The Master Detective by Percy James Brebner
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Percy James Brebner >> The Master Detective
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THE MASTER DETECTIVE
_Being Some Further Investigations of Christopher Quarles_
BY PERCY JAMES BREBNER
AUTHOR OF "CHRISTOPHER QUARLES."
1916
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE STRANGE CASE OF SIR GRENVILLE RUSHOLM
II. THE KIDNAPING OF EVA WILKINSON
III. THE DELVERTON AFFAIR
IV. THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE IN MANLEIGH ROAD
V. THE DIFFICULTY OF BROTHER PYTHAGORAS
VI. THE TRAGEDY IN DUKE'S MANSIONS
VII. THE STOLEN AEROPLANE MODEL
VIII. THE AFFAIR OF THE CONTESSA'S PEARLS
IX. THE DISAPPEARANCE OF MADAME VATROTSKI
X. THE MYSTERY OF THE MAN AT WARBURTON'S
XI. THE STRANGE CASE OF DANIEL HARDIMAN
XII. THE CRIME IN THE YELLOW TAXI
XIII. THE AFFAIR OF THE JEWELED CHALICE
XIV. THE ADVENTURE OF THE FORTY-TON YAWL
XV. THE SOLUTION OF THE GRANGE PARK MYSTERY
THE MASTER DETECTIVE
CHAPTER I
THE STRANGE CASE OF SIR GRENVILLE RUSHOLM
Sir Grenville Rusholm, Baronet, was dead. The blinds were down at the
Lodge, Queen's Square. For the last few days lengthy obituary notices had
appeared in all the papers, innumerable wreaths and crosses had arrived
at the house, and letters of sympathy and condolence had poured in upon
Lady Rusholm. The dead man had filled a considerable space in the social
world, although politically he had counted for little. Politics were not
his metier, he had said. He had consistently refused to stand for
parliament, his wealth had supported neither party, and perhaps his
social success was due more to his wife's charm than to his own
importance.
To-day the funeral was to take place. By his own desire his body was not
being taken to Moorlands, the family seat in Gloucestershire, but was to
be buried at Woking. The family chapel did not appeal to him. Indeed, he
had never spent much of his time at Moorlands, preferring his yacht or
the Continent when he was not at Queen's Square.
Last night the coffin had been brought downstairs and placed in the large
drawing-room, the scene of many a brilliant function, although by day it
was a somewhat dreary apartment. The presence of the coffin there added
to the depression, and the scent of the flowers was almost overpowering.
Many of the mourners were going direct to Woking, but there was a large
number of guests at the house who were received by the young baronet.
Naturally, Sir Arthur was of a sunny disposition, and his personality and
expectations had made him a favorite in society since he had left
Cambridge a year ago. To-day his face was more than grave. It was drawn
as if he were in physical pain, and it was evident how keenly he felt his
father's death. Lady Rusholm did not appear until the undertakers entered
the house. She came down the wide stairs, a pathetic figure in her deep
mourning, heavier than present-day fashion has made customary. She spoke
to no one, but went straight to the drawing-room and, standing just
inside the doorway, watched the men whose business is with death, as if
she feared some indignity might be offered to her dear one. In a few
moments her husband must pass out of that room for ever, and it was
hardly wonderful if she visualized for an instant the many occasions on
which he had been a central figure there.
The bearers stooped to lift the coffin from the trestles on to their
shoulders, then they straightened themselves under their burden, but they
did not move, at least only to start slightly, while their faces changed
from gravity to horror. Lady Rusholm uttered a short cry, and there was
consternation in the faces of the guests in the hall. There could be no
mistake; the sound, though dull and muffled, was too loud for that. It
was a knock from inside the coffin.
The man in charge whispered to the bearers. No, none of them had
inadvertently caused the sound. The coffin was replaced on the trestles,
and for a moment there was silence. No one moved; every one was waiting
for that knock again. It did not come.
The chief man stood looking at the coffin, then at the carpet, and, after
some hesitation, he crossed the room to Sir Arthur, who stood in the
doorway beside his mother.
"Was--was anything put into the coffin?" he whispered. "Something which
Sir Grenville wished buried with him, something which may have slipped?"
"No."
"I think--I think the coffin should be opened," whispered Dr. Coles, the
family physician.
"But he is dead! You know he is dead, doctor!"
"A trance--sometimes a mistake may happen, Sir Arthur. It was a distinct
knock. The coffin should certainly be opened."
"And quickly--quickly!"
It was Lady Rusholm who spoke, in a strained and unnatural voice.
Sir Arthur tried to persuade his mother to leave the room while this
was done, but she would not go. With a great effort she calmed herself
and remained with her son, the doctor, and two or three guests while
the coffin was unscrewed. The lid was lifted off, and for a moment no
one spoke.
"Empty!" the doctor cried.
As he spoke Lady Rusholm swayed backwards, and would have fallen had not
her son caught her.
There were two masses of lead in the coffin. There was no body.
Sir Arthur Rusholm immediately communicated with Scotland Yard, and the
utter confusion which followed this gruesome discovery had only partially
subsided when I, Murray Wigan, entered the house to enquire into a
mystery which was certainly amongst the most remarkable I have ever had
to investigate.
Some of those invited to the funeral had left the house before I
arrived, but the more personal friends were still there, and the story
as I have set it down was corroborated by different people with a wealth
of detail which seemed to leave nothing unsaid. Besides interviewing Sir
Arthur and the doctor, I saw Lady Rusholm for a few moments. She was
exceedingly agitated, as was natural, and I only asked her one or two
questions of a quite unimportant nature, but I was glad to see her. I
like to get into personal touch with the various people connected with
my cases as soon as possible.
I was in the house two hours or more, questioning servants, examining
doors and windows, and, to be candid, my investigations told me little.
When I left Queen's Square I knew I had a complex affair to deal with,
and it was natural my thoughts should fly to the one man who might help
me. If I could only interest Christopher Quarles in the case!
I remember speaking casually of a well-known person once and being met
with the question: Who is he? It may be that some of you have never heard
of Christopher Quarles, professor of philosophy, and one of the most
astute crime investigators of this or any other time. It has been my
privilege to chronicle some of our adventures together, and his help has
been of infinite benefit to me. Without it, not only should I have failed
to elucidate some of those mysteries the solving of which have made me a
power in the detective force, but I should never have seen his
granddaughter, Zena, who is shortly to become my wife.
For some months past the professor had given me no assistance at all.
He would not be interested in my cases, and would not enter the empty
room in his house in Chelsea where we had had so many discussions. It
was a fad of his that he could think more clearly in this room, which
had only three chairs and an old writing table in it, yet perhaps I
ought not to call it a fad, remembering the results of some of our
consultations there.
Months ago we had investigated a curious case in which jewels had been
concealed in a wooden leg. The solution had brought us a considerable
reward, and upon receiving the money Quarles had declared he would
investigate no more crimes. He had kept his word, had locked up the empty
room, and although I think I had sorely tempted him to break his vow on
more than one occasion, I had never quite succeeded.
As I got into a taxi I considered how very seldom it is that the ruling
passion ever dies. The Queen's Square mystery ought to shake Quarles's
resolution if anything could.
Zena was out when I got to Chelsea, but the professor seemed pleased
to see me.
"Are you out of work, Wigan?" he asked, looking at the clock.
I did not want him to think I had come with any deliberate intention, so
I answered casually:
"No. As a fact I am rather busy. I came out to Chelsea to think. Chelsea
air is rather good for thinking, you know."
"It used to be," he answered. "I'm glad I have given up criminal
hunting, Wigan."
"I still find excitement in it," I answered carelessly, "and really I
think criminals have grown cleverer since your time."
He looked at me sharply. I thought the remark would pique his curiosity.
"That means you have had some failures lately."
"On the contrary, I have been remarkably successful."
"Glad to hear it," he returned. "What makes you say criminals are more
clever then?"
"The Queen's Square Mystery."
"I don't read the papers as carefully as I did," he remarked.
"It only happened this morning," I answered. "I daresay you noticed that
Sir Grenville Rusholm died the other day. Some one has stolen his body,
that is all."
"Stolen his--"
"Yes, it is rather a curious case, but we won't talk about it. I know
that sort of thing doesn't interest you now."
I talked of other things--anything and everything--but I noted that he
was restless and uninterested.
"What did Sir Grenville die of?" he asked suddenly.
"A sudden and most unexpected collapse after influenza."
"And the body has been stolen?"
"Yes."
"I should like to hear about it, Wigan."
I hesitated until he began to get angry, and then I told him the story as
I have told it here. I had just finished when Zena came in.
"You, Murray! What has brought you here at this hour of the day?" she
asked in astonishment.
"Two pieces of lead," murmured Quarles.
"A case! Have you got interested in a case, dear? I am glad. What is the
mystery, Murray?"
"Where is the key of my room, Zena?" Quarles asked.
She took it from the drawer in a cabinet.
"I am not going to begin again," said the professor, "but this--this
is an exception. Come with us, Zena. Come and ask some of your absurd
questions. I wonder whether my brain is atrophied. There are cleverer
criminals than there used to be in my time, are there, Wigan? We
shall see."
He led the way to the empty room at the back of the house, muttering to
himself the while, and Zena and I smiled at each other behind his back as
we followed him. He was like an old dog on the trail again, and I did not
believe for a moment this case would be an exception.
"Tell the story, Wigan," he said when we were seated. "All the details,
mind, great and small."
So I went through the facts again.
"I made a careful study of the house and garden," I went on. "The Lodge
is a corner house, the garden is small, and a garage with an opening into
the other road--Connaught Road--has been built there. A 'Napier' car was
in the garage."
"Did you see the chauffeur?" asked Quarles.
"Yes. The car had not been used for a week. I could find no trace of an
entry having been made from the garden, but the latch of one of the
French windows of the drawing-room was unfastened. When I saw it this
window could be pushed open from outside. No one seems to have undone it
that morning, so the fact is significant."
Quarles nodded.
"Besides the servants only five people slept in the house that
night--Lady Rusholm, her son, two elderly ladies--cousins of Sir
Grenville's who had come from Yorkshire for the funeral--and a Mr.
Thompson, a friend of the family who was staying in the house when Sir
Grenville died."
"Who closed the windows after the body was taken to the drawing-room?"
asked Quarles.
"One of the undertaker's men."
"Is he positive he fastened them?"
"He is, but under the circumstances he is not anxious to swear to it."
"And the door of the room, had that been kept locked?"
"Yes. The key was in Sir Arthur's possession."
"Who first entered the room this morning?"
"Sir Arthur when he took in two or three wreaths which arrived late last
night. The room was just as it had been left on the previous day. The
wreaths and crosses were not disarranged in any way."
"And there were only two pieces of lead in the coffin when it was
opened?" queried Zena.
"A large lump and a small one," I answered.
"Couldn't they have been packed in such a way that they would not
have slipped?"
"Of course they could. No doubt that was the intention, but the work was
badly done because the thieves did it hurriedly," I answered.
"One of your foolish questions, Zena," said Quarles, looking keenly at
her. He always declared that her foolish inquiries put him on the
right road.
"It is a good thing the lead did slip, or the gruesome theft might never
have been discovered," she said.
"Was the coffin a very elaborate one?" Quarles asked, after nodding an
acquiescence to Zena's remark.
"No, quite a plain one."
"Has the drawing-room more than one door?"
"Only one into the hall. There is a small room out of the
drawing-room--a small drawing-room in fact. Lady Rusholm does her
correspondence there. It can only be reached by going through the large
room, and the door between the rooms was locked. Sir Arthur got the key
from his mother and opened the door for me."
"What could any one want with a dead body?" asked Zena.
"If we could answer that question we should be nearing the end of the
affair," said Quarles. "Years ago there were two men--Burke and
Hare--who--"
"Oh, the day of resurrectionists is past," I said.
"Don't be so dogmatic," returned Quarles sharply. "A corpse has been
stolen; can you suggest any use a corpse can be put to if it is not to
serve some anatomical or medical purpose? Remember, Wigan, that mentally
and materially there is always a tendency to move in a circle. What has
been will be again--altered according to environment--but practically the
same. Always start with the assumption that a similar case has happened
before. Our difficulties would be much greater if Solomon had been wrong,
and there were constantly new things under the sun. Undoubtedly there are
some interesting points in this case. Have you arrived at a theory?"
"No, at least only a very vague one. Sir Arthur seems certain that his
father had no enemies, and my theory would require an enemy; some one
who, having failed to injure him in life, had found an opportunity of
wreaking vengeance on the dead clay by preventing the body having
Christian burial."
"That is a very interesting idea, Wigan; go on."
"I daresay you remember that the Rusholm baronetcy caused some excitement
about twenty years ago. The papers have recalled it in connection with
Sir Grenville's death. Sir John Rusholm--the baronet at that time--was a
very old man, and during the two years before his death several relations
died. He had no son living, so the heir was a nephew, the son of a much
younger brother who had gone to Australia and died there. This nephew had
not been heard of for a long time, and as soon as he became the heir, Sir
John advertised for him in the Australian papers. There was no answer,
and the Yorkshire Rusholms, who are poor, expected to inherit. Then at
the very time when Sir John was on his death-bed news came of the nephew.
He had been in India for some years, had proposed there, had married and
had a son. There had been so many lives between him and the title that he
had thought nothing about it until a chance acquaintance had shown him
the advertisement in an old Australian paper. He wrote that he was
starting for England at once, but Sir John was dead when he arrived. That
is how Sir Grenville came into the property."
"Was his claim disputed?" asked Zena.
"Oh, no, there was no question about it. He had family papers which only
the nephew could possibly have, and you may depend the Yorkshire Rusholms
would have found a flaw in the title if they could. Their disappointment
must have been great, and if I could discover that Sir Grenville had an
enemy amongst them--some relation he had refused to help, for instance--I
should want to know all about him."
"Yours is a very interesting idea," said Quarles. "Do you happen to know
who Lady Rusholm was?"
"The daughter of a tea planter in Ceylon. Her social success here has
been very great, as you know."
"A very charming woman I should say," said the professor. "I saw her
once--not many months ago. She was distributing the prizes at a technical
institute in North London. I remember how well she spoke, and what an
exceedingly poor second the chairman was in spite of his being a Member
of Parliament. You have got a constable at The Lodge, I suppose?"
"Two. I have given instructions that no one is to be allowed in the room,
on any pretext whatever."
"Good. You and I will go there to-morrow. I'll be your assistant,
Wigan--say an expert in finger prints. I'll meet you outside The Lodge at
ten o'clock. There are so many clues in this case, the difficulty is to
know which one to follow, I must have a few quiet hours to decide."
I smiled. It was like Quarles to make such a statement, especially after
I had declared that criminals were becoming cleverer. Never were clues
more conspicuous by their absence, I imagine. I was, however, delighted
to have the professor's help. It was like old times.
The next morning I met Quarles in Queen's Square, and his appearance was
proof of his enthusiasm. He posed as rather a feeble, inquisitive old man
who could talk of nothing but finger prints and their significance. Sir
Arthur was evidently not impressed with his ability to solve any mystery.
When we entered the drawing-room he seemed lost in admiration of the
apartment, and did not even glance at the open coffin which stood on the
trestles. He walked to the window, drew aside the blind, and looked into
the garden. Then he looked into the small room.
"No other exit here but the window. An entrance might have been made by
that window."
"The door between the two rooms was locked," said Sir Arthur. "I had to
get the key from my mother when Mr. Wigan wanted to go in. It is my
mother's special room, but she had been so occupied in nursing my father
that she had not used it for more than a week."
Then Quarles looked at the wreaths, wanted to know which ones had been
left near the coffin when the room was locked for the night, and the
wreaths which Sir Arthur pointed out he examined carefully. Then he
pointed to a large cross lying on an armchair.
"Has that one been there all the time?"
Sir Arthur explained that two or three wreaths had come late in the
evening. He had himself brought them into the room on the morning of the
funeral. That cross was one of them.
"Ah, it is a pity you didn't bring them in that night. You might have
surprised the villains at work."
"We were in bed by eleven. Do you imagine they began before that?"
"Possibly," said Quarles, as he turned his attention to the coffin. He
examined the lid with a lens, for the finger marks, he said, which one
might expect to find near the screw holes. Then he studied the sides of
the coffin. The two pieces of lead did not appear to interest him very
much, but he asked me to push the smaller piece from the foot of the
coffin. He examined the lining, felt the padding, tried its thickness
with the point of a penknife, and in doing so he slit the lining.
"Sorry," he said. "My old hands are not as steady as they used to be.
Quite a thick padding, and quite a substantial coffin."
He had brought out some of the padding with his knife, and this left part
of the floor of the coffin near the foot visible. This he tapped with the
handle of his penknife to test its thickness.
"Quite an ordinary coffin--plain but good," he went on, looking at the
brass fittings.
"It was my father's wish that it should be so," said Sir Arthur.
"Strange what a lot of trouble some men take about their funerals,
while others never trouble at all," said the professor, looking round
the room again. "I suppose, Sir Arthur, like the rest of us your father
had enemies."
"Not that I know of."
"An old rival, for instance, in your mother's affections."
"There was nothing of the kind. Mr. Thompson, who is still in the
house--you saw him yesterday, Mr. Wigan--will endorse this. He knew my
mother before her marriage."
"Still, some people must have envied your father. But for him, another
branch of the family would have inherited the estates, I understand. Has
he always been on friendly terms with this branch of the family?"
"Always, and has helped them considerably."
"Experience teaches us that it is often the most difficult thing to
forgive those who do us favors," said Quarles sententiously.
"Do you believe that some one out of wanton cruelty has stolen the body
with no purpose beyond mere revenge?"
"It looks like it, Sir Arthur. The body will probably be discovered
presently. Possibly the thief will furnish you with a clue so that you
may know he or she has taken revenge. I am afraid there is nothing to be
done but to wait. I feel greatly for Lady Rusholm."
"The waiting will be dreadful. I am trying to persuade my mother to go
away at once."
"Why not? You will remain in London, of course. Your father's papers may
throw some light on the mystery."
"I have interviewed lawyers, and I have already gone through some of his
private papers. I do not think any light will come that way. Do you want
to look at anything else in the house?"
"I think not," I said.
"My specialty is finger prints," said Quarles, "nothing else. In this
case my specialty has proved useless." When we left the house Quarles
turned toward Connaught Road.
"Is it your real opinion that the only thing to do is to wait?" I asked.
"Let's go and see if we can find any more finger prints," he chuckled.
The garage was shut. Cut into the big gates was a small door.
"Not a difficult lock," said Quarles. "I may have a key that will fit it.
We must get in somehow."
"There is a door into the garage from the garden. We could have gone
that way."
"And advertised ourselves to the servants. I wanted to avoid that."
He found a key to open the door, and he made no pretense of looking for
finger prints now. He examined the car. It was a big one--open--with a
cape hood--capable of carrying five or six persons besides the driver.
He was interested in the seating accommodation, and the make of the car
generally. There was a window which had a shutter to it high up in the
garage looking into the side road, and a small window at the back
looking into the garden which had no shutter. Quarles got on a stool to
examine the frame of this window, and then inspected the cloths for
cleaning and the towels which were in the garage.
"Come on. The interest of this place is soon exhausted," he said.
In less than a quarter of an hour we were walking along Connaught
Road again.
"By the way, what is Dr. Coles's address?" asked Quarles.
I gave it to him. It was a turning off Connaught Road.
"I shall go and see him, and then I have a call to make elsewhere. Come
to Chelsea to-night, Wigan. Take my word for it, criminals are no
cleverer than they used to be."
When I went to Chelsea that evening I found the professor and Zena
waiting for me in the empty room. He was evidently impatient to talk.
"My brain may possibly require oiling, Wigan, but Zena's questions are
just as absurd as they ever were," he began. "She wanted to know why the
lead had been packed so carelessly, and what use a dead body could be to
any one. No bad points of departure for an inquiry. Now, when the coffin
was opened after the knock had been heard, a little sawdust from the
screw holes fell on the carpet. It was there when we went into the room
this morning. We may reasonably argue that some sawdust must have fallen
when the coffin was opened during the night. But no one seems to have
noticed it."
"It might easily have escaped casual notice even if the thieves neglected
to remove it, which is unlikely," I returned.
"It would not be so easy to remove, for the carpet is a thick one, and
the thieves would be in a hurry, you know. Also there were wreaths about
and I could find no trace of sawdust in them. But further, the screw
holes show a clear, perfect thread which one would hardly expect if the
coffin had been opened and closed again. Small points, but they promote
speculation. Yesterday, before I met you in Queen's Square, I went to see
the undertakers, and the man who was in charge of the arrangements says
emphatically that there was no sign of the coffin having been opened. A
little sawdust was the first thing he looked for."
"Are you trying to prove that the lead was already in the coffin when it
was taken to the drawing-room?" I asked.
"No. I am only trying to show that it is doubtful whether the coffin was
opened in the drawing-room."
"The change could not have been made in the bedroom, or the lead would
have slipped during the journey downstairs," I said.
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