“ I came,” replied the Chief Inspector with dignity, “to ask you about your sending it out, sir, not tell you about my getting hold of it.”
“Then you can go to the devil,” replied Mr. Mason with decision. “And take Scotland Yard with you,” he added, by way of a comprehensive afterthought.
“I must warn you, sir,” said the Chief Inspector, somewhat taken aback but concealing the fact beneath his weightiest manner, “I must warn you that it may be a serious matter for you to refuse to answer my questions.”
Mr. Mason, it appeared, was exasperated rather than intimidated by this covert threat. “Get out o' ma office,” he replied in his native tongue. “Are ye druffen, man? Or do ye just think you're funny? Ye know as well as I do that that letter was never sent out from 'ere.”
It was then that the Chief Inspector became surprised. “Not - not sent out by your firm at all?” he hammered. It was a possibility that had not occurred to him. “It's - forged, then?”
“Isn't that what I'm telling ye?” growled the old man, regarding him fiercely from under bushy brows. But the Chief Inspector's evident astonishment had mollified him somewhat.
“Sir,” said that official, “I must ask you to be good enough to answer my questions as fully as possible. It's a case of murder I'm investigating, and” - he paused and thought cunningly - “and the murderer seems to have been making free use of your business to cloak his operations.”
The cunning of the Chief Inspector prevailed. “The devil 'e 'as!” roared the old man. “Damn the blackguard. Ask any question thou wants, lad; I'll answer right enough.”
Communication thus being established, the Chief Inspector proceeded to get to grips.
During the next five minutes his heart sank lower and lower. In place of the simple case he had anticipated it became rapidly plain to him that the affair was going to be very difficult indeed. Hitherto he had thought (and his superiors had agreed with him) that the case was going to prove one of sudden temptation. Somebody in the Mason firm had a grudge against Sir Eustace. Into his (or more probably, as the Chief Inspector had considered, her) hands had fallen the box and letter addressed to him. The opportunity had been obvious, the means, in the shape of nitrobenzene in use in the factory, ready to hand; the result had followed. Such a culprit would be easy enough to trace.
But now, it seemed, this pleasant theory must be abandoned, for in the first place no such letter as this had ever been sent out at all; the firm had produced no new brand of chocolates, if they had done so it was not their custom to dispense sample boxes among private individuals, the letter was a forgery. But the notepaper on the other hand (and this was the only remnant left to support the theory) was perfectly genuine, so far as the old man could tell. He could not say for certain, but was almost sure that this was a piece of old stock which had been finished up about six months ago. The heading might be forged, but he did not think so.
“Six months ago?” queried the Inspector unhappily.
“About that,” said the other, and plucked a piece of paper out of a stand in front of him. “This is what we use now.” The Inspector examined it. There was no doubt of the difference. The new paper was thinner and more glossy. But the heading looked exactly the same. The Inspector took a note of the firm who had printed both.
Unfortunately no sample of the old paper was available. Mr. Mason had a search made on the spot, but not a sheet was left.
“As a matter of fact,” Moresby now said, “it had been noticed that the piece of paper on which the letter was written was an old one. It is distinctly yellow round the edges. I'll pass it round and you can see for yourselves. Please be careful of it.” The bit of paper, once handled by a murderer, passed slowly from each would - be detective to his neighbour.
“Well, to cut a long story shorter,” Moresby went on, “we had it examined by the firm of printers, Webster's, in Frith Street, and they're prepared to swear that it's their work. That means the paper was genuine, worse luck.”
“You mean, of course,” put in Sir Charles Wildman impressively, “that had the heading been a copy, the task of discovering the printers who executed it should have been comparatively simple?”
“That's correct, Sir Charles. Except if it had been done by somebody who owned a small press of their own; but that would have been traceable too. All we've actually got is that the murderer is someone who had access to Mason's notepaper up to six months ago; and that's pretty wide.”
“Do you think it was stolen with the actual intention of putting it to the purpose for which it was used? ” asked Alicia Dammers.
“It seems like it, madam. And something kept holding the murderer up.”
As regards the wrapper, Mr. Mason had been unable to help at all. This consisted simply of a piece of ordinary, thin brown paper, such as could be bought anywhere, with Sir Eustace's name and address hand - printed on it in neat capitals. Apparently there was nothing to be learnt from it at all. The postmark showed that it had been despatched by the nine - thirty p.m. post from the post office in Southampton Street, Strand.
“There is a collection at 8.30 and another at 9.30,” Moresby explained, “so it must have been posted between those two times. The packet was quite small enough to go into the opening for letters. The stamps make up the right value. The post office was shut by then, so it could not have been handed in over the counter. Perhaps you'd care to see it.” The piece of brown paper was handed gravely round.
“Have you brought the box too, and the other chocolates?” asked Mrs. Fielder - Flemming.
“No, madam. It was one of Mason's ordinary boxes, and the chocolates have all been used for analysis.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Fielder - Flemming was plainly disappointed. “I thought there might be finger - prints on it,” she explained.
“We have already looked for those,” replied Moresby without a flicker.
There was a pause while the wrapper passed from hand to hand.
“Naturally, we've made inquiries as to any one seen posting a packet in Southampton Street between half - past eight and half - past nine,” Moresby continued, “but without result. We've also carefully interrogated Sir Eustace Pennefather to discover whether he could throw any light on the question why any one should wish to take his life, or who. Sir Eustace can't give us the faintest idea. Of course we followed up the usual line of inquiry as to who would benefit by his death, but without any helpful results. Most of his possessions go to his wife, who has a divorce suit pending against him; and she's out of the country. We've checked her movements and she's out of the question. Besides,” added Moresby unprofessionally, "she's a very nice lady.
“And as to fact, all we know is that the murderer probably had some connection with Mason and Sons up to six months ago, and was almost certainly in Southampton Street at some time between eight - thirty and nine - thirty on that particular evening. I'm very much afraid we're up against a brick wall.” Moresby did not add that so were the amateur criminologists in front of him too, but he very distinctly implied it.
There was a silence.
“Is that all? ” asked Roger.
“'That's all, Mr. Sheringham,” Moresby agreed.
There was another silence.
“Surely the police have a theory?” Mr. Morton Harrogate Bradley threw out in a detached manner.
Moresby hesitated perceptibly.
“Come along, Moresby,” Roger encouraged him. “It's quite a simple theory. I know it.”
“Well,” said Moresby, thus stimulated, “we're inclined to believe that the crime was the work of a lunatic, or semi - lunatic, possibly quite unknown personally to Sir Eustace. You see ...” Moresby looked a trifle embarrassed. “You see,” he went on bravely, "Sir Eustace's life was a bit, well, we might say hectic, if you'll excuse the word. We think at the Yard that some religious or social maniac took it on himself to rid the world of him, so to speak. Some of his escapades had caused a bit of talk, as you may know.
"Or it might just be a plain homicidal lunatic, who likes killing people at a distance.
"There's the Horwood case, you see. Some lunatic sent poisoned chocolates to the Commissioner of Police himself. That caused a lot of attention. We think this case may be an echo of it. A case that creates a good deal of notice is quite often followed by another on exactly the same lines, as I needn't remind you.
“Well, that's our theory. And if it's the right one, we've got about as much chance of laying our hands on the murderer as - as - - ” Chief Inspector Moresby cast about for something really scathing.
“As we have,” suggested Roger.
THE Circle sat on for some time after Moresby had gone. There was a lot to discuss, and everybody had views to put forward, suggestions to make, and theories to advance.
One thing emerged with singular unanimity: the police had been working on the wrong lines. Their theory must be mistaken. This was not a casual murder by a chance lunatic. Somebody very definite had gone methodically about the business of helping Sir Eustace out of the world, and that somebody had behind him an equally definite motive. Like almost all murders, in fact, it was a matter of cherchez le motif.
On the exposition and discussion of theories Roger kept a firmly quelling hand. The whole object of the experiment, as he pointed out more than once, was that everybody should work independently, without bias from any other brain, form his or her own theory, and set about proving it in his or her own way.
“But oughtn't we to pool our facts, Sheringham?” boomed Sir Charles. “I should suggest that though we pursue our investigations independently, any new facts we discover should be placed at once at the disposal of all. The exercise should be a mental one, not a competition in routine detection.”
“There's a lot to be said for that view, Sir Charles,” Roger agreed. “In fact, I've thought it over very carefully. But on the whole I think it will be better if we keep any new facts to ourselves after this evening. You see, we're already in possession of all the facts that the police have discovered, and anything else we may come across isn't likely to be so much a definite pointer to the murderer as some little thing, quite insignificant in itself, to support a particular theory.”
Sir Charles grunted, obviously unconvinced.
“I'm quite willing to have it put to the vote,” Roger said handsomely.
A vote was taken. Sir Charles and Mrs. Fielder - Flemming voted for all facts being disclosed: Mr. Bradley, Alicia Dammers, Mr. Chitterwick (the last after considerable hesitation) and Roger voted against.
“We retain our own facts,” Roger said, and made a mental note of who had voted for each. He was inclined to guess that the voting indicated pretty correctly who was going to be content with general theorising, and who was ready to enter so far into the spirit of the game as to go out and work for it. Or it might simply show who already had a theory and who had not.
Sir Charles accepted the result with resignation. “We start equal as from now, then,” he announced.
“As from the moment we leave this room,” amended Morton Harrogate Bradley, rearranging the set of his tie. “But I agree so far with Sir Charles's proposition as to think that any one who can at this moment add anything to the Chief Inspector's statement should do so.”
“But can any one?” asked Mrs. Fielder - Flemming.
“ Sir Charles knows Mr. and Mrs. Bendix,” Alicia Dammers pointed out impartially. “And Sir Eustace. And I know Sir Eustace too, of course.”
Roger smiled. This statement was a characteristic meiosis on the part of Miss Dammers. Everybody knew that Miss Dammers had been the only woman (so far as rumour recorded) who had ever turned the tables on Sir Eustace Pennefather. Sir Eustace had taken it into his head to add the scalp of an intellectual woman to those other rather unintellectual ones which already dangled at his belt. Alicia Dammers, with her good looks, her tall, slim figure, and her irreproachable sartorial taste, had satisfied his very fastidious requirements so far as feminine appearance was concerned. He had laid himself out to fascinate.
The results had been watched by the large circle of Miss Dammers's friends with considerable joy. Miss Dammers had apparently been only too ready to be fascinated. It seemed that she was living entirely on the point of succumbing to Sir Eustace's blandishments. They had dined, visited, lunched, and made excursions together without respite. Sir Eustace, stimulated by the daily prospect of surrender on the following one, had exercised his ardour with every art he knew.
Miss Dammers had then retired serenely, and the next autumn published a book in which Sir Eustace Pennefather, dissected to the last ligament, was given to the world in all the naked unpleasingness of his psychological anatomy.
Miss Dammers never talked about her “art,” because she was a really brilliant writer and not just pretending to be one, but she certainly held that everything had to be sacrificed (including the feelings of the Sir Eustace Pennefathers of this world) to whatever god she worshipped privately in place of it.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bendix are quite incidental to the crime, of course, from the murderer's point of view,” Mr. Bradley now pointed out to her, in the gentle tones of one instructing a child that the letter A is followed in the alphabet by the letter B. “So far as we know, their only connection with Sir Eustace is that he and Bendix both belonged to the Rainbow.”
“I needn't give you my opinion of Sir Eustace,” remarked Miss Dammers. “Those of you who have read Flesh and the Devil know how I saw him, and I have no reason to suppose that he has changed since I was studying him. But I claim no infallibility. It would be interesting to hear whether Sir Charles's opinion coincides with mine or not.”
Sir Charles who had not read Flesh and the Devil, looked a little embarrassed. “Well, I don't see that I can add much to the impression the Chief Inspector gave of him. I don't know the man well, and certainly have no wish to do so.”
Everybody looked extremely innocent. It was common gossip that there had been the possibility of an engagement between Sir Eustace and Sir Charles's only daughter, and that Sir Charles had not viewed the prospect with any perceptible joy. It was further known that the engagement had even been prematurely announced, and promptly denied the next day.