By the utmost exercise of violence, made safe and sure by craft.
The Other Half-Rome, R. Browning.
As Woods and Riley entered Mrs. Dutton’s flat, Henry himself advanced to meet them.
“Thank heaven you’ve come, Inspector!” he exclaimed. “This is a most awful business—” He was interrupted by the sound of hysterical shrieks from the next room, and, in answer to the inspector’s questioning glance, went on: “That’s Mr. Ewing’s nurse, poor girl. She’d met with an accident earlier in the evening, and most unfortunately for her, she and I discovered the body. It’s upset her altogether, and the doctor’s with her now.”
The inspector nodded, to show that he realized both the condition of the woman, and the fact that he must wait for any evidence she might have to give until the hysteria had been dealt with.
“Now, sir, just tell me as briefly as you can how you made the discovery. I want to know exactly when you went up, who went with you, and who has been up since. When I know that I can go back myself and get on with things.”
“Well,” said Henry, “I don’t live here. This is my aunt’s flat. My wife and I were here to tea. Soon after 5 o’clock Nurse Edwards came in. She is a trained nurse who looks after Mr. Ewing, as he is badly crippled with arthritis. His is the flat above this—maisonette rather—he has two floors. She—Nurse Edwards—had met with an accident while she was out, and had hurt her arm. She asked that someone should come up and open the door of the flat for her. I went up, unlocked the door with her key; we went in together, and found Mr. Ewing dead. His body was lying in the front room. Nurse went into hysterics, and rushed straight down here. I saw there was nothing to be done, so came away to give the alarm. No one has been up since.”
“No one been up since?” queried Woods sharply. “How do you know that, sir? You yourself rang up the station, I understand?”
“Yes,” said Henry, aware that his statement, which he had purposely made as brief as possible, required amplifying, “that is so. But my sister, hearing the nurse rushing down, came out to meet her, and when I came down and in here to telephone, she remained outside in the porch to watch and see that no one went in.”
Woods mentally paid a tribute to the girl who had undertaken such a job, but, anxious to make sure of his ground, inquired: “Can I see the lady, sir?”
“Why, yes,” and going to the door Henry called: “Anne, would you come?” The inspector wants you a moment.”
A brief scrutiny of the girl who entered soon convinced Woods that he might rely on anything she told him. Anne’s composure, the firm lines of her pale face, the steadiness of her voice, convinced him that, whatever her inward feelings might be, she had not allowed any nervousness or dread to drive her within her own home for shelter.
“Yes,” she replied, in answer to his question. “I went up to see if I could help my brother, but met him coming down. While he came in here, I stood in the porch. I stood there alone, from the moment my brother and I came out, until the doctor and Mr. Hetherington from opposite came across. Then Mr. Hetherington and I stood there until the police car came. No one came out of the upstairs flats after my brother and the nurse came down.”
As the inspector nodded and turned towards the door, she added, with an irrepressible gasp, and in a voice which she could not succeed in keeping quite normal and steady:
“But someone had come down before that! Before the nurse had called out, I mean.”
Thunderstruck, the inspector and Riley gazed at her, and she added quickly: “A man had come out just before.”
“Oh! Good God!” came from Henry in a burst, and, like a flash, Woods turned on him.
“Did you see the man, sir?”
“Yes, I did.” And Henry’s horrified tone showed that to him, as to Anne, came the realization that he had probably set eyes on the murderer in the act of leaving the scene of a crime. “Of course I did! He came down the stairs from the top of the house, and he nodded ‘Good night’ to me as he went out and down the staircase to the street.”
“But you mean you saw him and didn’t stop him? Didn’t question him?” broke from Woods.
“No, I didn’t. I never thought there was anything wrong. He looked all right—and the nurse didn’t say anything—I thought she knew him. Why should I have stopped him? I didn’t know of the murder!” Henry’s agitation made him almost incoherent.
“The nurse?” queried Woods. “Did she see him too?”
“Yes,” answered Henry. “She and I went into the flat together, and she was going into the drawing-room when we saw the man. He came down those stairs that lead up to the top rooms.”
At this moment Mrs. Dutton came out of her back bedroom into the hall, and as she opened the door of her room the sound of violent sobbing was audible, mixed with the murmur of the doctor’s voice. The inspector gave a brief ear to the sounds, which evidently convinced him that he could not for the present hope to interview the woman, and turning back to Henry, he inquired:
“You mean that the nurse distinctly saw this man, and did not challenge him?”
“Yes,” said Henry, with a disturbed air; “she certainly saw him, and I, naturally, thought he was someone she knew, just a visitor.”
“Perhaps he was,” suggested Woods. “Surely that must be so. The nurse would have said something, I imagine, if he’d been a stranger. And if he’s known to her we shall soon get on his track. Though, of course, we don’t know, as yet, that he’s anything to do with the crime. Did he seem agitated at all, to your view? Or show any special haste to get away?”
“I don’t know,” hesitated Henry. “He passed me quite quietly, and he went on down the stairs without any special hurry, I should say. I think, at any rate, he must have been in the drawing-room and seen what there was up there,” and, at the recollection of what he himself had seen, a violent shudder ran through him.
Woods glanced at him keenly. “Well, sir, I must be off again up there myself, if you’ve nothing further to add. You saw this man leave the flat; Miss Godfrey here saw him come out of the front door. No one else came out, I understand?” His sharp eyes took in Henry’s shake of the head and Anne’s affirming gesture.
“Now, Riley,” turning to his subordinate, “this is your business. Get a description of this man from Mr. Godfrey and from Miss Godfrey, and see if the doctor can get anything from the nurse. She’s the important one, of course. Then come up, as soon as ever you can, and we’ll send off to the stations, and get things going to fetch this fellow in. But I needn’t tell you to be as quick as you can. We mustn’t lose a moment in getting after him.”
He spoke decisively, almost cheerfully, for Godfrey’s account had taken a weight off his mind. He had little doubt that the man in question was the murderer, who had actually been seen, at close quarters, by three people, and in view of what Godfrey had said, he had even less doubt that the individual in question was someone known to the nurse. Very little time had been lost, and with a name and description, the police ought not to have much difficulty in collecting the fugitive.
He scribbled a brief note for Dr. Ainslie, begging him, as a matter of the utmost urgency, to call in Sergeant Riley as soon as the nurse could be interviewed. This he handed to Anne. “Perhaps you’d take this in to the doctor, Miss Godfrey? If you go in, it won’t frighten her as a visit from the sergeant might, and we must get her information as soon as possible.”
Leaving her to this task, he once more set out for the scene of the murder itself.
When he re-entered the flat above, the police surgeon was just completing his examination. While Carr scribbled a few notes on the writing-pad which he held upon his knee, Woods began to look more carefully round the beautiful room.
At once it became clear that though a violent murder had been done, there had been no struggle. Everything seemed to be in absolute order, not even a chair overturned. A sort of writing-board, which looked as if it had been used, was lying across a high stool, on it a book of stamps, some paper and envelopes, some fragments of string and sealing-wax, showed that the quite peaceable and ordinary occupation of dispatching letters and parcels had been in operation.
Woods mentally added these items to the facts he already knew. “No struggle, no attempt to resist, everything quite tidy and in order. Must have been someone he knew, as I thought from the nurse’s behaviour,” he mused—again feeling that pleasant sense that his task was to be reassuringly easy.
The big arm-chair had its cushions in place, dented still where the head of the occupant had rested.
Dr. Carr stood up.
“Head battered in, Inspector, as I expect you can see for yourself. There’s one very large deep wound here, on the left-hand side, above the ear. That in itself would be fatal. Then there are extensive injuries round the whole of the left side of the head—I should say, roughly, nine or ten blows. The one to the front was the first given, and would be sufficient to cause death. It has penetrated right through the bone and smashed into the brain.”
“What sort of instrument do you think was used?”
“Something heavy and sharp—you see, it’s cut right through.”
“Something very heavy?”
“Fairly heavy, yes.”
“How long do you think it would take to inflict these blows?”
“They’d be done very quickly indeed. I should say they would all be inflicted in less than half a minute. I think the first blow was dealt when he was sitting, with the head bent slightly forward, then he’d fall to the ground, and all the others were dealt while he lay on the ground.”
Woods indicated the spots and splashes radiating from the body on to the furniture near by.
“Do you think these splashes bear that out?”
“Yes, I do. Look at them closely and you’ll see they all radiate from this centre, made by the position of the head. They are all in an upward direction too, showing they splashed up from the floor.”
“I suppose the murderer is bound to be heavily spattered too?”
“Well, that I can’t say definitely. If he knelt down, of course, he’d be bound to have his face and hair very much splashed.”
“And his hands and arms?”
“I think his left hand would be, not the right. You don’t, as a rule, find blood so much on the hand that holds the weapon.”
“Not if there are a great many blows?”
“No. There would be a great deal of blood on the left, where he’d hold his victim down, but not on the right. I think, as the last blows were struck with the head on the ground, the murderer will have blood on his feet and legs.”
“How long does it take for blood to become clotted?”
“It varies a bit. Roughly from five or six to ten minutes. Death took place about half an hour ago. The old man made no great resistance—didn’t succeed in rolling away at all.”
“How do you know that, Doctor?” said Woods briefly.
Carr glanced down again and nodded towards the carpet. “Blood quite localized,” he said, “not a very great deal of it either, considering, and all just round this one place where the head lies. There’s nothing more for me to do now. You may as well get your part of the business done.”
He turned away, made a few more notes in his book, and then, unable to repress his feelings despite his professional calm, he added: “Disgusting, Woods, utterly disgusting. He’s old, he couldn’t have had a chance. Hope you catch the devil who did it.”
“Well, we’ve a good deal to go on, Doctor, I believe,” replied Woods tersely, for he too felt stirred out of his customary control. “The man was seen by three people, and one of them ought to be able to tell us who he was; she must know him, I think.”
“That’s good—and I won’t keep you from being after him. The sooner he’s landed in jail the better,” and, really thankful to get away from the horrible scene, Carr moved towards the door.
“That depends on how quickly your colleague can get our witness fit to talk,” Woods called after him. “Indeed, Doctor, you might just drop in next door and see if you can help us there?”
But even as he spoke Sergeant Riley came breathlessly up the stairs and in, and one glance at his face showed Woods that matters had gone wrong.
“Sir,” said Riley, without wasting any time, “I’ve seen the nurse. She’s better, and able to make a statement. The doctor put her the questions I wanted answered. She confirms what Mr. Godfrey says. They both went into the flat together. She saw this man in the hall, but says he was a complete stranger to her, and she can’t tell us anything about him.”
“What!” exclaimed Woods, horrified at this downfall of his confident expectations. “She didn’t know him? But then, why on earth didn’t she speak to him and ask who he was?”
Riley shook his head. “I didn’t go into all that, sir. She’s quite definite she didn’t know the man, and says she just thought him a visitor who’d been in to see Mr. Ewing. She’s met with an accident herself, sir, to-night, and seems pretty bad with it all, and the doctor says she mustn’t be questioned too much.”
Woods nodded comprehension, but he felt a pang of dismay. He had been building a good deal on this identification.
“Told Mr. Godfrey this?” he queried.
“Why, yes, sir. I saw him again after taking the nurse’s statement. His version is that he thought the man was a visitor, and concluded from the nurse taking no notice that he was someone whom she knew came to the house.”
The two men stared at each other aghast. Both comprehended that it was in fact quite possible for two individuals to credit each other with knowledge which actually neither possessed. Yet the results seemed incredible.
“Why! To think,” exclaimed Riley, as the full meaning of the situation dawned on him, “they must have caught the fellow practically red-handed—if they’d challenged him. Good heavens! To think he walked out past both of them and got away perfectly easily! It’s past belief, sir!”
Woods, glancing at the heap before the fireplace, which Riley, standing where he did, had not as yet seen, realized all the more acutely what that man had left, and the iron nerve which must have carried him across that hall and past the man and woman on the threshold. He brushed his hand across his forehead and, with a deepening sense of foreboding, said:
“Couldn’t either of them, or that Miss Godfrey, give a description? I imagine they saw him close to, and in a good light.”
Riley shook his head.
“The nurse only saw him from behind. She says she’d gone across towards the drawing-room, and was standing in the doorway, and she looked back and watched him walk across the lobby. She can only say he was fairly tall, thin, and, she thinks, young.”
“What does Mr. Godfrey say?” asked Woods.” He was facing him, and the hall light was on; he must be able to tell us fairly accurately.”
“No,” returned Riley, “he’s no more use to us than the nurse. He says the man was putting on his hat and turning up his coat collar. He never saw the face distinctly at all. Just had a general impression. Someone about 5 feet 10 or 11. Slim, youngish—under forty-five he’d say—fairish, he thinks, but can’t really say for certain—dressed in a raincoat and a soft hat. No, sir, Miss Godfrey’s the one who gave me the best description. She saw him, of course, in the portico, close to. She says the man paused on the front step and looked up and down the street. She saw him quite distinctly as there’s a street lamp on the pavement at the very foot of the steps. She gives his age as about thirty-five, thin, thin-faced, dark, with a slight moustache and spectacles. Wearing a soft felt hat, grey, and a light raincoat. Mr. Godfrey corroborates colour of the coat and hat.”
For a moment Woods visualized the figure these words called up. Actually he had a despairing certainty that the description was of very little value—it was both too vague and would fit too many men in a great city. However, for the moment it was all he had to go on, and he must make the best of it.
“Well, go down to the station, Riley, and get the description made out, and all posts notified. Ask if anyone in the locality saw any such person, at 5 o’clock or thereabouts. Ask especially for anyone answering the description seen running, or showing haste anywhere, either in shops or on the tubes and undergrounds. Cool as he was, he must have wanted to get as far away from here as he could, in as short a time as possible. He mayn’t have kept up that pose of calm much farther than beyond the street corner. Circularize all the shops where he might, or may in future, try to buy new clothes. Anyway, do the best you can, and be quick. Time’s the best factor we have on our side now.”
He turned away, all his former confidence gone, for he realized now how far more difficult was the task before him. Instinctively he braced himself to take even more meticulous notice of every detail of the scene he had now to examine.
The photographers were only awaiting his instructions to set to work. Immediately on his signal they began. Photographs of the body as it lay, of the room from various angles, of the objects on the bureau, were to be taken. Woods, who had entered and briefly examined the other rooms, bade them take shots of lobby and bedrooms. Until these had been obtained, nothing was to be moved, everything to remain in place as it had been found. The front door showed no signs whatever of having been tampered with. In every room all seemed to be in order, though Woods’s keen eye had detected something in one of the top rooms which he had not expected. Waiting to deal with that, he hurried on the work of the photographers, eager to get the fingerprint men to work. Every member of the group apparently was struck with the absolute order and neatness of each place they entered.
A brief search of Mr. Ewing’s bedroom revealed nothing whatever. There were no signs of disturbance or disorder. The room retained its air of peaceful luxury, the room of a semi-invalid, who spent a good deal of his time in bed, and who had surrounded himself with every contrivance to make himself comfortable.
The inspector and his companion, after a thorough search, went on up the narrow staircase to the upper rooms. Woods paused to tell the fingerprint men to be sure to test the banister-rail and the electric-light switches most carefully, in the hope that the man, in coming down, had inadvertently let his hand rest on the rail.
Above them were only three smallish rooms. One was occupied by the nurse, one was a bathroom, and one a spare-room. In the bathroom there were no signs of anyone having washed. The soap was dry, and the towel quite dry too.
Actually the spare-room was more in the nature of a box-room, for it was clearly never used. A handsome old mahogany bed with head and foot boards, but with no bedding on it, stood against one wall, and scattered about the room were the other pieces of a very handsome old bedroom suite, but there were no signs that the room was ever occupied. The bare dressing-table and great mirror had a blank, cold look. A few trunks and boxes were piled in the centre. Against the wall facing the door was a very large wardrobe, meant for a lady, with compartments at each end for hanging dresses, and rows of drawers of varying sizes filling up the space between.
Woods began to pull open these drawers, carefully avoiding taking hold of the old-fashioned knobs. He achieved his object by inserting the big blade of his pocket-knife into each keyhole in turn, and gradually levering the drawer open sufficiently to enable him to put his hand in and then press each one outwards from within. Most were empty; one or two contained packets of old letters, neatly tied and labelled. Some bundles of photographs and a few books lay in another.
Woods went swiftly through them.
“Seem to be the relics of his marriage,” he said briefly to Brown. “These all have to do with his wife.”
“If that fellow came in here, he didn’t leave much trace,” remarked Brown.
“No,” returned Woods; “but we know he’d been up here. These papers may be what’s left of the more important things. He might have come up here, found what he wanted, and if it were only the size of a packet of letters or what not, he could get off with it in his pockets.”
Brown grunted assent. “He wasn’t carrying a case or anything. All three who saw him said he’d nothing in his hands, and was fiddling with his collar and hat.”
By now Woods had looked through the drawers. He turned towards the hanging cupboards at the end of the wardrobe. There was a key standing in the keyhole at one end, but before touching it Woods threw the beam of his powerful torch on it. What he saw caused him to pause. He made no further effort to open the door, but dispatched Brown to see what the gang of workers below were doing.
While awaiting his return the inspector began to examine the floor with great attention. He had thought on his preliminary hurried visit of investigation that he had detected some small white object lying under the large polished dressing-table. He now began to search more carefully.
As Brown re-entered the room Woods stooped to retrieve the tiny object which he had located lying behind one leg of the dressing-table, and holding it on his palm and centring the bright light of the torch on it, said:
“See here—this is a wax vesta. Under the dressing-table. A freshly struck one. Not an ordinary household match. Mr. Ewing wasn’t a smoker, from what I’ve seen in the other rooms. All the matchboxes there are ordinary safety matches. And what should this fresh match be doing here in an empty, unused room, do you suppose?”
“Lit these candles, I’d say,” replied Brown, pointing to two tall, faded, green wax candles which stood in glass sticks on the mantelpiece, relics forgotten and left up here long since.
“Why should he do that? The light’s all right,” with a glance up towards the lamp overhead. Then, looking at the blinds which were drawn down: “Now, that’s an idea; I wonder if the maids who attend to this flat did that? It’s run from the hotel, I understand.”
He scribbled in his notebook.
“If not, you see, Brown, the murderer pulled them down when he came in here. May not have wanted to turn on the light before he’d got them down. He’d use a match to see his way. Then, perhaps, seeing these candles, he’d just touch them up with his match and make them serve his purpose instead of turning on the light. He’d not be anxious for anyone to see this room too brightly lit up. Candles don’t give half the glare of electric light. Well, we’ve got to see why he came in here at all. This isn’t a room that’s in use, and we’ve seen no signs yet of anything valuable up here.”
“Perhaps he came in here to hide?” suggested Brown. “He’d hear the nurse and Mr. Godfrey talking outside the flat door. He may have nipped up the stairs, seen the other was the nurse’s room, and risked hopping in here. Then thought, after all, he’d better not wait for them to find the body, and made his dash for the stairs and away.”
Woods shook his head.
“That doesn’t altogether account for the match and the candles. We’ll need to look carefully here. The room’s been kept pretty clean, but like all unused places there’s a certain amount of dust. It’s not possible to be sure, but I think the carpet shows there have been people in here lately, more than one set of footmarks, I’d say. It seems to me it’s just on the cards Mr. Ewing kept some of his more important papers up here. I’ve seen no signs of a safe downstairs, nor any deed-boxes or anything of that sort. Old people generally have receptacles where they store away family papers and so on. It’s possible too that, like many people who live alone, he used this empty room to keep valuable things in. Old people won’t keep things at their banks, and they often think that using a box-room will baffle the petty sneak-thief. This Mr. Ewing too was a cripple. He couldn’t get to his bank himself. He’d a wonderful collection here, you know. I suspect he did use this room, for there’s no sign of a safe downstairs. This murderer may have known or guessed there was something in here. Anyway, we’ve got to find out why he came upstairs into this particular room and struck a light.”
As he spoke he was examining, without touching, the shabby, faded candles which stood on the mantelpiece.
“Yes, you see, these have both of them been lit recently. The freshly melted wax at the top is a different colour. Burnt for five or six minutes, I’d say. Well, now, let’s have a look inside the wardrobe before we do anything else.”
Again he was interrupted, this time by the photographer, who came to report they had finished their task below.
“Extraordinary how little disturbance there’s been,” the man remarked. “Nothing out of the ordinary at all about the room, no upset of any kind.”
“No,” replied Woods; “the murderer was interrupted right at the outset, before he’d had time.”
“Pity it wasn’t a bit sooner,” murmured the photographer, conscious of the shots he had taken of the body. “Well, we’ve done, sir; a fresh man is coming on to do anything you want up here. We’ll be off. Good night, and good luck.”