Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 7

  The old house wherein my chambers and Hewitt’s office were situated contained, besides my own, two or three more bachelors’ dens, in addition to the offices on the ground and first and second floors. At the very top of all, at the back, a fat, middle-aged man, named Foggatt, occupied a set of four rooms. It was only after a long residence, by an accidental remark of the housekeeper’s, that I learned the man’s name, which was not painted on his door or displayed, with all the others, on the wall of the ground-floor porch.

  Mr. Foggatt appeared to have few friends, but lived in something as nearly approaching luxury as an old bachelor living in chambers can live. An ascending case of champagne was a common phenomenon of the staircase, and I have more than once seen a picture, destined for the top floor, of a sort that went far to awaken green covetousness in the heart of a poor journalist.

  The man himself was not altogether prepossessing. Fat as he was, he had a way of carrying his head forward on his extended neck and gazing widely about with a pair of the roundest and most prominent eyes I remember to have ever seen, except in a fish. On the whole, his appearance was rather vulgar, rather arrogant, and rather suspicious, without any very pronounced quality of any sort. But certainly he was not pretty. In the end, however, he was found shot dead in his sitting-room.

  It was in this way: Hewitt and I had dined together at my club, and late in the evening had returned to my rooms to smoke and discuss whatever came uppermost. I had made a bargain that day with two speculative odd lots at a book sale, each of which contained a hidden prize. We sat talking and turning over these books while time went unperceived, when suddenly we were startled by a loud report. Clearly it was in the building. We listened for a moment, but heard nothing else, and then Hewitt expressed his opinion that the report was that of a gunshot. Gunshots in residential chambers are not common things, wherefore I got up and went to the landing, looking up the stairs and down.

  At the top of the next flight I saw Mrs. Clayton, the housekeeper. She appeared to be frightened, and told me that the report came from Mr. Foggatt’s room. She thought he might have had an accident with the pistol that usually lay on his mantel-piece. We went upstairs with her, and she knocked at Mr. Foggatt’s door.

  There was no reply. Through the ventilating fanlight over the door it could be seen that there were lights within, a sign, Mrs. Clayton maintained, that Mr. Foggatt was not out. We knocked again, much more loudly, and called, but still ineffectually. The door was locked, and an application of the housekeeper’s key proved that the tenant’s key had been left in the lock inside. Mrs. Clayton’s conviction that “something had happened” became distressing, and in the end Hewitt pried open the door with a small poker.

  Something had happened. In the sitting-room Mr. Foggatt sat with his head bowed over the table, quiet and still. The head was ill to look at, and by it lay a large revolver, of the full-sized army pattern. Mrs. Clayton ran back toward the landing with faint screams.

  “Run, Brett!” said Hewitt; “a doctor and a policeman!”

  I bounced down the stairs half a flight at a time. “First,” I thought, “a doctor. He may not be dead.” I could think of no doctor in the immediate neighborhood, but ran up the street away from the Strand, as being the more likely direction for the doctor, although less so for the policeman. It took me a good five minutes to find the medico, after being led astray by a red lamp at a private hotel, and another five to get back, with a policeman.

  Foggatt was dead, without a doubt. Probably had shot himself, the doctor thought, from the powder-blackening and other circumstances. Certainly nobody could have left the room by the door, or he must have passed my landing, while the fact of the door being found locked from the inside made the thing impossible. There were two windows to the room, both of which were shut, one being fastened by the catch, while the catch of the other was broken — an old fracture. Below these windows was a sheer drop of fifty feet or more, without a foot or hand-hold near. The windows in the other rooms were shut and fastened. Certainly it seemed suicide — unless it were one of those accidents that will occur to people who fiddle ignorantly with firearms. Soon the rooms were in possession of the police, and we were turned out.

  We looked in at the housekeeper’s kitchen, where her daughter was reviving and calming Mrs. Clayton with gin and water.

  “You mustn’t upset yourself, Mrs. Clayton,” Hewitt said, “or what will become of us all? The doctor thinks it was an accident.”

  He took a small bottle of sewing-machine oil from his pocket and handed it to the daughter, thanking her for the loan.

  There was little evidence at the inquest. The shot had been heard, the body had been found — that was the practical sum of the matter. No friends or relatives of the dead man came forward. The doctor gave his opinion as to the probability of suicide or an accident, and the police evidence tended in the same direction. Nothing had been found to indicate that any other person had been near the dead man’s rooms on the night of the fatality. On the other hand, his papers, bankbook, etc., proved him to be a man of considerable substance, with no apparent motive for suicide. The police had been unable to trace any relatives, or, indeed, any nearer connections than casual acquaintances, fellow-clubmen, and so on. The jury found that Mr. Foggatt had died by accident.

  “Well, Brett,” Hewitt asked me afterward, “what do you think of the verdict?”

  I said that it seemed to be the most reasonable one possible, and to square with the common-sense view of the case.

  “Yes,” he replied, “perhaps it does. From the point of view of the jury, and on their information, their verdict was quite reasonable. Nevertheless, Mr. Foggatt did not shoot himself. He was shot by a rather tall, active young man, perhaps a sailor, but certainly a gymnast — a young man whom I think I could identify if I saw him.”

  “But how do you know this?”

  “By the simplest possible inferences, which you may easily guess, if you will but think.”

  “But, then, why didn’t you say this at the inquest?”

  “My dear fellow, they don’t want any inferences and conjectures at an inquest; they only want evidence. If I had traced the murderer, of course then I should have communicated with the police. As a matter of fact, it is quite possible that the police have observed and know as much as I do — or more. They don’t give everything away at an inquest, you know. It wouldn’t do.”

  “But, if you are right, how did the man get away?”

  “Come, we are near home now. Let us take a look at the back of the house. He couldn’t have left by Foggatt’s landing door, as we know; and as he was there (I am certain of that), and as the chimney is out of the question — for there was a good fire in the grate — he must have gone out by the window. Only one window is possible — that with the broken catch — for all the others were fastened inside. Out of that window, then, he went.”

  “But how? The window is fifty feet up.”

  “Of course it is. But why will you persist in assuming that the only way of escape by a window is downward? See, now, look up there. The window is at the top floor, and it has a very broad sill. Over the window is nothing but the flat face of the gable-end; but to the right, and a foot or two above the level of the top of the window, an iron gutter ends. Observe, it is not of lead composition, but a strong iron gutter, supported, just at its end, by an iron bracket. If a tall man stood on the end of the window-sill, steadying himself by the left hand and leaning to the right, he could just touch the end of this gutter with his right hand. The full stretch, toe to finger, is seven feet three inches. I have measured it. An active gymnast, or a sailor, could catch the gutter with a slight spring, and by it draw himself upon the roof. You will say he would have to be very active, dexterous, and cool. So he would. And that very fact helps us, because it narrows the field of inquiry. We know the sort of man to look for. Because, being certain (as I am) that the man was in the room, I know that he left in the way I am telling you. He must have left
in some way, and, all the other ways being impossible, this alone remains, difficult as the feat may seem. The fact of his shutting the window behind him further proves his coolness and address at so great a height from the ground.”

  All this was very plain, but the main point was still dark.

  “You say you know that another man was in the room,” I said; “how do you know that?”

  “As I said, by an obvious inference. Come, now, you shall guess how I arrived at that inference. You often speak of your interest in my work, and the attention with which you follow it. This shall be a simple exercise for you. You saw everything in the room as plainly as I myself. Bring the scene back to your memory, and think over the various small objects littering about, and how they would affect the case. Quick observation is the first essential for my work. Did you see a newspaper, for instance?”

  “Yes. There was an evening paper on the floor, but I didn’t examine it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “On the table there was a whisky decanter, taken from the tantalus-stand on the sideboard, and one glass. That, by the by,” I added, “looked as though only one person were present.”

  “So it did, perhaps, although the inference wouldn’t be very strong. Go on!”

  “There was a fruit-stand on the sideboard, with a plate beside it containing a few nutshells, a piece of apple, a pair of nut-crackers, and, I think, some orange peel. There was, of course, all the ordinary furniture, but no chair pulled up to the table, except that used by Foggatt himself. That’s all I noticed, I think. Stay — there was an ash-tray on the table, and a partly burned cigar near it — only one cigar, though.”

  “Excellent — excellent, indeed, as far as memory and simple observation go. You saw everything plainly, and you remember everything. Surely now you know how I found out that another man had just left?”

  “No, I don’t; unless there were different kinds of ash in the ash-tray.”

  “That is a fairly good suggestion, but there were not — there was only a single ash, corresponding in every way to that on the cigar. Don’t you remember everything that I did as we went down-stairs?”

  “You returned a bottle of oil to the housekeeper’s daughter, I think.”

  “I did. Doesn’t that give you a hint? Come, you surely have it now?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Then I sha’n’t tell you; you don’t deserve it. Think, and don’t mention the subject again till you have at least one guess to make. The thing stares you in the face; you see it, you remember it, and yet you won’t see it. I won’t encourage your slovenliness of thought, my boy, by telling you what you can know for yourself if you like. Good-by — I’m off now. There’s a case in hand I can’t neglect.”

  “Don’t you propose to go further into this, then?”

  Hewitt shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not a policeman,” he said. “The case is in very good hands. Of course, if anybody comes to me to do it as a matter of business, I’ll take it up. It’s very interesting, but I can’t neglect my regular work for it. Naturally, I shall keep my eyes open and my memory in order. Sometimes these things come into the hands by themselves, as it were; in that case, of course, I am a loyal citizen, and ready to help the law. Au revoir!”

  I am a busy man myself, and thought little more of Hewitt’s conundrum for some time; indeed, when I did think, I saw no way to the answer. A week after the inquest I took a holiday (I had written my nightly leaders regularly every day for the past five years), and saw no more of Hewitt for six weeks. After my return, with still a few days of leave to run, one evening we together turned into Luzatti’s, off Coventry Street, for dinner.

  “I have been here several times lately,” Hewitt said; “they feed you very well. No, not that table” — he seized my arm as I turned to an unoccupied corner— “I fancy it’s draughty.” He led the way to a longer table where a dark, lithe, and (as well as could be seen) tall young man already sat, and took chairs opposite him.

  We had scarcely seated ourselves before Hewitt broke into a torrent of conversation on the subject of bicycling. As our previous conversation had been of a literary sort, and as I had never known Hewitt at any other time to show the slightest interest in bicycling, this rather surprised me. I had, however, such a general outsider’s grasp of the subject as is usual in a journalist-of-all-work, and managed to keep the talk going from my side. As we went on I could see the face of the young man opposite brighten with interest. He was a rather fine-looking fellow, with a dark, though very clear skin, but had a hard, angry look of eye, a prominence of cheek-bone, and a squareness of jaw that gave him a rather uninviting aspect. As Hewitt rattled on, however, our neighbor’s expression became one of pleasant interest merely.

  “Of course,” Hewitt said, “we’ve a number of very capital men just now, but I believe a deal in the forgotten riders of five, ten, and fifteen years back. Osmond, I believe, was better than any man riding now, and I think it would puzzle some of them to beat Furnivall as he was, at his best. But poor old Cortis — really, I believe he was as good as anybody. Nobody ever beat Cortis — except — let me see — I think somebody beat Cortis once — who was it now? I can’t remember.”

  “Liles,” said the young man opposite, looking up quickly.

  “Ah, yes — Liles it was; Charley Liles. Wasn’t it a championship?”

  “Mile championship, 1880; Cortis won the other three, though.”

  “Yes, so he did. I saw Cortis when he first broke the old 2.46 mile record.” And straightway Hewitt plunged into a whirl of talk of bicycles, tricycles, records, racing cyclists, Hillier, and Synyer and Noel Whiting, Taylerson and Appleyard — talk wherein the young man opposite bore an animated share, while I was left in the cold.

  Our new friend, it seems, had himself been a prominent racing bicyclist a few years back, and was presently, at Hewitt’s request, exhibiting a neat gold medal that hung at his watch-guard. That was won, he explained, in the old tall bicycle days, the days of bad tracks, when every racing cyclist carried cinder scars on his face from numerous accidents. He pointed to a blue mark on his forehead, which, he told us, was a track scar, and described a bad fall that had cost him two teeth, and broken others. The gaps among his teeth were plain to see as he smiled.

  Presently the waiter brought dessert, and the young man opposite took an apple. Nut-crackers and a fruit-knife lay on our side of the stand, and Hewitt turned the stand to offer him the knife.

  “No, thanks,” he said; “I only polish a good apple, never peel it. It’s a mistake, except with thick-skinned foreign ones.”

  And he began to munch the apple as only a boy or a healthy athlete can. Presently he turned his head to order coffee. The waiter’s back was turned, and he had to be called twice. To my unutterable amazement Hewitt reached swiftly across the table, snatched the half-eaten apple from the young man’s plate and pocketed it, gazing immediately, with an abstracted air, at a painted Cupid on the ceiling.

  Our neighbor turned again, looked doubtfully at his plate and the table-cloth about it, and then shot a keen glance in the direction of Hewitt. He said nothing, however, but took his coffee and his bill, deliberately drank the former, gazing quietly at Hewitt as he did it, paid the latter, and left.

  Immediately Hewitt was on his feet and, taking an umbrella, which stood near, followed. Just as he reached the door he met our late neighbor, who had turned suddenly back.

  “Your umbrella, I think?” Hewitt asked, offering it.

  “Yes, thanks.” But the man’s eye had more than its former hardness, and his jaw muscles tightened as I looked. He turned and went. Hewitt came back to me. “Pay the bill,” he said, “and go back to your rooms; I will come on later. I must follow this man — it’s the Foggatt case.” As he went out I heard a cab rattle away, and immediately after it another.

  I paid the bill and went home. It was ten o’clock before Hewitt turned up, calling in at his office below on his way up to me.

  “
Mr. Sidney Mason,” he said, “is the gentleman the police will be wanting to-morrow, I expect, for the Foggatt murder. He is as smart a man as I remember ever meeting, and has done me rather neatly twice this evening.”

  “You mean the man we sat opposite at Luzatti’s, of course?”

  “Yes, I got his name, of course, from the reverse of that gold medal he was good enough to show me. But I fear he has bilked me over the address. He suspected me, that was plain, and left his umbrella by way of experiment to see if I were watching him sharply enough to notice the circumstance, and to avail myself of it to follow him. I was hasty and fell into the trap. He cabbed it away from Luzatti’s, and I cabbed it after him. He has led me a pretty dance up and down London to-night, and two cabbies have made quite a stroke of business out of us. In the end he entered a house of which, of course, I have taken the address, but I expect he doesn’t live there. He is too smart a man to lead me to his den; but the police can certainly find something of him at the house he went in at — and, I expect, left by the back way. By the way, you never guessed that simple little puzzle as to how I found that this was a murder, did you? You see it now, of course?”