! I must fetch the police at once.” He began to stumble as quickly as he could towards the street, and Anne realized that he was on the verge of fainting. She gave one glance back towards the lobby, where the soft, bright lights and open doors, showing only glimpses of lighted rooms, seemed but the more frightening by reason of the glitter and silence. Then, leaving the lobby door still well open behind them, she followed her brother down the stairs.
Out on the porch he paused to draw in some deep breaths of the cold, raw air. Here, in contrast to the brightly lit rooms above, was the rain soaking steadily down, and the murky, fog-wreathed street. Anne felt she must not speak, she must wait for her brother to regain his self-control. Exercising all her own, she stood quietly beside him. After only a moment or two, he put back the handkerchief with which he had continued to wipe and scrub his hand, and, turning a very ashy face towards her, he said, quite firmly:
“Anne, Mr. Ewing has been murdered. We must get the police and the doctor.”
“I’ve already sent for Dr. Ainslie,” replied Anne promptly. “That poor nurse needs him at once.”
“Nurse Edwards! Where is she? I forgot all about her.”
“In Aunt Mary’s bedroom,” replied Anne briefly; and, taking her brother by the arm, she drew him towards their aunt’s door. “Come in and telephone for the police, Henry. You’ll have to do that. I couldn’t tell them what they’ll want to know.” She had turned to go with him; then, a sudden thought striking her, she paused, and, while Henry made for the telephone in Mrs. Dutton’s sitting-room, she stood hesitating. She had remembered that open door above. Thoughts flashed through her. “Murder”—therefore a murderer. Had he gone? Was he still up there? She remembered the top flat of all was empty, the staircase unlit. Someone might have run up there to hide! Then, like a blaze of lightning, came the recollection of the man who had come down and out, before ever Nurse had begun to shriek. A feeling of violent relief ran through her. “That was the man, and he’s gone—he’s not up there—we are safe from him!” Yet again some instinct made her hesitate to go inside her aunt’s door, passionately though she longed to be with other human beings, not alone, outside that terrifying door leading up to unknown things. One man had gone—true—but suppose there were another? She realized it was her duty to stay where she was, able to see if anyone should come down the stair, to wait, at any rate, until some sort of help should come. So, for a few moments, which seemed unending, she stood still in the shadow of the portico, until, with a relief which brought the sweat out into the palms of her hands, she heard voices break out from across the road, and saw Dr. Ainslie, accompanied by Doreen and by another man, coming hurrying across towards her.
“Oh, Dr. Ainslie!” she cried, “go in quickly to Henry! It’s dreadful—Mr. Ewing’s dead, Henry says he’s been murdered—and his nurse has had an accident. You’ll find her in our flat—but please,” and she turned imploringly towards the strange man, “stay here till the police come. There may still be someone—the murderer—up there! We haven’t been in to look!” and she pointed towards the doorway and staircase of the upper flat.
Utterly dumbfounded, doctor and stranger gazed at her. Then both instinctively started towards Mr. Ewing’s doorway. She checked them, laying her hand on the arm of the man, who stood nearest.
“No, don’t go in; he might be still in Mr. Ewing’s flat, or he might be hiding on the stairs above ready to rush down if you went into the flat. And the police will be here directly—don’t, don’t go up!—and oh, doctor,” turning to him, “that poor woman must be seen to—she’s all collapsed from the shock, coming on top of her accident. I don’t know what’s happened—or what Henry and she have seen up there!”
Dr. Ainslie, startled afresh by this appeal, at once turned towards Mrs. Dutton’s entrance, leaving Anne with the stranger. He, realizing apparently the sense of what she had been saying, stood beside her for a moment, looking intently inwards towards the light faintly gleaming down the empty staircase. Then, as if recalled to the girl beside him and to the need to reassure her if possible, he turned his face towards her and said politely: “You are living here, I think? I am your new neighbour opposite. Hetherington is my name.”
“Oh yes,” responded Anne, feeling bound to make some effort to maintain this normal note; “I’m staying here with my aunt. Mr. Hetherington? Why, I think I saw your canvasses and things going in a day or two ago.” She was vaguely feeling that it would only be polite to inquire if he were the Mr. Hetherington who had recently held a one-man show of landscapes, when the sound of a motor coming fast along the street caused her to break off. With the utmost thankfulness she saw the car draw up in front of No. 5, and realized that the men emerging from it were the police. She felt that she could really bear no more, now that authority had come to take over responsibility. She was conscious that her legs suddenly felt as if they would give way beneath her, and intent only on returning to her own family, she no longer gave one further look towards Mr. Hetherington, who, apparently resolving not to miss the sensational happenings which the next ten minutes must bring, remained sturdily planted on the steps.
Of the occupants of the car, now disembarked and advancing towards her, the one who came ahead was Detective-Inspector Woods, the C.I.D. man attached to the district. London police stations now have each a small corps of C.I.D. men working with them, and when a crime occurs in a London area it is these C.I.D. men who are dispatched to the scene. Thus, unlike the provinces, Scotland Yard is automatically called to the spot in the persons of these special men.
“No. 5B, madam?” inquired the inspector.
“Yes! Yes!” said Anne, recognizing that here was the official force. “It’s murder, I’m afraid. My brother’s been up. We live in the flat below. He says Mr. Ewing of No. 5B has been killed! He—my brother—can tell you all about it. But oh,” as the men started towards the entry, “wait a minute—someone ought to stay here; that staircase leads to the little empty flats above, as well as to Mr. Ewing’s, and someone may be hiding up there.”
The inspector nodded, understanding the importance of what she said. A few brief inquiries of Anne, and some low-toned words to his subordinates, and then, stationing two men below at the entry, he started up the staircase to No. 5B, leaving Anne to return to her own premises.
As he mounted the stairs Woods was aware that he was stiffening himself in preparation for whatever he might find in the flat above. For, experienced as he was, he knew that no man’s nerves are altogether proof when brought face to face with the physical remains of the victim of a murder. Contrary, perhaps, to general belief, a policeman has nerves which shrink from the sight of violence just as much as those of other men.
In person Woods was a tall, handsome man, between the ages of thirty and forty. He had a thin, intellectual stamp of face, dark hair, very bright, dark-blue eyes. He looked neither hard nor unapproachable. His calm, efficient, quiet manner inspired confidence, while something lurking in the character of his gaze, and in the lines of his mouth, showed that he possessed the invaluable gift of being firm without being autocratic. Here was a man to investigate and to probe, and yet without rousing antagonism. He had a certain reputation, and one which was partly based upon the extreme thoroughness and tenacity with which he would scrutinize every detail of a crime.
He noted, therefore, as he went up, that the landing beside Mr. Ewing’s front door was well lighted, and that the panels of glass on each side of the door allowed anyone outside to see if the flat within were lighted up.
The outer lobby here, before the modern entrance to the flat, was still fairly broad, for the house had originally been a large one, planned with spacious landings and a wide staircase. In order to reach the topmost door of all, which was arranged in two of those minute affairs politely called “flatlets”, but which were really little more than “one-room flats”, the main stairs went on up, rounding a corner and winding away out of sight. Owing to the smallness of the rooms and poor accommodation they offered, there had been no demand for these flatlets, and they had remained unlet.
Noting briefly that it would have been extremely easy for anyone to have been lurking on this open staircase, out of sight round the corner, and going up a short way to discover, as he had expected, that there were no bulbs in the electric lights on that part of the stairs, Woods turned back, and at length approached the threshold of No. 5B.
The door itself stood wide open as Henry Godfrey had left it.
Dispatching two men to go on and search the approach to the empty flats above, Woods was just entering the lobby when he heard the clatter of steps behind him, and turning, saw with pleasure that the police surgeon had arrived, together with the photographer and extra helpers who had been assembled and dispatched from the station.
“Glad you’ve come, Doctor,” he exclaimed. “I’ve not been in yet, nor anyone else, so you and I will be the first on the field. No one has touched the body, I understand.”
They had paused for a moment in the hall while Woods instructed the photographers and print experts to set to work at once on the front door, inside and out, and the doctor began hurriedly to undo the clasps of his case.
“No one else here?” said the doctor. “Well, that’s good. Who is it who’s been murdered?”
“I understand it is an old gentleman, Mr. Simon Ewing, living alone.”
“No relations here, then?” glancing swiftly as he spoke at the beautiful decorations of the hall around them.
“No, no relations. He lived alone, and this is a service flat so there were no maids. Beyond a Mr. Godfrey, who found the body and notified the station, no one has been near. We’d better go in now and see how things are.”
The door to their left was open and showed the lighted room within, clearly the chief sitting-room of the flat. Beyond, another door was visible, and at the far end the small service stair could be seen, running down from the dark regions above.
It’s in here, I expect,” said Woods briefly, pointing to the open door. Leading the way, he went in, glanced round, and then moved at once towards the hearth. He stooped and lifted aside the rug which Henry had replaced over the body.
Repressing the exclamation which rose to his lips, he stood aside to make way for the doctor.
I’ll just wait for you to tell me, Doctor,” he said, with lips which despite himself seemed suddenly to have gone stiff. “Though I can see for myself, of course, this is a murder, there’s no doubt of that.”
Dr. Carr muttered something inaudible, as he in his turn saw what lay before them. Then, kneeling down beside the body, he began his examination.
“Dead, of course,” he said at once, and glanced at his watch to note the time. “Difficult to tell you much with all this mess, and I take it you don’t want me to move the body—nothing to be done for him, poor fellow.”
Woods made no reply. Indeed for the moment he was filled only with an unprofessional longing to get away from the sight which was filling him with revulsion and horror. To steady himself he switched his attention away from the body, and began to consider the other aspects of his task. He remembered that the girl he had found at the door below had told him her brother had information for him, and he determined to run down and hear at once what these people could tell him.
“Doctor, I’ll leave you for a moment. I want to interview someone below. You’ll not need me just now, and I’ll be back directly.”
The doctor nodded agreement, without speaking, and Woods ran hurriedly down the stairs. His subordinate, Sergeant Riley, was standing on the front steps, and at the sight of Woods advanced towards him.
“Who are these people at No. 5A?” inquired the inspector.” I hear they’ve something to tell us.”
“Mrs. Dutton occupies the flat,” replied Riley, “but I’ve made a few inquiries, and it was her nephew, Mr. Henry Godfrey, who gave the alarm and, as I understand, found the body.”
“Well,” said Woods, “we’d better perhaps see him first, and find out what he has to say.”