Christopher Quarles: College Professor and Master Detective — 05 - The Evidence of the Cigarette-end

I suppose I have my fair share of self-confidence, but there have been occasions when I have felt intuitively that the only chance of success was to have Quarles with me from the beginning.

The Kew mystery was a case in point.

It was half-past nine when the telephone bell rang.

At first the inspector on duty at the station could only hear a buzzing sound, followed by a murmur of voices, which might have come from the exchange; then came the single word, "Police!"

As soon as he had answered in the affirmative the message came in quick gasps in a woman's voice: "Hambledon Road--fourteen--come--it's murder!

Quick, I'm being----" There was a faint cry, as though the woman had been suddenly dragged from the instrument.

The inspector at once sent off a constable, who, with Constable Baker, the man on the Hambledon Road beat at the time, went to No. 14. Their knock was not answered very promptly.

A servant came to the door, still fidgeting with her cap and apron, as though she had put them on hastily, and she gave a start when she saw the policeman.

She said her mistress--a Mrs. Fitzroy--was at home, but she seemed a little reluctant to let the officers walk into the dining-room without a preliminary announcement, which was only natural, perhaps.

They entered to find the room empty.

Mrs. Fitzroy was not in the house.

The servant knew nothing about the telephone call.

She said it was her night out, that she had come in by the back door, as usual, and was upstairs taking off her hat and jacket when the policeman knocked.

This was the outline of the mystery which I gave to Christopher Quarles as we walked from Kew Gardens Railway Station to Hambledon Road.

The investigation had only been placed in my hands that morning, and I knew no details myself.

"Shall we find Constable Baker at the house?"

he asked presently.

"Yes; I have arranged that," I answered.

The house was a fair size, semi-detached, with half a dozen steps up to the front door, and it had a basement.

There was a small window on the right of the door which gave light to a wide passage hall, and on the other side was the large window of the dining-room.

Baker opened the door for us.

"No news of Mrs. Fitzroy?"

I asked.

"None, sir."

He was a smart man.

I had worked with him before.

"What time was it when you entered the house last night?"

asked Quarles.

"Ten o'clock, sir.

A clock struck while we were standing on the steps."

"Was the light burning in the hall and in the dining-room?"

"Yes, sir; full on."

"And the dining-room door was shut?"

"Yes, sir."

"You searched the house for Mrs. Fitzroy?"

"We did.

Have you just come from the police station?"

"No." "I have reported one or two points," said Baker.

"The gardens of these houses all have a door opening onto a footpath, on the other side of which there is a tennis club ground.

"The path ends in a blank wall at one end; the other end comes out into Melbury Avenue, a road running at right angles to Hambledon Road.

I found the garden gate here unbolted, and the servant, Emma Lewis, says she has never known it to be unfastened before.

Also in Melbury Avenue last evening I saw a taxi waiting.

I saw it first at about eight o'clock, and it was still there at a quarter past nine, when I spoke to the driver.

He said he had brought a gentleman down, who had told him to wait there, and had then walked up Melbury Avenue.

It was not the first time he had driven him to the avenue, and the driver supposed it was a clandestine love affair.

After we found that Mrs. Fitzroy was missing, I went to look for the taxi.

It had gone.

I had noticed the number, however, and they are making inquiries at the police station."

"Good," said Quarles.

"Now let us look at the dining-room.

Nothing has been moved, I suppose."

"It's just as we found it last night," Baker returned.

It was a well-furnished room.

An easy chair was close to the hearth, and an ordinary chair was turned sideways to the table.

A swivel-chair was pushed back from the writing-table, which was in the window, and the telephone, which evidently stood on this table as a rule, was hanging over it, suspended by the cord, the receiver being upon its hook.

The telephone directory lay open on the blotting-pad.

For some time Quarles was interested in the telephone, the directory, and the pad, then he turned to take in the general aspect of the room.

"Some man was here, evidently," I said, pointing to the ashes on the tiled hearth, "and was smoking.

It looks as if he had smoked at his ease for some time."

"Seated in one of those chairs probably," said Quarles.

"Some ash is on the writing-table, too."

He took up a sheet of paper and scooped up a little of the ash from the hearth and examined it under his lens; and, having done this, he raked about in the cinders, but found nothing to interest him.

"I want a cigarette-end," he said, looking first in the coal-box, then along the mantelpiece and in the little ornaments there, and, finally, in the paper basket.

"Ah, here is one.

Thrown here, it suggests that the smoker might have been seated at the table, doesn't it?

We progress, Wigan; we progress."

It was always impossible to tell whether the professor's remarks expressed his real opinion, or whether they were merely careless words spoken while his mind was busy in an altogether different direction.

I

hardly saw where our progression came in.

I examined the carpet.

If anyone had entered in a hurry to kidnap Mrs. Fitzroy he would not have spent much time in wiping his boots.

I found a little soil on the hearthrug and by the writing-table.

I pointed it out to the professor, who was still looking at the cigarette which lay in the palm of his hand.

"Yes, very interesting," said Quarles.

"I expect the man came by way of the garden and brought a little earth from that pathway with him.

What do you make of this cigarette?"

"A cheap kind.

Perhaps the lady smokes."

"We'll ask the servant.

By the way, Baker, do you happen to know Mrs. Fitzroy?"

"I've seen a lady come out of this house on one or two occasions," answered the constable.

"I described her to the servant, and have no doubt it was Mrs. Fitzroy.

She is rather good-looking, fifty or thereabouts, but takes some pains to appear younger, I fancy."

"You are observant," Quarles remarked.

"Shall we have the servant in, Wigan?"

Emma Lewin told us that she had been with Mrs. Fitzroy for over three years.

Last night she had gone out as usual about six o'clock.

She had left by the back door and had taken the key with her.

She always did so.

She returned just before ten, and had gone straight upstairs to take off her hat and jacket.

She always did this before going in to see whether her mistress required anything.

"Was the dining-room door shut when you went upstairs?"

I asked.

"Yes."

"You did not go by the garden gate last night?"

"No. I never go that way.

The gate is never used."

"Did Mrs. Fitzroy have many visitors?"

"None to speak of.

Not half a dozen people have called upon her since I have been here.

I believe she had no relations.

Once or twice a week she would be out all day, and occasionally she has been away for a night or two."

"Where has she gone on these occasions?"

I asked.

"I do not know."

"And her correspondence--was it large?"

"She received very few letters," the servant answered; "whether she wrote many, I cannot say.

I certainly didn't post them."

"Did she use the telephone much?"

"She gave orders to the tradesmen sometimes, and I have heard the bell ringing occasionally.

You see, the kitchen is a basement one, and the bell might often ring without my hearing it."

"Did your mistress smoke?"

Quarles asked suddenly.

"No, sir."

"How do you know she didn't?"

"I have heard her say she didn't agree with women smoking.

Besides, when doing the rooms I should have found cigarette-ends."

"That seems conclusive," said Quarles.

"Yesterday was Wednesday, your night out?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is Wednesday always your night out?"

"It is."

"From six to ten?"

"Yes; it is a standing arrangement; nothing ever interferes with it."

"Very interesting," said the professor.

"Now, of course you know what your mistress was wearing when you left her alone in the house last night?"

"A brown dress with----" "I don't want to know," Quarles interrupted.

"But I want you to go to your mistress's room and find out what hat and coat and what kind of boots she put on last night.

She wouldn't be likely to go out dressed as you left her.

You had better go with the young woman, Baker."

He spoke in rather a severe tone, and, when the girl had left the room with the constable, I asked him if he suspected her of complicity in the affair.

"My dear Wigan, as yet I am only gathering facts," he answered, "facts to fit theories.

We may take the following items as facts: Mrs. Fitzroy did not smoke.

She had few visitors.

She received few letters.

Once or twice a week she was out all day.

The servant's night out is Wednesday.

Yesterday, being Wednesday, a taxi waited for a considerable time in Melbury Avenue.

The driver has brought his fare to Melbury Avenue on previous occasions."

"And the theory?"

I asked.

"Theories," he corrected; "there are many.

If the taxi came on Wednesdays on the other occasions, the fare may have smoked this kind of cigarette.

If so, he may be the man who kidnapped Mrs. Fitzroy.

He may have been hurrying the lady down the narrow path while Baker and his companion were standing on the front door step.

Out of such theories a score of others come naturally."

"By this time they may have heard of the driver at the police station.

Shall I telephone?"

"Not yet," said Quarles.

"We will try and discover how Mrs. Fitzroy was dressed first."

"And meanwhile we are giving our quarry time to escape," I said.

"We must risk something, and we haven't got enough facts to support any theory yet.

I wonder whether Mrs. Fitzroy did use the telephone much?"

The speculation threw him into a reverie until Emma Lewin returned with the information that her mistress must have gone out dressed just as she had left her.

No hat nor jacket nor wrap of any kind was missing, and she had not changed her indoor shoes.

"Thank you; that helps us very much.

I don't think you can help us any more at present."

And then, when the girl had gone, Quarles turned to Baker.

"I understand you searched the house last night for Mrs. Fitzroy?"

"We did."

"Was it a thorough search--I mean did you look into every corner, every drawer, every cupboard for some sign of her?

Did you explore the cellars, which, I expect, are large?"

"It was not quite as thorough as that," said Baker, trying to suppress a smile at the idea of finding Mrs. Fitzroy in a drawer, I suppose.

"You expected to find the lady lying on the carpet here?"

"Well, sir, I thought it likely at first; but, with the garden gate unfastened and the taxi in Melbury Avenue, I don't doubt the lady went that way."

"After telephoning to the police that she was being murdered?"

said Quarles.

"I don't suggest that she went willingly," said Baker.

"But you do suggest that, being convinced she had gone, your search of the house was not very thorough?"

"I didn't mean to suggest that, either, sir," answered Baker, some resentment in his tone.

"We want Zena here, Wigan, to ask one of her absurd questions," Quarles went on.

"I'll ask one in her place.

Why was the police station rung up at all?"

"The woman rushed to the 'phone for help, and----" "My dear Wigan, the directory is open at the page giving the number of the police station.

What was her assailant doing while she turned up the number and rang up the exchange?"

"Probably he wasn't in the room, and her woman's wit----" "Ah, you've been reading sensational fiction," he interrupted.

"Let us stick to facts.

The call must have been a deliberate one and would take time.

There was evidently no desperate struggle in this room last night.

The position of the two chairs by the hearth suggests that two persons at some time during the evening were sitting here together--one of them a man, since the hearth shows that he smoked.

The time would be somewhere between six o'clock, when the servant went out, and nine-thirty, when the telephone message was received.

If Baker can fix the time of the taxi's arrival in Melbury Avenue, perhaps we can be even more accurate."

"The taxi wasn't there at half-past seven," said the constable.

"Then we may say between seven-thirty and nine-thirty," said Quarles.

"Now the only thing which suggests violence of any kind is the instrument hanging over the table.

Had the person using it been forcibly dragged away, the instrument might have fallen in that position, but it would have been a stupendous miracle if the receiver had swung to its place on the hook.

No, Wigan, the receiver was replaced carefully to cut the connection, and the instrument was probably hung as it is deliberately to attract attention.

I come back to my question, then: Why was the police station rung up at all?"

I did not answer, and Baker shook his head in sympathy.

"I do not attempt to suggest what occurred while the two sat here by the fire," said Quarles, "but whatever it was, somebody wished it to be known that something had happened.

That is my answer to the question.

The message suggests murder.

As the house has not yet been thoroughly searched, murder may actually have taken place."

Baker started, and I looked at the professor in astonishment.

"You think Mrs. Fitzroy is lying dead somewhere in this house?"

I

said.

"I have a theory which we may put to the test at once," returned Quarles.

"In the cellars, I suppose?"

"No, Wigan; we'll look everywhere else first.

I expect to find a body, and not very securely hidden either; there wouldn't be much time; and, besides, I believe it is meant to be found.

Still I do not expect to find Mrs. Fitzroy's body.

I expect to find a dead man.

Shall we go and look?"

A man in my profession perforce gets used to coming in contact with death in various forms, but there is always a certain thrill in doing so, and in the present search there was something uncanny.

The quest was not a long one.

In a small bedroom on the first floor, sparsely furnished and evidently used chiefly as a box-room, we found the body of a man under the bed.

A cord had been thrown round his neck and he had been strangled fiercely and with powerful hands at the work.

"Not a woman's doing," said Quarles as he knelt down to examine the corpse.

There were no papers of any kind in the pockets, but there was money and a cigar case.

"Time is precious now, Wigan," said the professor.

"You might telephone to the station and ask if they have found the driver of the taxi.

I want to know if this poor fellow is the man he drove to Melbury Avenue last evening, also whether it has always been a Wednesday when he has brought him into this neighborhood; and, of course, you must ask him any questions which may lead to the identification of the dead man.

I don't suppose he will be able to help you much in that direction.

You will find, I fancy, that the driver got tired of waiting for his fare last night and drove away."

"Or took another fare--the murderer," I suggested.

"I don't think so," said Quarles.

"You might also ask the inspector at the station whether he is prepared to swear that the first voice he heard over the 'phone--the voice which said 'police'--was a woman's. What time does it grow dark now, constable?"

"Early--half-past four, sir."

"I'll go, Wigan.

I want to think the matter out before dark.

Seven o'clock to-night--meet me at the top of the road at that time, and somewhere close have half a dozen plain clothes men ready for a raid.

Now that we know murder has been done, you couldn't suggest a house to raid, I suppose, constable."

"I couldn't, sir."

"Nor can I at present.

Seven o'clock to-night, Wigan."

The professor's manner, short, peremptory, self-sufficient, was at times calculated to disturb the serenity of an archangel.

I had been on the point of quarreling with him more than once that morning, but the sudden demonstration of what seemed to be the wildest theory left me with nothing to say.

Constable Baker had an idea of putting the case adequately, I think, when he remarked: "He ain't human, that's what he is."

The taxi driver had been found, and, when taken to Hambledon Road, recognized the dead man as his fare.

He had driven him to Melbury Avenue on four occasions, and each time it had been a Wednesday.

Of course, the gentleman might have come more than four times, and on other days besides Wednesdays for all he knew.

On each occasion he had been called off a rank in Trafalgar Square.

His fare had paid him for the down journey before walking up the avenue, and had never kept him waiting so long before, so he gave up the job and went back to town.

He had not picked up another fare until he got to Kensington.

The inspector at the station was certain the message he had received was in a woman's voice, but he was not sure that the word "police" was in the same voice, or that it was a woman who spoke it.

At seven o'clock I was waiting for Quarles at the top of Hambledon Road.

He was punctual to the minute.

"You've got the men, Wigan?"

"They are hanging about in Melbury Avenue."

"It may be there is hot work in front of us," said Quarles, "and the first move is yours.

No. 6 Hambledon Road is the house we want, and you will go to the front door and ask to see the master.

I fancy a maidservant will answer the door, but I am not sure.

Whoever it is, prevent an alarm being given, and get into the house with the two men who will accompany you.

That done, get the door into the garden open, and I will join you with the rest of the men.

If there is any attempt at escape it will be by the garden, and we shall be waiting for them.

Utter silence; that is imperative.

Of course, they may be prepared, but probably they are not.

If it is necessary to shoot, you must, and we will force our way in as best we can and take our part in the struggle.

Come along, let's get the men together."

A few minutes later I had knocked at the door of No. 6; an elderly woman-servant came to the door, and I saw suspicion in her eyes.

Even as I inquired for her master I seized her, and so successfully that she hadn't an opportunity to utter a sound.

I asked her no question, certain that she would mislead me, and, leaving one of the men with her in the hall, I hastened with the other two to the door leading into the garden, fully expecting to be attacked.

We saw no one, heard no movement; either the professor had made a mistake or the conspirators considered themselves secure.

Quarles and the men came in like shadows, so silent were they, and it was evident that the professor had given his companions instructions, for two of them quickly went toward the hall.

"The cellars, Wigan," he whispered.

"I think it will be the cellars."

The house was a basement one, similar to No. 14, and from a stone passage we found a door giving on to a dozen steep steps.

It was pitch dark below.

"Don't show a light," said Quarles as he pushed me gently to go forward.

I didn't know it at the time, but only one man came down with us.

At the foot of the stairs a passage ran to right and left, and to the left, which was toward the garden side of the house, a thin line of light showed below a door.

On tiptoe, ready for emergencies, and hardly daring to breathe, we approached it, and with one accord the professor and I put our ears to the door.

For a while no sound came, then a paper rustled and a foot scraped lightly on the stone floor.

We had chanced to arrive during a pause in the conversation, for presently a voice, pitched low and monotonous in its tone, went on with an argument: "I can find no excuse for you in that, Bertha Capracci.

It is not admitted that your husband found death at the hands of his associates, but, were it so, it is no more than just.

There are papers here proving beyond all doubt that he betrayed his friends."

"I have already said that is untrue," came the answer in a woman's voice.

"There is no doubt," said another man.

"None," said a third.

Three men at least were sitting in judgment upon this woman, and it was evident they were not English.

"Besides, I am not one of you," said the woman.

"In name, no; in reality, yes; since your husband must have let you into many secrets," returned the first speaker.

"Your woman's wit has outplayed our spies until recently, but, once discovered, you have been constantly watched.

We cannot prove that the failure of some of our plans, costing the lives of good comrades, has been due to your interference, but we suspect it.

We found you in constant communication with this English Jew, Jacob Morrison, who is in the pay of the Continental police.

He is dead, a warning to others, killed in your house, and busy eyes are now looking for you as his murderess.

You have hidden your identity so entirely that all inquiry must speedily be baffled, and so you have played into our hands.

Your disappearance will hardly reach to a nine days' wonder, and who will think to look for your body under the flags of this cellar?

Death is the sentence of the Society, and forthwith."

I waited to hear a cry of terror, but it did not come.

Nor was there a movement to suggest that the men had risen at once to the work, or, in spite of the restraining hand the professor laid on my arm, I should have been beating at the door to break it down.

"I offer you one chance of life," the man's voice droned on after a pause.

"Confess everything.

Give me the names of all those to whom you have given information concerning us, and you shall have your miserable life."

"You have killed the only man who knew anything from me," she answered.

"It's a lie," came the hissing reply.

"Your cursed husband told you so much about us, he may have explained some of the means we employ to make unwilling tongues speak.

I'll have the truth out of you."

One of the men must have sat close to her, for her sudden cry of fear was instantly smothered, and there was the sound of struggle and rough usage.

"Now--quickly," whispered Quarles; and the man who had followed us to the cellars had struck with a stout piece of iron between the door and its framework.

The wood splintered immediately, and, almost before I was prepared, we were facing our enemies, and Quarles was shouting for the other men in the house to come to us.

"Hands up!"

I cried.

They were unprepared, that was our salvation.

Not one of the three had any intention of surrender, that was evident in a moment, but they had to get their hands on their weapons, and, fortunately, only one of them had a revolver.

The other two rushed upon us with knives.

I think Quarles was the first to fire, and he was not a thought too soon.

He said afterward that he meant to maim and not to kill, but his bullet passed through the man's brain, and he dropped like a stone.

He was the one with the revolver, and, regardless of his own safety, he meant to silence the woman for ever.