 Chapter 7 of the Hampstead Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Lars Rolander The Hampstead Mystery by John Watson and Arthur Reese Chapter 7 Drew made a careful inspection of the house and the grounds. He took measurements of the impressions left on the sill of the window, which had been forced and also the footprints immediately beneath the window. He had a long conversation with Hill and questioned him regarding his movements on the night of the murder. He also asked about the other servants who were at Delmere and probed for information about Sir Horace's domestic life and his friends. As he was talking to Hill, police constable Flack came up to them with a card in his hand. Hill looked at the card and exclaimed, Mr. Hollymead, what does he want? He asked if Miss Fewbanks was at home. Hill took the card in to Miss Fewbanks and, on coming out, went to the front door and escorted Mr. Hollymead to his young mistress. Crew, as was his habit, looked closely at Hollymead. The eminent KC was a tall man, nearly six feet in height, with a large, resolute, strongly marked face, which, when framed in a wig, was suggestive of the dignity and severity of the law. In years he was about fifty and, in his figure, there was a suggestion of that rotundity which overtakes the man who has given up physical exercise. He was correctly, if sombrely, dressed in dark clothes and he wore a black tie, probably as a symbol of mourning for his friend. His gloves were a delicate grey. Crew sought out Hill again and questioned him closely about the relations which had existed between Sir Horace Fewbanks and Mr. Hollymead, whose enormous practice brought him in an income three times as large as the dead judges and kept him constantly before the public. Hill was able to supply the detective with some interesting information regarding the visitor and in contrast to his manner when previously questioned at random by Crew concerning his young mistress' habits seemed willing, if not actually anxious to talk. He had heard from Sir Horace's housekeeper that his late master and Mr. Hollymead had been law students together and after they were called to the bar they used to spend their holidays together as long as they were single. When they were married, their wives became friends. Mrs. Hollymead had died 14 years ago but Mrs. Fewbanks, Sir Horace had not been a baronet while his wife also alive, had lived some years longer. Mr. Hollymead had married again. His second wife was a very beautiful young lady if he might make so bold as to say so, who had come from America. The butler added, deprecatingly, that he had been told that both Sir Horace and Mr. Hollymead had paid her some attention and that she could have had either of them. She was different to English ladies, he added. She had more to say for herself and laughed and talked with the gentlemen just as if she was one of themselves. Hill mentioned that she had been out to see Mrs. Fewbanks the previous day but that Mrs. Fewbanks had not come up from Delmedin so she had seen Inspector Chippenfield instead. While crew and the butler were talking, a boy of about 14 with the shrewd face of a London Arab approached them with an air of mystery. He came down the hall with long, cautious strides and halted at each step as if he were stalking a band of Indians in a forest. Well, Joe, what is it? asked crew as he came to halt in front of them. If you don't want me for half an hour, sir, I'd like to take a run up the street. There is a real good picture house just been opened. The boy spoke eagerly with his bright eyes fixed on crew. I may want you any minute, Joe, replied crew, don't go away. The boy nodded his head and turned away. As he went down the hall again to the front door he gave an imitation of a man walking with extended arms across a planks banning a chasp. Picture, mad, commented crew as he watched him. I didn't quite understand you, sir, replied the butler. Spends all his spare time in cinemas, said crew, and when he is not there he is acting picture dramas. His ambition in life is to become a cinema actor. Crew engaged police constable Flack in conversation while waiting for Mr. Hollermied to take his departure. Flack had so little professional pride that he was pleased at meeting a gentleman who asserted the functions of a detective without having had any police training and who could beat the best of the Scotland Yardmen like shelling peas as he confided to his wife that night. He was especially flattered at the interest crew seemed to display in his long connection with the police force and also in his private affairs. The constable was explaining with parental vanity the precocious cleverness of his youngest child, a girl of two when Hollermied made his appearance and he became aware that Mr. Crew's interest in children was at an end. Look at that man, said crew in a sharp imperative tone to the police constable as the KC was walking down the path of the Italian garden to the plantation. You saw him come in? Yes, sir. Do you see any difference? No, sir, he's the same man, said Flack with stolid certainty. Anything about him that is different? continued Crew. Police constable Flack looked at Crew in some bewilderment. He was not a deductive expert and as he told his wife afterwards he did not know what the detective was driving at. He took another long look at Hollermied who was then within a few yards of the plantation on his way to the gates and remarked in a hesitating tone as though to justify his failure. Well, you see, sir, when he was coming in it was the front view I saw. Now I can only see his back. But before he had finished speaking Crew had left him and was following the KC. Hollermied has gone into the house without a walking stick and had reappeared carrying one on his arm. Crew admired the cool audacity which had prompted Hollermied to go into a house where a murderer had been committed to recover his stick under the very eyes of the police. And he immediately formed the conclusion that the KC had come to the house to recover the stick for some urgent reason, possibly not unconnected with the crime. And it was apparent that Hollermied was a shrewd judge of human nature. Crew reflected for he calculated that the rareness of the quality of observation even in those who, like Flack, were supposed to keep their eyes open would permit him to do so unnoticed. As Crew went down the path he beckoned to the boy Joe who at the moment was acting the part of a comic dentist binding a recalcitrant patient to a chair using an immense old-fashioned straight-back chair which stood in the hall for his stage setting. Joe overtook his master as he entered the ornamental plantation in front of the house and Crew quickly whispered his instructions as the retreating figure of the KC threaded the wood towards the gates. When I catch up level with him, Joe, you are to run into him accidentally from behind and knock his stick off his arm so that it falls near me. I will pick it up and return it to him. I must handle the stick. You understand? Do not wait to see how he takes it when you bump into him. Get off round the corner at once and wait for me. Crew quickened his pace to overtake the man in front of him. He gave no glance backward at the boy for he knew his instructions would be carried out faithfully and intelligently. He allowed Hollamead to reach the big open gates and turn from the graveled carriage-drive into the private street. Then he hurried after him and drew level with Hollamead. As he did so, there was a sound of running footsteps from behind and then a shout. Joe had cleverly tripped and fallen heavily between the two men bringing down Hollamead in his fall. The KC stick flew off his arm and bounded half a dozen yards away. Crew stepped forward quickly, secured the stick, glanced quickly at the monogram engraved on it and held it out to Hollamead, who was brushing the dust of his clothes with vexatious remarks about the clumsiness and impudence of street boys. For a moment he seemed to hesitate about taking the stick. I believe this is yours, said crew politely. Ah, yes, thank you, said the KC, giving him a keen suspicious glance. End of Chapter 7 of The Hampstead Mystery by John Watson and Arthur Rees. Read by Loche Rulander. CHAPTER VIII Crew had well furnished offices in Hallborn, but lived in a luxurious flat in German Street. Although he went to and fro between them daily, his personality was almost a dual one, though not consciously so. His passion for crime investigation was distinct and outward-seeming at all events, from his polished West End life of wealthy ease. Grave, self-contained, and inscrutable, he slipped from one to the other with an effortless regularity, and the fashionable folk with whom he mixed in his leisured bachelor existence in the West End, apart from knowing him as the famous crew, had even less knowledge of the real man behind his suave exterior than the clients who visited his inquiry-rooms in Hallborn to confide in him their stories of suffering, shame, or crimes committed against them. His commissioner and body-servant, Stork, had once in a rare, almost unique, convivial moment declared to the caretaker of the building that he knew no more about his master after ten years than he did the first day he entered his service. He was deep beyond all belief with Stork's opinion, delivered with reluctant admiration. Although crew did not allow the externals of his two existences to become involved, his chief interest in life was in his work. He had originally taken up detective work more as a relief from the boredom of his lot as a wealthy young man leading an aimless, useless life with others of his class than by deliberate choice of his vocation. His initial successes surprised him, then the work absorbed him and became his life's career. He had achieved some memorable successes, and he had made a few failures. But the failures belonged to the earlier portion of his career before he had learnt to trust thoroughly in his own great gifts of intuition and insight and that uncanny imagination, which sometimes carried him successfully through when all else failed. Serious devotees of chess knew the name of crew in another capacity, as the name of a man who might have aspired to great deeds if he had but taken the game as his life's career. He had flashed across the chess horizon some years previously as a player of surpassing brilliance by defeating Turgiev when the great Russian master had visited London and had played twelve simultaneous boards at the London Chess Club. Crew was the only player of the twelve to win his game, and he did so by a masterly concealed ending in which he handled his pawns with consummate skill, proffering the sacrifice of a bishop with such art that Turgiev fell into the trap and was mated in five subsequent moves. Crew proved this was not merely a lucky win by defeating the young South American champion Karanda shortly afterwards when the latter visited England and played a series of exhibition games in London on his way to Moscow where he was engaged in the championship tourney. Once again it was masterly pawn play which brought Crew a fine victory and aged chess enthusiasts who followed every move of the game with trembling excitement declared afterwards that Crew's conception of this particular game had not been equal since Morphy died. They predicted a dazzling chess career for Crew, but he disappointed their aged hearts by retiring suddenly from match chess, and they mourned him as one unworthy of his great chess gifts and the high hopes they had placed in him. But as a matter of fact, Crew's intellect was too vigorous and active to be satisfied with the triumphs of chess, and his disappearance from the chess world was contemporary with his entrance into detective work which appealed to his imagination and found scope for his restless mental activity. But if detective work so absorbed him that he gave up match chess entirely he still retained an interest in the science of chess reserving problem play for his spare moments and when not immersed in the solution of a problem of human mystery he would turn to the chess board and seek solace and relaxation in the mysteries of an intricate foremover. He had once said that there was a certain affinity between solving chess problems and the detection of crime mystery. Once the key move was found the rest was comparatively easy but he added with a sigh that a really perfect crime mystery was as rare as a perfect chess problem. Human ingenuity was not sufficiently skillful as a rule to commit a crime or construct a chess problem with completely artistic concealment of the key move. And for that reason most problems and crimes were far too easy of detection to absorb one's intellectual interests and detention. It was the morning after crew's visit to Riversbrook and the detective sat in his private office glancing through a notebook which contained a summary of the Hampstead mystery. Crew was a painstaking detective as well as a brilliant one and it was his custom to prepare several critical summaries of any important case on which he was engaged writing and rewriting the facts and his comments until he was satisfied that he had a perfect outline to work upon with the details and clues of the crime in consecutive order and relation to one another. Experience had taught him that the time and labor this task involved were well spent. If an unexpected development of the case altered the facts of the original summary crew prepared another one in the same painstaking way. The summaries, when done with, were methodically filed and indexed and stored in a strong room at the office for future reference where he also kept full records of all the cases upon which he had been engaged. Together with the weapons and articles that had figured in them huge volumes of newspaper reports and clippings photographs of criminals with their careers appended and a host of other odds and ends of his detective investigations. The whole forming an interesting museum of crime and mystery which would have furnished a store of rich material for a fresh Newgate calendar. It was an axiom of crews that a detective never knew when some old scrap of information or some trifling article of some dead and forgotten crime might not afford a valuable clue. Expert criminals frequently repeated themselves like people in lesser walks of life and crews library and museum, as he called it, sometimes furnished him with a simple hint for the solution of a mystery which had defied more subtle methods of analysis. Crew, after carefully reading his summary of the murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks and making a few alterations in the text, drew from his pocket the glove which Inspector Chippenfield had handed him as a clue, took it to the window and carefully examined it through a large magnifying glass. He was thus engrossed when the door was noiselessly opened and Stork, the bodyguard, entered. Stork belied his name. He was short and fat with a red-modeled face, a model of discretion and imperturbability who had served crew for ten years and bade fair to serve him another ten if he lived that long. In his heart of hearts he often wondered why a gentleman like crew should so far forget what was due to his birth and position as to have offices in Hallborn, Hallborn of all parts of London. But the awe he felt for crew prevented his seeking information on the point from the only person who could give it to him. So he served him and puzzled over him in silence, his inward perturbation of spirits being made manifest occasionally by a puzzled glance at his master when the latter was not looking. It was nothing to stork that his master was a famous detective. The problem to him was why he was a detective when he had no call to be one, having more money than any man, let alone a single man, could spend in a lifetime. Stork coughed slightly to attract crew's attention. If you please, sir, he said, the boy has come. While crew was busy with his magnifying glass, Stork returned with the boy who had accompanied crew on his visit to Riversbrook on the previous day. The boy, a thin, white-faced, sharp-eyed London street urchin, seemed curiously out of place in the handsomely furnished office with his legs tucked up under the carved rail of a fine old oak chair and his big, dark eyes fixed intently on crew's face. The tie between him and the detective was an unusual one. It dated back some twelve months when crew, in the investigation of a peculiarly baffling crime, found it advisable to disguise himself and lived temporarily in a crowded criminal quarter of Islington. The rooms he took were above a second-hand clothing shop kept by a drunken female named Lever, a supposed widow who lived at the back of the shop with her two children, Lizzie, a bold-eyed girl of seventeen, who worked at a clerkenwell clothing factory, and Joe, a typical cockney boy of fourteen, who sold papers in the streets during the day and was fast qualifying for a thief at night when crew went to the place to live. Crew soon discovered, through overhearing a loud quarrel between his landlady and her daughter, that Mrs. Lever's husband was alive, though dead to his wife for all practical purposes, in as much as he was serving a life's imprisonment for manslaughter. A fortnight after he had taken up his temporary quarters above the shop, the woman was removed to the hospital, suffering from the effects of a hard drinking bout, and died there. The girl disappeared, and the boy would have been turned out on the streets but for crew who had taken a liking to him. Joe was self-reliant, alert, and precocious, like most London street boys, but in addition to these qualities, he had a vein of imagination unusual in a lad of his upbringing and environment. He devoured the exciting foyer-tan stories in the evening papers he vended, and spent his spare pennies at the cinema theaters in the vicinity of his poor home. His appreciation of the crude mysteries of the film detective drama amused the famous expert in the finer art of actual crime detection until he discovered that the boy possessed natural gifts of intuition and observation, combined with penetration. Crew grew interested in developing the boy's talent for detective work. When the lad's mother died, Crew decided to take him into his Holborn offices as messenger boy. Crew soon discovered that Joe had a useful gift for shadowing work, and his street training as a newspaper runner enabled him not only to follow a person through the thickest of London traffic, but to escape observation where a man might have been noticed and suspected. "'Well, Joe,' said Crew, as the boy entered on the heels of Stork, "'I have a job for you this morning. I want you to find the glove corresponding to this one.' Crew, having finished his examination of the glove, handed it to the boy, whose first act was to slip it on his left hand and move his fingers about to assure himself that they were in good working order in spite of being hidden. It was the first occasion on which Joe had worn a glove. It was found in the room in which Sir Horace Few Banks was murdered, continued Crew. The other one was not there. The question I want to solve is, did it belong to Sir Horace or to someone who visited him on the night he was murdered? The police think it belonged to Sir Horace because it is the same size as the gloves he wore and because Sir Horace's hosier stocks the same kind, as does nearly every fashionable hosier in London. They think he lost the right hand glove on his way up from Scotland. It will occur to you, Joe, though you don't wear gloves, that it is more common for men to lose the right hand glove than the left hand because the right hand is used a great deal more than the left and even men who would not be seen in the street without gloves find there are many things they cannot do with the gloved hand. For instance, to dive one's hand into one's larger pocket, where most men keep their loose change, the glove has to be removed. Then the gentleman would take off his right glove when he paid for his taxicab from St. Pancras, said Joe, who was familiar through the accounts in the newspapers with the main details of the Fubanks mystery. Right, Joe, said his master approvingly, and in that case he dropped the glove between the taxicab outside his front gates and his room, and it would have been found. I have made inquiries, and I am satisfied it was not found. He might have lost it when he was getting into the train at Scotland, suggested the lad. He had to change trains at Glasgow, and he might have lost it there. That is a rule of thumb deduction, said crew, with a kindly smile. It is good enough for the police, for they have apparently adopted it. But it is not good enough for me. What you don't understand, Joe, is that an odd glove is of no value in the eyes of a man who wears gloves. He doesn't take it home as a memento of his carelessness in losing the other. He throws it away. Therefore, if this is Sir Horace's glove, he took it home because he was unaware that he had lost the other. He would put on his gloves before leaving the train at St. Pancras, and he would pull off the right-hand one. He was not left-handed, when the taxicab was nearing his home, so as to be able to pay the fare. Therefore, if it is Sir Horace's glove, the fellow to it was dropped in the taxicab or dropped between the taxicab and the house. If the glove had been lost at the other end of the journey in Scotland, Sir Horace would have flung this one out of the carriage window when he became aware of the loss. As I have told you, no glove was found between the gate at Riversbrook and the room in which Sir Horace was murdered. I got from the police the number of the taxicab in which Sir Horace was driven from St. Pancras, and the driver tells me that no glove was left in his cab. So what have we to do next, Joe? To find the missing glove? It's a tough job, ain't it, Sir? Yes and no, replied crew. It is possible to make some reasonable safe deductions in regard to it. These would indicate what had happened to it, and, knowing where to look, or rather, in what circumstances we might expect to find it, we might throw a little light on it. In the first place, it might be assumed that if the glove did not belong to Sir Horace, it belonged to someone who visited him on the night he returned unexpectedly from Scotland. That indicates that his visitor knew Sir Horace was returning, a most important point, for if he knew Sir Horace was returning, he knew why he was returning, which no one else knows up to the present as far as I have been able to gather. And in all probability was responsible for his return, say, sent him a letter or a telegram which brought him to London. So we come to the possibility of an angry scene in the room in which Sir Horace's dead body was subsequently found. We have the possibility of the visitor leaving the house in a high state of excitement, hastily snatching up the hat and gloves he had taken off when he arrived, and in his excitement dropping unnoticed, the right-hand glove on the floor. And leaving his gold-mounted stick behind him, said Joe, who was following his master's line of reasoning with keen interest. Right, Joe, said crew, that was placed in the stand in the hall, and when the visitor left hurriedly was entirely forgotten. But at what stage did the visitor become conscious of the loss of his glove? Not until his excitement cooled down a little. How long he took to cool down depends upon the cause of his excitement and his temperament, things which, at present, we can only guess at. He would probably walk a long distance before he cooled down. Then he would resume his normal habits, and, among other things, would put on his gloves if he had them. He would find that he had lost one and that he had left his stick behind. He would know that the stick had been left behind in the hall, but he would not know the glove had been dropped in the house. The probabilities are that he would think he had dropped it while walking, but if he felt that he had dropped it in the house and he had the best of all reasons for not wishing anyone to know that he had visited Sir Horace that night, he would destroy the remaining glove and our chance of tracing it would be gone. The fact that he had left his stick behind was a minor matter that he could easily account for if he had been a friend of Sir Horace who had been in the habit of visiting Riversbrook. If anything cropped up subsequently about the stick, he could say that he had left it there before Sir Horace closed up his house and went to Scotland. But the problem of the glove was a different matter, Joe. There are three phases to it. First, if the visitor thought he had dropped it in the house and wanted to keep his visit there a profound secret from subsequent inquiry, he would take home the remaining glove and destroy it, probably by burning it. Secondly, if he thought he had dropped it after leaving the house, he would not feel that safety necessitated the destruction of the remaining one, but he would probably throw it away where it would not be likely to be found. In the third place, if he had no particular reason for wishing to hide the fact that he had visited Riversbrook, he would throw it away anywhere when he became conscious that he had lost the other. He would throw it away merely because an odd glove is of no use to a man who wears gloves. The man who doesn't wear gloves would pick up an odd glove from the ground and think he had made a find. He would take it home to his wife and she would probably keep it for finger stalls for the children. Krew put down his notes and got up from his chair. Your job is this, Joe. Go to Riversbrook and make a careful search on both sides of the road for the missing glove. I do not think he threw it away until he had walked some distance, but you mustn't act on that assumption. Look over the fences of the houses and into the hedges. Walk along in the direction of Hamstead Underground. Search the gutters and all the trees and hedges along the road. Take one side of the street to the underground station and if you do not find the glove go back to Riverside make a thorough job of it as it is most important that the glove should be found if it is to be found. After Joe had departed Krew put on his hat and left his office for the strand. His first call was at the shop of Bruden and Marshall Hoesers in order to find out if any information was to be obtained there about the ownership of the glove. He was aware that the police had been there on the same mission, but his experience had often shown that valuable information was to be gathered after the police had been over the ground. On introducing himself to the manager of the shop that gentleman displayed as much humble civility as he would have done towards a valued customer. He could not say anything about the ownership of the glove which Krew had brought and did not even say if it had come from their shop. It was an excellent glove the line being known in the trade as First Choice Reindeer. They stocked that particular kind of article at ten and six the pair. They had the pleasure of having had the late Sir Horace few banks on their books. He was quite an old account if he might use the expression. He was one of their best customers being a gentleman who was particular about his appearance and who would have nothing but the best in any line that he fancied. On the subject of Sir Horace's taste in hoes the manager had much to say and in spite of Krew's efforts to confine the conversation to gloves the manager repeatedly dragged in socks. He did it so frequently that he became conscious his visitor was showing signs of annoyance so he apologized adding with an inspiration after all hoes is really gloves for the feet. Krew ascertained that a large number of legal gentlemen were customers of Bruden and Marshall. He innocently suggested that the reason was because the shop was the nearest one of its kind to the law courts but this explanation offended the shopman's pride. It was because they stocked high class goods and gave good value in every way combined with attention and civility and a desire to please that they did such an excellent business with legal gentlemen. In refutation of the idea that proximity to the courts was the direct reason of their having so many legal gentlemen among their customers the manager declared that they received orders from all parts of the world India, Canada Australia and South Africa to say nothing of American gentlemen who liked their hosiery to have the London Hallmark. Their orders from the colonies came from gentlemen who found that these things in the colonies were not what they had been used to and so they sent their orders to Bruden and Marshall. Krew's interest was in the legal customers and he asked the names of some. The manager ran through a list of names of judges, barristers and solicitors but the name Krew wanted to hear was not among them. He was compelled to include the name among half a dozen others he mentioned to the manager. He ascertained that Mr. Charles Holamead was a customer of the firm but it was apparent from the manager's spiritless attitude towards Mr. Holamead that the famous KC was not a man who ran up a big bill with his hosier or was very particular about what he wore. The world regarded some of the men of this type famous or distinguished but in the hosier's mind they were all classed as commonplace but the manager would not go so far as to say Mr. Holamead would not buy such a glove as that which Krew had brought in. He might and he might not but as a general rule he did not pay more than eight and six for his gloves. Krew took a taxi to Princess Gate in order to have a look at the house in which Holamead lived. It occurred to him that if Holamead was not particular about what he spent on his clothes he was extravagant about the amount he spent in house rent. Of course a leading barrister earning a huge income could afford to live in a palatial residence in Princess Gate but it was not the locality or residence that an economically minded man would have chosen for his home. But Krew had little doubt that the beautiful wife Holamead possessed was responsible for the choice of house and locality. After looking at the house Krew walked back to the cab stand at Hyde Park Corner. He had arrived at the conclusion that it was necessary to settle beyond doubt whether the Casey had visited Riversbrook the night Sir Horace had returned from Scotland. If the Casey had done so he was anxious to keep the visit secret for not only had he not informed the police of his visit but he had kept it from Miss Few Banks. Krew had ascertained from Miss Few Banks that Mr. Holamead who had been called at Riversbrook on a visit of Condolence had not mentioned to her anything about having left his stick in the hall stand on a previous visit. On leaving Miss Few Banks Mr. Holamead had gone up to the hall stand and taken both his hat and stick as if he had left them both there a few minutes before. Krew reasoned that if Holamead had gone out to see Sir Horace Few Banks at Riversbrook and had desired to keep his visit a secret he would not have taken a cab at Hyde Park Corner to Hampstead but would have traveled by Underground Railway or Omnibus. In all probability the tube had been used because of its speed being more in harmony with the feelings of a man impatient to get done with the subject so important that Sir Horace had been recalled from Scotland to deal with it. He would leave the tube at Hampstead and take a taxicab. He would not be likely to go straight to Riversbrook in the taxicab if he were anxious that his movements should not be traced subsequently. He would dismiss the taxicab at one of the hotels bordering on Hampstead Heath for they were the resort of hundreds of visitors on summer nights and his actions would thus easily escape notice. From the hotel he would walk across to Riversbrook but the return journey would be made in a somewhat different way if Holymead left Riversbrook in a state of excitement he would walk a long way without being conscious of the exertion. He would want to be alone with his own thoughts. Gradually he would cool down and becoming conscious of his surroundings would make his way home. Again he would use the tube for it would be more difficult for his movements to be traced if he mixed with the crowd of travelers than if he took a cab to his home. It was impossible to say what station he got in at for that would depend on how far he walked before he cooled down but he would be sure to get out at Hyde Park Corner because that was the station nearest to his house. Allowing for a temperamental reaction during a train journey of about twenty minutes he would feel depressed and weary and would probably take a taxi cab outside Hyde Park Station to his home. That was a thing he would often be in the habit of doing when returning late at night from the theater or elsewhere and therefore could be easily explained by him if the police happened to make inquiries to his movements. As Crue anticipated he had no difficulty in finding the driver of the taxi cab in which Holymead had driven home on the night of Wednesday last. The KC frequently used cabs and he was well known to all the drivers on the rank. Crue got into the cab he had used and ordered the man to drive him to his office upstairs. He adopted this course because he knew that the driver who gave his name as Taylor would be more likely to talk freely in an office where he could not be overheard than he would do on the cab rank with his fellow drivers crowding him or in a hotel parlor where other people were present. Tell me exactly what happened when you drove Mr. Holymead home on Wednesday night was anything strange about him or was his manner much the same as on other occasions that he used your cab? Well, I don't see whether I should tell you whether he was or whether he wasn't," replied the taxi cab driver who was as surly as most of his class. What is it to do with you anyway? He's a regular customer of mine on the rank and he's not one of your top any dipsters either. And if he got to know that I had been telling tales about him it would not do me any good. It would not," replied crew with cordial acquiescence. Therefore, Taylor, I give you my word of honour not to mention anything you tell me. Furthermore, I'll see that you don't lose by it now or at any other time. I cannot say more than that, but that's a great deal more than the police would say. Now, would you sooner tell me or tell the police? Here's a sovereign to start with and if you have an interesting story to tell, you'll have another one before you leave. The appeal of money and the conviction that the police would use less considerate methods if crew passed him over to them abolished Taylor's grouples about discussing a fair and it was in a much less surly tone that he responded. I didn't notice anything strange about him when he called me off the rank, but I did afterwards. First of all, I didn't drive him home. That is, I did drive him home, but he didn't go inside. When I drew up outside his house in Princess Gate I looked around expecting to see him get out. As he didn't move I got down and opened the door. Aren't you getting out here, sir? I said in a soft voice. No, he said. Drive on. This is your house, sir. I ventured to say. I'm not going in. He replied. Drive on. I was surprised. I thought he was the worst pedrank and I'd never seen him that way before. But some gentlemen are so obstinate and liquor that you can't get them to do anything except the opposite of what you asked them. I thought I'd try and coax him. Better go inside, sir. I said. You'll be better off in bed. Do you think I'm drunk? He said sharply. You could have knocked me down with a feather. He was as sober as a judge all in a moment. No, sir, I didn't, I said. I wouldn't take the liberty, I said. Then get back on your seat and drive me to the Hyde Park Hotel. No, I think I'll go to Verneys. But don't go there direct. Drive me round the park first. I feel I want a breath of cool air. Go on, said crew, in a tone which indicated approval of Taylor's method of telling his story. Well, I turned the cab round and drove through the park. But I was puzzled about him and looked back at him once or twice pretending that I was looking to see if a cab or car was coming up behind. And as we passed over the serpentine bridge I saw him throw something out of the window. A glove suggested crew quickly. The driver looked at him in profound admiration. Well, if you don't beat all the detectives I've ever heard of. He tried to throw it in the water, continued crew, as if explaining the matter to himself rather than to his visitor. Did you get it? Hold on a bit, said Taylor, who had his own ideas of how to give value for the extra sovereign he hoped to obtain. I couldn't see what it was he had thrown away, and, of course, I couldn't pull up to find out. I drove on, but I kept my eye on him though I had my back to him. As we were driving back along the broad walk, I had another look at him and bless me if he wasn't crying, crying like a child. He had his hands up to his face and his head was shaking as if he was sobbing. I said to myself, he's barmy, he's gone off his rocker. I thought to myself I ought to drive him to the police station. But I reckoned it was none of my business, after all, so I'll take him to Verney's and be done with it. So I drove to Verney's. He got out and paid me, but I couldn't see that he had been crying, and he looked much as usual so far as I could see. I thought to myself that perhaps after all he'd only had a queer turn. However, I said to myself I'd drive back to the bridge and see what he'd thrown out of the window. It was a glove, sure enough. It had fallen just below the railing. I looked about for the other one, but I couldn't find it, so I suppose it must have fallen into the water. No, it didn't, said crew. I have it here. He opened a drawer in his desk and produced the glove. It was a right-hand glove you found. Just look at this one and see if it corresponds to the one you picked up. Taylor looked at the glove. There is like us two peas, he said. What did you do with the one you found, inquired crew? I hope you didn't throw it away. I'm not a fool, retorted Taylor. I've had odd gloves left in my cab before. I kept this one thinking that sooner or later somebody might leave another like it, and might have a pair for nothing. Well, I'll buy it from you, said crew. Have you anything more to tell me? I went back to the rank and one of the chaps was curious that I'd been so long away for he knew that Mr. Holymead's place isn't more than ten minutes drive from the station. But he got nothing out of me. I know how to keep my mouth shut. You're the first man I've told what happened, and I hope you'll give me away. I've already promised you that, said crew, flipping another sovereign from his sovereign case and handing it to Taylor. And I'll give you five shillings for the glove." Taylor looked at him darkly. Five shillings isn't much for a glove like that, he said insolently. What about my loss of time going home for it? I suppose you'll pay the taxi fare back. No, I won't, said crew cheerfully. Then I don't see why I should bring it for a paltry five shillings, said Taylor. If you want the glove, you'll have to pay for it. But I don't want the glove, said crew, who disliked being made the victim of extortion. What made you think so? I'll sell you this one for five shillings. We may as well do a deal of this kind. It is no use each of us having one glove. What do you say, Taylor? Will you buy mine for five shillings or shall I buy yours?" Taylor smiled sourly. You're a deep one, he said. Here's the other glove. He dipped his hand into the deep pocket of his driving-coat and produced a glove. I suppose you knew I'd have it on me. Five shillings and it's yours. The pair are worth about five shillings to me, said crew, as he paid over the money. Do you remember what time it was when Mr. Holamead engaged you at Hyde Park? Eleven o'clock. You are quite sure as to the time. I heard one of the big clock striking as he was getting into my cab. Taylor took his departure and crew after wrapping up the left-hand glove which he had to return to inspect a chip-and-field, put the other one in his safe. We're getting on, he said in a pleased tone. This means a trip to Scotland, but I'll wait until the inquest is over. Hampstead Mystery by John R. Watson and Arthur J. Rees Chapter 9 At the inquest on the body of Sir Horace Fewbanks which was held at the Hampstead Police Court, there was an odd mixture of classes in the crowd that thronged that portion of the court in which the public were allowed to congregate. The accounts of the crime which had been published in the press and the atmosphere of mystery included the violent death of one of the most prominent of His Majesty's judges had stirred the public curiosity and therefore, in spite of the fact that everyone was supposed to be out of town in August, the attendants at the court including a sprinkling of ladies of the fashionable world and their escorts. Both branches of the legal profession were numerously represented. All of the victims' judicial colleagues though some of them intended as a mark of respect for the dead man to come up for the funeral which was to take place two days later they were too familiar with legal procedure to feel curiosity as to the working of the machinery at a preliminary inquiry into the crime. They were emphatic among their friends on the degeneracy of these days which rendered possible such an outrageous crime as the murder of a high court judge. The fact that it was without precedent in the history of British law added to its enormity in the eyes of gentlemen who had been trained to worship precedent as the only safe guide through the shifting quicksands of life. They were insistent on the urgency of the murderer being arrested and handed over to justice in the person of the hangman for, as he asked himself where was this sort of crime to end? In spite of the degeneracy of the times, they were reluctant to believe in such a far-fetched supposition as the existence of a band of criminals who, in revenge for the judicial sentences imposed on their members of their class had sworn to exterminate the whole of his majesty's judges. But until the murderer was apprehended and the reason for the crime was discovered it was impossible to say that the English judicature would not soon be called upon to supply other victims to criminal violence. The murder of a judge seemed to them a particularly atrocious crime in the punishment of which the law might honorably sacrifice temporarily its well-earned reputation for a delay. The bar was represented chiefly by junior members. The senior members were able to make full use of the long vacation spending it at health resorts or in the country. But the incomes of the young shoots of the great parasitical profession did not permit them to enjoy more than a brief holiday out of town. Of course it would never have done for them to admit even to each other that they could not afford to go away for an extended holiday and therefore they told one another in board tones that they had not been able to make up their minds where to go. The junior bar included old men who through lack of influence want of energy want of advertisement want of ability or some other deficiency had never earned more than a few guineas at their profession though they had spent year after year in chambers. They lived on scanty private means broken in spirit they had even ceased to attend the courts in order to study the methods and learn the tricks of successful counsel. But the murder of a high court judge was a thing which stirred even their sluggish blood and in the hope of sensational development they had put on faded so-cats and shabby black suits and gone out to Hampstead to attend the inquest. The interest of the junior bar in the crime was as personal as that of the members of the judicial bench though it manifested itself in an entirely different direction. They speculated among themselves as to who would be appointed to the vacancy on the high court bench. A leading KC with a political pull would of course be selected by the attorney general but there were several KCs who possessed these qualifications and therefore there was room for difference of opinion among the junior bar as to who would get the offer. The point on which they were all united was that vacancies on the high court bench were a good thing for the bar as a whole for they removed leading KCs and the dispersion of their practice was like rain on parched ground. Metaphorically speaking everyone including even the junior bar had the chance of getting a shove up when a leading KC accepted a judicial appointment. Some of the more irreverent spirits among the junior bar in drawing attention to the fact that the former Horace Feubanks had been one of the youngest members of the high court bench expressed the hope that the shock of his death would be felt by some of the extremely aged members of the bench who were too infirm in health to be able to stand many shocks. The members of the junior bar chatted with the representatives of the lower branch of the profession who ranged from article clerks who had not been entirely dried up by association with parchment to hard old delvers and dusty documents who had lived so long in the legal atmosphere of quibbling obstruction and deceit that they were as incapable of an honest impetuous act as of an illegal one. The gossip concerning the murdered judge in which the two branches of the profession joined had reference to his moral character in legal principles. There had always been gossip of the kind in his lifetime so Horace's judicial reputation was beyond reproach and he had known his law a great deal better than most of his judicial colleagues comparatively few of his decisions had been upset on appeal but everyone about the courts knew that he was susceptible to a pretty feminine face of the year. Many were the conflicts that arose in court between bench and bar as the result of Mr. Justice Fubanks' habit of protecting pretty witnesses from cross-examining questions which he regarded as outside the case. There was no suggestion that his judicial decisions were influenced by the good looks of ladies who were parties to the cases heard by him but there were rumors that on occasions the relations between the judge and a pretty witness begun in court had ripened into something at which moral men might well shake their heads. While the members of the legal profession struggled to obtain seats in the body of the court an entirely different class of spectators struggled to get into the gallery. For the most part they were badly dressed men who needed a shave but there were a few well dressed men also a few ladies. Detective Rolf took a professional interest in the occupants of the gallery. What a collection of crux he whispered to Inspector Chippenfield. A regular rogues gallery. Look, there is nosy George. It is time he was in again and behind him is that cunning old drop icky Samuels? I wish we could get him. Look at the other end of the first row. Isn't that sunny Jim? He's grown a beard since he's been out. We'll soon have it off again for him. He's got the impudence to scowl at us. He'll lay for you one of these knights inspector. The judicial duties of the murdered man had been concerned chiefly with civil cases at the royal courts of justice but when the criminal calendar had been heavy he had often presided at number one court at the old Bailey. It was this fact which had given the criminal class a sort of personal interest in his murder and accounted for the presence of many well-known criminals who happened to be out of ghoul at the time. The spectators in the gallery included men whom the murdered man had sentenced and men who had been fortunate enough to escape being sentenced by him owing to the vagaries of the juries. There were pickpockets, confidence men, burglars, and receivers among the occupants of the gallery and many of them had brought with them the ladies who assisted them professionally or presided over their homes when they were not in ghoul. I wouldn't be surprised if the man we want is among that bunch said Rolf to Inspector Chippenfield. You've got a lot to learn about them my boy said his superior. There is crew up among them continued Rolf. I wonder Inspector Chippenfield gave a glance in the direction of crew but did not deign to give him any sign of recognition. But that that crew by his presence in the gallery seemed to entertain the idea that the murderer might be among the occupants of that part of the court could not be as lightly dismissed as Rolf's vague suggestion. It annoyed Inspector Chippenfield to think that crew might be nearer at the moment to the murderer because even though that proximity was merely physical and unsupported by evidence or even by any theory it would have been a great relief to him if he had known that crew's object in going to the gallery was not to mix with the criminal classes but in order to keep a careful survey of what took place in the body of the court without making himself too prominent. Mr. Holymead Casey arrived and members of the junior bar deferentially made room for him. He shook hands with some of these gentlemen and also with Inspector Chippenfield much to the gratification of that officer. Ms. Fewbanks arrived in a taxi cab a few minutes before the appointed hour of eleven. She was accompanied by Mrs. Holymead and they were shown into a private room by police constable Flack who had received instructions from Inspector Chippenfield to be on the lookout for the murdered man's daughter. Ms. Fewbanks and Mrs. Holymead had been almost inseparable since the tragedy had been discovered. Immediately on the arrival of Ms. Fewbanks from Delmer Mrs. Holymead had gone out to Riversbrook to console with her and to support her in her great sorrow. But the murdered man's daughter who, on account of having lived apart from her father, had developed a self-reliant spirit seemed to be less overcome by the horror of the tragedy than Mrs. Holymead was. It was with a feeling that there was something lacking in her own nature that the girl realized that Mrs. Holymead's grief for the violent death of a man who had been her husband's dearest friend was greater than her own grief at the loss of a father. One of the directions in which Mrs. Holymead's expression was in a feverish desire to know all that was being done to discover the murderer. She displayed continuous interest in the investigations of the detectives engaged on the case and she had implored Ms. Fewbanks to let her know when any important discovery was made. She applauded the action of her young friend in engaging such a famous detective who would do it. She had been particularly anxious to hear through Ms. Fewbanks what Cruz's impressions were with regard to the tragedy. The court was open punctually. The coroner being Mr. Bodyman, a stout, clean-shaven, white-haired gentleman who had spent 30 years of his life in the stuffy atmosphere of police courts hearing police court cases. Police Inspector Selden nodded in reply to the inquiring glance of the coroner and the inquest was opened. The first witness was Ms. Fewbanks. She was dressed in deep black and was obviously a little unnerved. In a low tone she said she had identified the body as that of her father. She was staying at her father's country house in Delmer, Sussex when the crime was committed. She had no knowledge of anyone who was evilly disposed towards her father. He had never spoken to her anyone who cherished a grudge against him. Evidence relating to the circumstances in which the body was found was given by police constable Flack. He described the position of the room in which the body was found and the attitude in which the body was stretched. He was on duty in the neighborhood of Tanton Gardens on the night of the murder but he saw no suspicious characters and heard no sounds. The evidence of Hill was chiefly a repetition of what he had told Inspector Chippenfield as to his movements on the day of the crime and his methods of inspecting the premises three times a week in accordance with his master's orders. He knew nothing about Sir Horace's sudden return from Scotland. His first knowledge of this was the account of the murder which he read in the papers. Inspector Chippenfield gave evidence for the purpose of producing the letter received at his backyard announcing that Sir Horace Few Banks had been murdered. The letter was passed up to the coroner for his inspection and when he examined it he sent it to the foreman of the jury. Then followed medical evidence which showed that death was due to a bullet wound which could not have been self-inflicted. The coroner in his summing up dwelt upon the loss sustained by the judiciary by the violent death of one of his distinguished members and the jury after a retirement of a few minutes brought in a verdict of willful murder by person or persons unknown. As the occupants of the court filed out into the street, crew who was watching Holymead noticed the KC give a slight start when he saw Miss Few Banks and his wife. Mr. Holymead went up to the ladies and shook hands with Miss Few Banks and crew it seemed as if he was on the point of shaking hands with his wife but he stopped himself awkwardly. He saw the ladies into their cab and raising his hat went off. As Mr. Holymead had seen Miss Few Banks in court when she gave evidence it was obvious to crew that he could not have been surprised at meeting her outside. It was therefore the presence of his wife which had surprised him. That fact, if it were a fact opened a limitless field of speculation to crew but in spite of the possibility of error, a possibility which he frankly recognized he was pleased with himself for having noticed the incident. To him it seemed to provide another link in the chain he was constructing. It harmonized with Taylor's story of Mr. Holymead's decision to stay at Bernie's instead of entering his own home the night Taylor drove him from Hyde Park corner. Rolf also possessed a professional faculty of observation but in a different degree. He had seen Mr. Holymead talking to his wife and Miss Few Banks but he had noticed nothing but gentlemanly ease in the barrister's manner. What did astonish him in connection with Mr. Holymead was that after he had left the ladies and was walking in the direction of the cab rank he spoke to one of the former occupants of the gallery. This was a man known to the police and his associates as Kinsher. His name was Kemp and how he had obtained his nickname was not known. He was a criminal by profession and had undergone several heavy sentences for burglary. He was a thick-set man of medium height about 50 years of age. Apart from a rather heavy lower jaw he gave no external indication of his professional pursuits but looked with his brown and weather-beaten face and rough blue reefersuit not unlike a seafaring man. The likeness was heightened by a tattooed device which covered the back of his right hand and a slight roll in his gait when he walked. But appearances are deceptive for Mr. Kemp at liberty or in ghoul had never been out of London in his life. He had been inbred a London thief and had served all his sentences at Wormwood Scrubs. For over a minute he and Mr. Holymede remained in conversation. Rolf would have described it officially as familiar conversation but that description would have overlooked the deference, the sense of inferiority in Kinsher's manner. For a time Rolf was puzzled by the incident when he lighted on an explanation which satisfied himself. It was that in the earlier days before Mr. Holymede had reached such a prominent position at the bar he had been engaged in practice in the criminal courts and Kinsher had been one of his clients. With a cheerful smile Holymede brought the conversation to an end and went on his way. Kemp walked on hurriedly in the opposite direction. He had his eyes on a young man whom he had seen in the gallery and who had seemed to avoid his eye. It was obvious to him that this young man for whom he had been on the watch when Mr. Holymede spoke to him had seized the opportunity to slip past him while he was talking to the imminent KC. The young man even from the back view seemed to be well dressed. Hello, Fred! exclaimed Mr. Kemp as he reached within a yard or two of his quarry. Hello, Kinsher! replied the young man turning around. I didn't notice you. Were you up at the court? Yes, I looked in, said Mr. Kemp. There wasn't much doing, was there? No, said Fred. He won't trouble us any more, pursued Mr. Kemp. No. The young man seemed to have a dread of helping along the conversation and therefore sought refuge in mono-syllables. Mr. Kemp coughed before he formed his question. Did you go up there that night? No, the reply came instantaneously, but the young man followed it up with a look of inquiry to ascertain if his denial was believed. A good thing, as it happened, said Mr. Kemp. I had nothing to do with it, said Fred earnestly. I never said you had, replied Mr. Kemp. Nothing whatever to do with it continued the young man with emphasis. That's not my sort of game. I'm not saying anything, replied the elder man, but whoever done it might have done it by accident like. Accident or no accident, I had nothing to do with it, thank God. That is all right, Fred. You did. You'd find I could be trusted. I don't go blabbing around to everybody. I know you don't, but as I said before I had nothing to do with it. I didn't go there that night. I changed my mind. A very lucky thing then, because if they do look you up, you can prove an alibi. Yes, said Fred. I can prove an alibi easy enough, but what makes you talk about them looking me up? Why should they get into me? Why should they look me up? I told you I didn't go there. That is all right, said the other, in a soothing tone. If that pal of yours keeps his mouth shut there is nothing to put them on your traps. But I don't like the looks of him. He seems to me a bit nervous. And if they put on your degree he'll squeak. That's my impression. If he squeaks he'll have to settle with me, said Fred, and he'll find there is something to pay. If he tries to put me away I'll, I'll, I'll do him in. Kinsher, instead of being horrified at this sentiment, seemed to approve of it as the right thing to be done. I'd let him know that I didn't like the look of him. The reason I came out here today was to have a look at him. And when I saw him in the box I said to myself, well, I'm glad I've staked nothing on you for it seems to me that you'll crack up if the police shake their thumbscrews in your face. I felt glad I hadn't accepted your invitation to make it a two-handed job, Fred. It was the fact that someone else I'd never seen had put up the job that kept me out of it when you asked me to go with you. A man can't be too careful, especially after he's had a long spell in stir. But of course you're all right if you changed your mind and didn't go up there. But if I was you I'd have my alibi ready. It was no good leaving things until the police are there at the door and making one up on the spur of the moment. Yes, I'll see about it, said Fred. It's a good idea. Come in and have a drink, Fred, said Kinsher. It will do you good. It was dry work listening to them talking up there about the murder. Fred accompanied Mr. Kemp into the bar of the hotel they reached. And the elder man after inquiring glance at his companion ordered two whiskeys. There added water to the contents of each glass and lifting his glass in his right hand waited until Fred had done the same and then said well, here's luck and long life to the man that did it, whoever he is. Fred offered no objection to this sentiment and they drained their glasses. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of the Hampstead Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Lars Rolander The Hampstead Mystery by John Watson and Arthur Rees Chapter 10 And so have you had no luck, Ralph. Inspector Chippenfield glancing up from his official desk in Scotland Yard put this question in a tone of voice which suggested that the speaker had expected nothing better. I've seen the heads of at least half a dozen likely Western shops, Ralph replied and they tell me there is nothing to indicate where the handkerchief was bought. The scrap of lace merely shows that it was torn off a good handkerchief and there is nothing about it to show that the handkerchief was different in any marked way from the average filmy scrap of muslin and lace which every smart woman carries as a handkerchief. I thought so myself before I started to make inquiries. Well, Ralph, we must come at it another way, said the inspector. Undoubtedly, there is a woman in the case and it ought not to be called a locator. Your theory, Ralph, is that the murder was committed by someone who broke into the place while Sir Horace was entertaining a lady friend or waiting for the arrival of a lady he expected. Either the lady had not arrived or had left the room temporarily when the burglar broke into the house, he had spotted the place some days before and ascertained that it was empty. And when he found that Sir Horace had returned alone, he decided to break in and covering Sir Horace with a revolver, tried to extort money from him, a riskier but more profitable game than burgling an empty house if it came off. With his revolver in his hand he made his way up to the library. Sir Horace paraded with him until he could reach his own revolver and then got in the first shot but missed his man. The burglar shot him and then bolted. The lady heard the shots and rushing in found Sir Horace in his death agony. She was stooping over him with her handkerchief in her hand and in his convulsive moments he cut hold of a corner of it and the handkerchief was torn. The lady left the place and an arrival home concocted the letter which was sent here telling us that Sir Horace had been murdered. Is that it? Yes. Ascented Rolf. Of course, I don't lay down that everything happened just as you've said but that's my idea of the crime. It accounts for all the clues we've picked up and that is something. It is an ingenious theory and it does you credit said the inspector who had not forgotten that he had proposed to Rolf that they should help one another to the extent of taking one another fully into each other's confidence for the purpose of getting ahead of crew. But you have overlooked the fact that it is possible to account in another way for all the clues we have picked up. Suppose Sir Horace's return from Scotland was due to a message from a lady friend. Suppose the lady went to see him accompanied by a friend whom Sir Horace did not like a friend of whom Sir Horace was jealous. Suppose they asked for money blackmail and there was a quarrel in which Sir Horace was shot. Then we have your idea as to how the lady's handkerchief was torn. I agree with that in the main. The lady and her friend fled from the place. Later in the night the place is burgled by someone who has had his eye on it for some time and on entering the library he is astounded to find the dead body of the owner. Suppose he went home and on thinking things over sent the letter to Scotland Yard with the idea that if the police got onto his tracks about the burglary the fact that he had told us about the murder would show he had nothing to do with killing Sir Horace. That is a good theory too said Rolf in a meditative tone and the only person who can tell us which is the right one is Sir Horace's lady friend. The problem is to find her. Right said the inspector approvingly and while you have been making inquiries at the shops about the handkerchief I have been down to the law courts branch of the equity bank where Sir Horace kept his account. It occurred to me that a look at Sir Horace's account might help us. You know the sort of man he was you know his weakness for the ladies but he was careful. I looked through his private papers out of Riversbrook expecting to get a track of something that would show someone had been trying to blackmail him over an entanglement with a woman but I found nothing. I couldn't even find any feminine correspondence. If Sir Horace was in the habit of getting letters from ladies he was also in the habit of destroying them. No doubt he adopted that precaution when his wife was alive such a wise one that he kept it up when there was less need for it but a weakness for the ladies costs money Rolf as you know and that is why I had a look at his banking account. He made some payments that it would be worthwhile to trace payments to western drapers and that sort of thing. Of course Sir Horace being a cautious man and occupying a public position might not care to flaunt his weakness in the eyes of western shopkeepers and instead of paying the accounts of his lady friend of the moment may have given her the money and trusted to her paying the bills. A thing that women of that kind are never in a hurry to do in that case the payments to western shopkeepers are for good supply to his daughter. However I've taken a note of the names dates and amounts of a number of them and I want you to see the managers of these shops. We are getting close to it now said Rolf approvingly. I think so was the modest reply of his superior. There is one thing about Sir Horace's account which struck me as peculiar. Every four weeks for the past eight months Sir Horace drew a check for 24 pounds and every check of the kind was made payable to number 365. Now unless he wished to hide the nature of the transaction from his bankers why not put in the check in the name of the person who received the money? It couldn't have been for his personal use for in that case he would have made the check payable to sell. Besides a man with a banking account doesn't draw a regular 24 pounds every four weeks for person expenses. He draws a check just when he wants a few pounds instead of carrying five pound notes about with him. I asked the bank manager about these checks and he looked up a couple of them and found they had been cashed over the counter so he called up the cashier and from him I learned that Sir Horace came in and cashed as far as he can remember Sir Horace cashed all these 24 pound checks. I assume he did so because he realized that there was less likely to be commoned in the bank than if a well dressed good looking young lady arrived at the bank with him. This 24 pound a month suggests that Sir Horace had something choice and not too expensive stowed away in a flat. That is a matter on which he'll ought to be able to throw some light. If he knows anything I'll get it out of him. It struck me as extraordinary that Sir Horace should have taken Hill into his service knowing what he was but this apparently is the explanation. He knew that Hill wouldn't gossip about him for fear of being exposed for that would mean that Hill would lose his situation and would find it impossible to get another one without a reference from him. We'll have Hill brought here. There was a knock at the door and a boy in buttons entered and handed Inspector Chippenfield a card. Seldon from Hampstead he explained to Rolf. Don't go away yet. It may be something about this case. Police Inspector Seldon entered the office and held the door a jar for a man behind him. He shook hands with Inspector Chippenfield and then motioned his companion to a chair. This is Mr Robert Evans, the landlord of the flower-jewel hotel, Covent Garden he explained. He looked at Mr Evans with the air of a police court inspector waiting for a witness to corroborate his statement, but as that gentleman remained silent he sharply asked, isn't that so? Quite right, said Mr Evans in a moist husky voice. He was a short fat man with an extremely red face and bulging eyes which wanted very much and apparently required to be constantly mopped with a handkerchief which he carried in his hand. This peculiarity gave Mr Evans the appearance of a man perpetually in mourning and this effect was heightened by a species of incipient palsy which had ceased on his lower facial muscles and caused his lips to tremble violently. He was bald in the front of the head but not on the top. The baldness over the temples had joined hands and left isolated of the centre of the forehead a small tuft of hair which with the playfulness of second childhood showed a tendency to curl. Yes, you're quite right, he repeated huskily as though someone had doubted the statement. Evans is my name not ashamed of it. He came to me this morning and told me that he gave false evidence at the inquest yesterday Inspector Selden explained so I brought him along to see you. False evidence? He exclaimed Inspector Chippenfield with keen interest. Let us hear about it. Well, you will remember he said he was at home on the night of the murder to Selden. I looked up his depositions before I came away and what he said was this. I took my daughter to the zoo in the afternoon we left the zoo at half past five and went home and had tea. My wife then took the child to the picture palace and I remained at home. I did not go out that night. They returned about half past ten and after supper we all went to bed. But Evans tells me he saw Hill in his bar at three o'clock on the morning of the nineteenth of August. He has an early license for the accommodation of the Covent Garden traffic. He can swear to Hill a man who goes to bed at half past ten has no right to be wondering about Covent Garden at three a.m. and besides, Hill told us nothing about this so I brought Evans along to see what you make of it. Inspector Chippenfield had taken up a pencil and was making a few notes. Very interesting indeed, he said. Then he turned to Evans and asked, Are you sure you saw Hill in your bar at three a.m.? There is no possibility of a mistake. He is the man who was knocked down outside by a porter running into him, said Mr. Evans mopping his eyes. There are a dozen witnesses who will swear to him. You see, it's this way, interpolated Inspector Seldon taking up the landlord's narrative. His police court training had taught him to bring out the salient points of a story and he was naturally of the opinion that he could tell another man's story better than the man could tell it himself. Hill was staring about him. It was probably the first time he had been to Covent Garden the early morning and got knocked over. He was stunned and some porters took him into the bar, sat him on a form and poured some rum into him. Some of the porters were for ringing up the ambulance. Others were for carrying Hill off to the hospital, but he soon recovered. However, he sat there for about twenty minutes and after having several drinks at his own expense, he went away. Evans served him with the drinks. Good, said the Inspector Chippenfield, who liked the circumstantial details of the story and you can get half a dozen porters to identify him. Bill Cribb, Harry Wynch, Charlie Brown, a fellow they call Green Violet, I don't know his real name. Mr Evans was calling on his memory for further names, but was stopped by Inspector Chippenfield. Oh, that will do very well. And how did you happen to be at the inquest at Hampstead? That is a bit out of your way. Mr Evans mocked his eyes and Inspector Selden took upon himself to reply for him. He has a brother-in-law on the trade at Hampstead, keeps the three jugs in Calter Street. Evans had to go out to see his brother-in-law on business and his brother-in-law took him along to the court out of curiosity. Inspector Chippenfield nodded. Rolf, he said, take down Mr Evans's statement outside and get him to sign it. Don't go away when you've finished. I want you. Mr Evans, even if he felt that full justice had been done to his story by Inspector Selden, was disappointed at the police officer's failure to put justice to his many scruples in coming forward to give evidence against a man who had never done him any harm. Addressing Inspector Chippenfield said, I don't altogether like mixing myself up in this business. That isn't my way. If I have a thing to say to a man I like to say to his face. I don't like a man to say things behind a man's back. That is, if he calls himself a man. But I pulled over this thing after leaving the court and hearing this chap he'll say he hadn't left home that night and I talked it over with my wife. You did the right thing, said Inspector Chippenfield, with the emphasis of a man who had profited by the triumph of right. Mr Evans was under the impression that the inspector's approval referred chiefly to the part he had played as a husband in talking over the perplexity with his wife, rather than the part he had played as a man in revealing that he had lied in his evidence. I always do, he said. My wife's one of the sensible sort and when a man takes her advice he don't go far wrong. She advised me to go straight to the police station and tell them all I know. It's a cruel murder, she said and who knows but it might be our turn next. This example of the imaginative element in feminine logic made no impression on the practicum official who listened to the admiring husband. That is all right, said Inspector Chippenfield soothingly. I understand your screwballs. They do you credit but an honest man like you doesn't want to shield a criminal from justice. Best of all, a cold-blooded murderer. When Rolf returned to his superior with Evans's signed statement in his hand he found the inspector preparing to leave the office. Put on your hat and come with me, said the inspector. We will go out and see Mrs Hill. I'll frighten the truth out of her and then tackle Hill. He is sure to be up at Riversbrook and we can go there from Camden Town. While on the way to Camden Town by Tube, Inspector Chippenfield arranged his plans with the object of saving time. He would interview Mrs Hill and while he was doing so, Rolf could make inquiries at the neighboring hotels about Hill. It was the inspector's conviction that a man who had anything to do with the murder would require a steady supply of stimulants next day. Mrs Hill kept a small confectionary shop adjoining a cinema theater to supplement her husband's wages by a little earnings of her own in order to support a child. Although the shop was an unpretentious one and catered mainly for the haphazard of the juvenile patrons of the picture house next door, it was called the Camden Town Confectionary Emporium and the title was printed of the little shop in large letters. Inspector Chippenfield walked into the empty shop and wrapped sharply on the counter. A little thin woman with prematurely grey hair and a depressed expression appeared from the back in response to the summons. She started nervously as her eye encountered the police uniform but she waited to be spoken to. Is your name Hill? asked the inspector sternly. Mrs Emily Hill? The woman nodded feebly, her frightened eyes fixed on the inspector's face. Then I want a word with you, continued the inspector walking through the shop into the parlour. Come in here and answer my questions. Mrs Hill followed him timidly into the room he had entered. It was a small shabby furnished apartment and the inspector's massive proportions made it look smaller still. He took up a commanding position on the strip of the rugged, which the duty is a hearthrug and staring fierce litter suddenly commenced. Mrs Hill? Where was your husband on the night of the 18th of August when his employer Sir Horace Few Banks was murdered? Mrs Hill shrank before that fierce gaze and said in a low tone. Please sir, he was at home? At home, was he? I'm not so sure of that. Tell me all about your husband's movements on that day and night. What time did he come home to begin with? I came home early in the afternoon to take our little girl to the zoo, which was a treat she had been looking forward for a long while. I couldn't go myself, there being the shop to look after. So Mr Hill and Daphne went to the zoo and after they came home and had tea I took her to the pictures while Mr Hill minded the shop. It was not the picture palace next door but the big one in High Street where they were showing East Lynn. Then when we come home about ten o'clock we all had supper and went to bed. And your husband didn't go out again? No sir. When I got up in the morning to bring a cup of tea it was still sound asleep. But might he not have gone out in the night while you were asleep? No sir. I'm a very light sleeper and I awake at the least stir. Mrs Hill's story seemed to ring true enough, although she kept her eyes fixed on her interrogator with a kind of frightened brightness. Inspector Chippenfield looked at her in silence for a few seconds. So that's the whole truth, is it? he said at length. Yes sir. The woman earnestly assured him. You can ask Mr Hill and he'll tell you the same thing. Something reminiscent in Inspector Chippenfield's mind responded to this sentence. He pondered over it for a moment and then remembered that Hill had applied faith to his wife. Evidently there had been collusion a comparing of tales beforehand. The woman had been tutored by her cunning scoundrel of a husband but undoubtedly her tale was false. The whole truth said the inspector again. Yes sir. Answered Mrs Hill. Now look here said the police officer in his sternest tones as he shook a warning finger at the little woman. I know you are lying. I know Hill didn't sleep in the house that night. He was seen near Riversbrook in the early part of the night and he was seen wondering about Covent Garden after the murder had been committed. It is no use lying to me Mrs Hill. If you want to save your husband from being arrested for this murder you will tell the truth. When did he leave here that night? I've already told you the truth sir. replied the little woman. He didn't leave the place after he came back from the zoo. Inspector Chippenfield was puzzled. It seemed to him that Mrs Hill was a woman a weak character and yet she stuck firmly to her story. Perhaps Evans had made a mistake in identifying Hill as the man who had been carried into his bar during the knockdown. Nothing was more common than mistakes of identification. His glance wandered around the room as though in search of some inspiration for his next question. His eye took mechanical note of the trumpery articles of rickety furniture, wandered over the cheap almanac prints which adorned the walls, but became riveted in the cheap over mantle which surmounted the fireplace. In the slip of mirror which formed the center of that ornament Inspector Chippenfield caught the sight of the features of Mrs Hill frowning and shaking her head at somebody invisible. He turned his head warily but she was too quick for him and her features were impassive again when he looked at her. Following the direction indicated by the mirror Inspector Chippenfield saw Mrs Hill had been signaling through the window which looked into the back yard. He reached it in a step and threw open the window. A small and not over clean little girl was just leaving the yard by the gate. Inspector Chippenfield called to her pleasantly and she retraced her steps with a frightened face. Come in my dear, I want you said the inspector breathing his red face into a smile. I'm fond of little girls. The little girl smiled, nodded her head and presently appeared in response to the inspector's invitation. He glanced at Mrs Hill, noticed that her face was grey and drawn with sudden terror. She opened her mouth as though to speak but no words came. The inspector lifted the child onto his knee. She nestled to him confidingly enough and looked up into his face with an artless glance. What is your name, my dear? Daphne, sir, Daphne Hill. How old are you, Daphne? Please, sir, I'm eight next birthday. Why, you're quite a big girl, Daphne. Do you go to school? Oh yes, sir, I'm in the second form. Do you like going to school, Daphne? Yes, sir. I suppose you like going to the zoo better. Did you like going with father the other day? The child's eyes sparkled with retrospective pleasure. Oh yes, she said delightedly, we saw all kinds of things, lions and tigers and elephants. I had it right on an elephant. Her eyes grew big with a merry. And he took a bun with his long nose out of my hand. That was splendid, Daphne. Which did you like best, the zoo or the pictures? I loved them both, she replied. Was father at home when he came home from the pictures? No, said the little girl innocently. He was out. Mrs. Hill, standing a little way off with fear on her face, uttered an inarticulate noise and took a step towards the inspector and her daughter. Better not interfere, Mrs. Hill, unless you want to make matters worse, said the inspector meaningly. Now tell me, Daphne, dear, when did your father come home? Not till the morning, replied the little girl with the timid glance at her mother. How do you know that? Because I slept in mother's bed that night with mother, like I always do when father is away. But father came home in the morning and lifted me into my own bed because he said he wanted to go to bed. What time was that, Daphne? I don't know, sir. It was light, Daphne. You could see. Oh, yes, sir. Inspector Chippenfield told the child she was a good girl and gave her sixpence. The little one slipped off his knee and ran across to her mother with delight to show her the coin. All unconscious that he had betrayed her father, the mother pushed the child from her with a heartbroken gesture. A heavy step was heard in the shop and the inspector looking through the window saw Rolf. He opened the door leading from the shop and beckoned his subordinate in. Rolf was excited and looked like a man burdened with weighty news. He whispered a word in Inspector Chippenfield's ear. Let's go into the shop, said Inspector Chippenfield promptly. But first I'll make things safe here. He locked the door leading to the kitchen, put the key into his pocket and followed his colleague into the shop. Now, Rolf, what is it? I found out that he'll put in nearly the whole day after the murder drinking in a wine tavern. He sat there like a man in a dream and spoke to nobody. The only thing he took any interest in was the evening papers. He bought about a dozen of them during the afternoon. Where was this? asked the inspector at a little wine tavern in High Street where he's never been seen before. The man who keeps the place gave me good description of him though. He went there about 10 o'clock in the morning and started drinking port wine and as fast as the evening papers came out he sent the boy out for them, passed through them and then crumpled them up. He stayed there till after 5 o'clock. By that time the six-thirty editions would reach Camden Town and if you remember it was the six-thirty editions which had the first news of the murder. The tavern keeper declares the till drank nearly two bottles of Tarragona port in threatening glasses during the day. I should have credited Hill with a better taste in port and also opportunities as Sir Horace Feubanks Sputtler said the Inspector Chippenfield Riley. What you have found out Rolf only goes to bear out my own discovery that Hill is deeply implicated in this affair. I have found out for my part that Hill did not spend the night of the murder at home here. There was a ring of triumph in Inspector Chippenfield's voice as he announced this discovery and found upon it there was a quick step behind them and both men turned to see Hill. The butler was astonished at finding the two police officers in his wife's shop. He hesitated and apparently his first impulse was to turn into the street again. But realizing the futility of such a course he came forward with an attempt to smooth his worried face into conciliatory smile. Still, said Inspector Chippenfield sternly, once and for all will you own up where you were on the night of the murder? Hill started slightly. Then with admirable self-command he recovered himself and became as tight-lipped and reticent as ever. I've already told you, sir, he replied smoothly. I spent it in my own home. If you ask my wife, she'll tell you I never stood out at the house after I came back from taking my little girl to the zoo. I know she will, you scoundrel! Burst out the choleric inspector. She's been well-tutored by you and she tells the tale very well. But it is no good, Hill. You forgot to tutor your little daughter and she's innocently put you away. What's more, you were seen in London before daybreak the night after the murder. The game's up, my man! Inspector Chippenfield produced a pair of handcuffs as he spoke. Hill passed his tongue over his dry lips before he was able to speak. Don't put them on me, he said imploringly as Inspector Chippenfield advanced towards him. I'll... I'll confess. End of chapter 10 of The Hampstead Mystery by John Watson and Arthur Rees read by Lorsch Rulander.