The Man in the Brown Suit
woman literally bounced out.
“Nobody can go into the house, do you hear that? Fairly sick of
you reporters, I am. Sir Eustace’s orders are——”
“I understood the house was to let,” I said freezingly, holding
out my order. “Of course, if it’s already taken——”
“Oh, I’m sure I beg your pardon, miss. I’ve been fairly pestered
with these newspaper people. Not a minute’s peace. No, the house
isn’t let—nor likely to be now.”
“Are the drains wrong?” I asked in an anxious whisper.
“Oh, Lord, miss, the _drains_ is all right! But surely you’ve heard
about that foreign lady as was done to death here?”
“I believe I did read something about it in the papers,” I said
carelessly.
My indifference piqued the good woman. If I had betrayed any
interest, she would probably have closed up like an oyster. As it
was, she positively bridled.
“I should say you did, miss! It’s been in all the newspapers. The
_Daily Budget’s_ out still to catch the man who did it. It seems,
according to them, as our police are no good at all. Well, I hope
they’ll get him—although a nice-looking young fellow he was and no
mistake. A kind of soldierly look about him—ah, well, I dare say
he’d been wounded in the war, and sometimes they go a bit queer
afterwards, my sister’s boy did. Perhaps she’d used him bad—they’re
a bad lot, those foreigners. Though she was a fine-looking woman.
Stood there where you’re standing now.”
“Was she dark or fair?” I ventured. “You can’t tell from these
newspaper portraits.”
“Dark hair, and a very white face—too white for nature, I thought,
and her lips reddened something cruel. I don’t like to see it—a
little powder now and then is quite another thing.”
We were conversing like old friends now. I put another question.
“Did she seem nervous or upset at all?”
“Not a bit. She was smiling to herself, quiet like, as though she
was amused at something. That’s why you could have knocked me down
with a feather when, the next afternoon, those people came running
out calling for the police and saying there’d been murder done. I
shall never get over it, and as for setting foot in that house
after dark I wouldn’t do it, not if it was ever so. Why, I wouldn’t
even stay here at the lodge, if Sir Eustace hadn’t been down on
his bended knees to me.”
“I thought Sir Eustace Pedler was at Cannes?”
“So he was, miss. He come back to England when he heard the news,
and, as to the bended knees, that was a figure of speech, his
secretary, Mr. Pagett, having offered us double pay to stay on,
and, as my John says, money is money nowadays.”
I concurred heartily with John’s by no means original remarks.
“The young man now,” said Mrs. James, reverting suddenly to a
former point in the conversation. “He was upset. His eyes, light
eyes, they were, I noticed them particular, was all shining.
Excited, _I_ thought. But I never dreamt of anything being wrong.
Not even when he came out again looking all queer.”
“How long was he in the house?”
“Oh, not long, a matter of five minutes maybe.”
“How tall was he, do you think? About six foot?”
“I should say so maybe.”
“He was clean-shaven, you say?”
“Yes, miss—not even one of these toothbrush moustaches.”
“Was his chin at all shiny?” I asked on a sudden impulse.
Mrs. James stared at me with awe.
“Well, now you come to mention it, miss, it _was._ However did you
know?”
“It’s a curious thing, but murderers often have shiny chins,” I
explained wildly.
Mrs. James accepted the statement in all good faith.
“Really, now, miss. I never heard that before.”
“You didn’t notice what kind of a head he had, I suppose?”
“Just the ordinary kind, miss. I’ll fetch you the keys, shall I?”
I accepted them, and went on my way to the Mill House. My
reconstructions so far I considered good. All along I had realized
that the differences between the man Mrs. James had described and
my Tube “doctor” were those of non-essentials. An overcoat, a
beard, gold-rimmed eyeglasses. The “doctor” had appeared middle-aged,
but I remembered that he had stooped over the body like a
comparatively young man. There had been a suppleness which told of
young joints.
The victim of the accident (the Moth Ball man, as I called him to
myself) and the foreign woman, Mrs. de Castina, or whatever her
real name was, had had an assignation to meet at the Mill House.
That was how I pieced the thing together. Either because they
feared they were being watched or for some other reason, they chose
the rather ingenious method of both getting an order to view the
same house. Thus their meeting there might have the appearance of
pure chance.
That the Moth Ball man had suddenly caught sight of the “doctor,”
and that the meeting was totally unexpected and alarming to him,
was another fact of which I was fairly sure. What had happened
next? The “doctor” had removed his disguise and followed the woman
to Marlow. But it was possible that had he removed it rather
hastily traces of spirit-gum might still linger on his chin. Hence
my question to Mrs. James.
Whilst occupied with my thoughts I had arrived at the low
old-fashioned door of the Mill House. Unlocking it with the key,
I passed inside. The hall was low and dark, the place smelt forlorn
and mildewy. In spite of myself, I shivered. Did the woman who had
come here “smiling to herself” a few days ago feel no chill of
premonition as she entered this house? I wondered. Did the smile
fade from her lips, and did a nameless dread close round her heart?
Or had she gone upstairs, smiling still, unconscious of the doom
that was so soon to overtake her? My heart beat a little faster.
Was the house really empty? Was doom waiting for me in it also?
For the first time, I understood the meaning of the much-used word,
“atmosphere.” There was an atmosphere in this house, an atmosphere
of cruelty, of menace, of evil.
CHAPTER VII
Shaking off the feelings that oppressed me, I went quickly upstairs.
I had no difficulty in finding the room of the tragedy. On the day
the body was discovered it had rained heavily, and large muddy
boots had trampled the uncarpeted floor in every direction. I
wondered if the murderer had left any footmarks the previous day.
It was likely that the police would be reticent on the subject if
he had, but on consideration I decided it was unlikely. The weather
had been fine and dry.
There was nothing of interest about the room. It was almost square
with two big bay windows, plain white walls and a bare floor, the
boards being stained round the edges where the carpet had ceased.
I searched it carefully, but there was not so much as a pin lying
about. The gifted young detective did not seem likely to discover
a neglected clue.
I had brought with me a pencil and notebook. There did not seem
much to note, but I duly dotted down a brief sketch of the room to
cover my disappointment at the failure of my quest. As I was in
the act of returning the pencil to my bag, it slipped from my
fingers and rolled along the floor.
The Mill House was really old, and the floors were very uneven.
The pencil rolled steadily, with increasing momentum, until it came
to rest under one of the windows. In the recess of each window
there was a broad window-seat, underneath which there was a
cupboard. My pencil was lying right against the cupboard door. The
cupboard was shut, but it suddenly occurred to me that if it had
been open my pencil would have rolled inside. I opened the door,
and my pencil immediately rolled in and sheltered modestly in the
farthest corner. I retrieved it, noting as I did so that owing to
the lack of light and the peculiar formation of the cupboard one
could not see it, but had to feel for it. Apart from my pencil the
cupboard was empty, but being thorough by nature I tried the one
under the opposite window.
At first sight, it looked as though that also was empty, but I
grubbed about perseveringly, and was rewarded by feeling my hand
close on a hard paper cylinder which lay in a sort of trough, or
depression, in the far corner of the cupboard. As soon as I had it
in my hand, I knew what it was. A roll of Kodak films. Here was a
find!
I realized, of course, that these films might very well be an old
roll belonging to Sir Eustace Pedler which had rolled in here and
had not been found when the cupboard was emptied. But I did not
think so. The red paper was far too fresh-looking. It was just as
dusty as it would have been had it laid there for two or three
days—that is to say, since the murder. Had it been there for any
length of time, it would have been thickly coated.
Who had dropped it? The woman or the man? I remembered that the
contents of her handbag had appeared to be intact. If it had been
jerked open in the struggle and the roll of films had fallen out,
surely some of the loose money would have been scattered about
also? No, it was not the woman who had dropped the films.
I sniffed suddenly and suspiciously. Was the smell of moth balls
becoming an obsession with me? I could swear that the roll of films
smelt of it also? I held them under my nose. They had, as usual,
a strong smell of their own, but apart from that I could clearly
detect the odour I disliked so much. I soon found the cause. A
minute shred of cloth had caught on a rough edge of the centre
wood, and that shred was strongly impregnated with moth balls. At
some time or another the films had been carried in the overcoat
pocket of the man who was killed in the Tube. Was it he who had
dropped them here? Hardly. His movements were all accounted for.
No, it was the other man, the “doctor.” He had taken the films when
he had taken the paper. It was he who had dropped them here during
his struggle with the woman.
I had got my clue! I would have the roll developed, and then I
would have further developments to work upon.
Very elated, I left the house, returned the keys to Mrs. James and
made my way as quickly as possible to the station. On the way back
to town, I took out my paper and studied it afresh. Suddenly the
figures took on a new significance. Suppose they were a date? 17
1 22. The 17th of January, 1922. Surely that must be it! Idiot that
I was not to have thought of it before. But in that case I _must_
find out the whereabouts of Kilmorden Castle, for to-day was
actually the 14th. Three days. Little enough—almost hopeless when
one had no idea of where to look!
It was too late to hand in my roll to-day. I had to hurry home to
Kensington so as not to be late for dinner. It occurred to me that
there was an easy way of verifying whether some of my conclusions
were correct. I asked Mr. Flemming whether there had been a camera
amongst the dead man’s belongings. I knew that he had taken an
interest in the case and was conversant with all the details.
To my surprise and annoyance he replied that there had been no
camera. All Carton’s effects had been gone over very carefully in
the hopes of finding something that might throw light upon his
state of mind. He was positive that there had been no photographic
apparatus of any kind.
That was rather a set-back to my theory. If he had no camera, why
should he be carrying a roll of films?
I set out early next morning to take my precious roll to be
developed. I was so fussy that I went all the way to Regent Street
to the big Kodak place. I handed it in and asked for a print of
each film. The man finished stacking together a heap of films
packed in yellow tin cylinders for the tropics, and picked up my
roll.
He looked at me.
“You’ve made a mistake, I think,” he said, smiling.
“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m sure I haven’t.”
“You’ve given me the wrong roll. This is an _unexposed_ one.”
I walked out with what dignity I could muster. I dare say it is