Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 9, No. 42, May 1947

A Bird in the Tree by Eric Ambler

You will find in John Heywood’s PROVERBES, Part I, Chapter XI, that “Better one byrde in hand than ten in the woody.” And Plutarch expressed the same thought in OF GARRULITY as “He is a fool who lets slip a bird in the hand for a bird in the bush.” In DON QUIXOTE Miguel de Cervantes trimmed the proverb to “A bird in hand is worth two in the bush.”

We do not know if Eric Ambler’s Dr. Jan Czissar — late Prague Police, at your service! — is familiar with the works of Heywood, Plutarch, or Cervantes, but we would not be surprised if he is — Dr. Czissar has an aura of being familiar with even the most unfamiliar things. In any event, Dr. Czissar’s knowledge (or lack of knowledge) of the classics would have seemed totally irrelevant the afternoon he busybodied himself into the Mortons Hind case. It was all quite straightforward in Assistant Commissioner Mercer’s opinion — a clear case of Scotland Yard pinning the guilt on the only possible culprit — a clear case, that is, until that clever Czech refugee-detective proved that a bird in the tree is worth two clues in a ballistic expert’s testimony...

Copyright 1942, by Eric Ambler

It was generally felt by his subordinates at Scotland Yard that the best time to see Assistant Commissioner Mercer was while he was drinking his afternoon tea. It was at tea time, therefore, that Detective-Inspector Denton took care to present a verbal report on the Mortons Hind case.

The village of Mortons Hind, Denton reported, was five miles from the market town of Penborough. Near the corner of the Penborough and Leicester roads, and about half a mile from the village, stood Mortons Grange, now the home of Mr. Maurice Wretford, a retired Londoner, and his wife.

At half-past three in the afternoon of November 10th, Mr. Wretford’s chauffeur, Alfred Gregory (40), had left the Grange to drive his employer’s car to a Penborough garage which was to repair a damaged fender. He had taken his bicycle with him in the back of the car so that he could ride home. He had never returned to the Grange. At half-past five that evening, a motorist driving along a deserted stretch of road about a mile from the Grange had seen the bicycle lying in a ditch and stopped. A few yards away, also in the ditch and dead, had been Gregory. He had a bullet in his head. The gun which fired it had not been found.

According to the garage manager, Gregory had left him soon after four o’clock. A waitress in a Penborough teashop, where Gregory was known, had stated that he had left the teashop just before five o’clock. This had fitted in with the opinion expressed by the police surgeon, who had examined the body at about six o’clock, that Gregory had died less than an hour previously. Obviously, Gregory had started for home immediately after he had left the teashop, and had been shot shortly before he had been found by the motorist.

The bullet, which was of .22 calibre, had entered the left temple, leaving a small circular wound halfway between the ear and the eye.

The news of the shooting had spread quickly round the village, and late that night a gamekeeper, Harry Rudder (52), had reported to the police that that same afternoon he had seen a 19-year-old youth, Thomas Wilder, shooting at birds with a rifle not far from the spot where Gregory’s body had been found. Wilder was the son of a local farmer, and the following day the police had visited his home. He had admitted that he had been firing the rifle the previous day, but denied that he had been near the Penborough road. His rifle had been examined and found to be of .22 calibre.

It had not been until later that day that the post-mortem findings given above had been made known to the police. The fatal bullet had been handed to them at the same time. To their disgust, it had been badly distorted by its impact against the bones of the head. Any identification of rifling marks had been rendered impossible. The bullet might have been fired from any .22-calibre weapon.

Gregory had had no living relatives. His employer, Mr. Wretford, had given woebegone evidence of identification. The ballistics expert, Sergeant Blundell, had later given evidence. The bullet had been fired some distance from the deceased and at a level slightly below that of his head. The witness had agreed that a shot, fired from a rifle held to the shoulder of a man six feet in height (Wilder’s height was six feet) standing in the meadow to the left of the road, at a bird in the tree on the opposite side of the road, could hit a passing cyclist in the head. After that statement, young Wilder’s protestations that he had not fired across the road had left the jurymen unmoved. They had returned a verdict of “accidental death caused by the criminal negligence of Thomas Wilder.”

Young Wilder had then been immediately arrested.

Mercer stirred his second cup of tea rather irritably. “Yes, yes. All quite straightforward, isn’t it? It’s Blundell’s show now. Send in your report in the usual way, Denton. I can’t see why you didn’t do so in the first place. There’s nothing to be discussed about the affair.”

Denton drew a deep breath. Then: “I don’t think Wilder’s guilty, sir,” he said.

Mercer’s frown deepened. “You don’t? Why?”

Denton squirmed on his chair. “Well, sir, it isn’t really my idea at all. It was that Czech refugee who was in the Prague police, that Dr. Czissar.”

“Whom did you say?” asked Mercer ominously.

Denton recognized the tone of voice and went on hurriedly. “Dr. Czissar, sir. He was at the inquest. He spoke to me afterwards, and seeing that he was a friend of Sir Herbert at the Home Office, I thought I’d better humor him. He sort of buttonholed me and I couldn’t really get away. He...”

But Mercer was scarcely listening. He was seeing a vision — a vision of a plump, pale man with thick glasses and cowlike brown eyes, of a man wearing a long gray raincoat and soft hat too large for him, and carrying an unfurled umbrella; of this same man sitting on the chair now occupied by Denton and politely telling him, Mercer, how to do his job. Twice it had happened. Twice had Dr. Czissar sat there and proved that he was right and that Scotland Yard was wrong. And now...

Mercer pulled himself together. “All right, Denton. I know Dr. Czissar. Go on.”

Denton drew another breath. “Well sir, he oozed up to me after the inquest and asked me what I thought about the verdict.”

Mercer smiled drily. “I’d forget Dr. Czissar’s little fancies if I were you, Denton. You must remember that he’s a refugee. His experiences have probably unhinged him a little. Understandable, of course.”

“You mean he’s dotty, sir?” Denton considered the proposition. “Well, he does look it a bit. But, begging your pardon, sir, he wasn’t so dotty about that case. If it hadn’t been for him... It’s sort of worried me, him going on about Wilder being innocent.” He hesitated. “He says he’s coming in to see you this afternoon, sir,” he concluded.

“Oh, does he!”

“Yes, sir. About five, after the Museum reading-room closes. He says he’s working on that book of his. He wants to talk to you about the case.” Denton looked anxious. “If you’d let me know what he says, I’d be grateful. It’s sort of got me, this case.”

“All right, Denton. I’ll let you know.”

He was staring at his untasted second cup of tea when Dr. Czissar was announced.

Dr. Czissar came into the room, clapped his umbrella to his side, clicked his heels, bowed and said: “Dr. Jan Czissar. Late Prague police. At your service.”

Mercer watched this all-too familiar performance with unconcealed dislike. “Sit down, doctor,” he said shortly. “Inspector Denton tells me that you wish to make a suggestion about the Mortons Hind case.”

Dr. Czissar sat down carefully and leaned forward. “Thank you, assistant commissioner,” he said earnestly. “It is so good of you to receive me again.”

Mercer cleared his throat. “To me, the case seems perfectly straightforward. Our expert, Blundell...”

“Ah!” Dr. Czissar’s eyes gleamed. “That is the word. Expert. The witness whom the lawyers always attack, eh? It was so in Prague.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sergeant Blundell was asked whether a shot fired from a rifle held to the shoulder of a man in the field to the left of the road at a bird in the tree on the right of the road could hit a passing cyclist and make a wound such as that found in Mr. Gregory. He very properly answered that it could.”

“Well?”

Dr. Czissar smiled faintly. “Sergeant Blundell had taken measurements and made calculations. They were accurate. But he did not actually fire at any bird in that tree himself. His observations were therefore incomplete. His answer was legally correct. Mr. Gregory could have been so killed. But he was not so killed. And for a simple reason. For Wilder to have fired the shot at that particular angle, the bird would have had to be on a branch about eighteen feet from the ground. The lowest branch on that tree is about ten feet above that!”

Mercer sat up. “Are you sure, doctor?”

“I could not make a mistake about such a thing,” said Dr. Czissar with dignity.

“No, no, of course not. Excuse me a moment, doctor.” Mercer picked up the telephone. “I want Inspector Denton and Sergeant Blundell to see me immediately.”

There was an embarrassed silence until they came. Then Dr. Czissar was asked to repeat his statement.

Mercer looked at Blundell. “Well?”

Blundell reddened. “It’s possible, sir. I can’t say that I looked at the thing from that standpoint.”

Denton said: “That makes it murder, eh, doctor?”

Dr. Czissar frowned. “That,” he said stiffly, “is for the assistant commissioner to decide.” He turned courteously to Mercer. “If you will permit me, assistant commissioner, to make a further suggestion?”

Mercer nodded wearily. “Go ahead, doctor.”

A thin smile stretched the doctor’s full lips. He settled his glasses on his nose. Then he cleared his throat, swallowed hard and leaned forward. “Attention, please,” he said sharply.

He had their attention.

“To you, Assistant Commissioner Mercer,” began Dr. Czissar, “I would say that no blame in this matter belongs to Inspector Denton or Sergeant Blundell. They were obviously expected by the local police to prove a case of manslaughter against Wilder and they contrived to do so. The case was spoiled for them before they arrived.

“At the inquest,” resumed Dr. Czissar, “Mr. Wretford, so sad at losing his good chauffeur, said that Gregory had been in his employ for three years, and that he was sober, steady and of excellent character. And the poor man had no friends or relations living. Such a pity and so unusual. I decided to investigate a little. I went to the garage at Penborough and talked to a mechanic there. I found that Mr. Wretford had made a little mistake about his chauffeur. Gregory was not very sober. Also he bet a great deal. The mechanic was able to tell me that he dealt with a bookmaker in Penborough. To this bookmaker I went next.”

Dr. Czissar looked suddenly embarrassed. “I’m afraid,” he said apologetically, “that I have been guilty of an offense. You see, I wished for information from this bookmaker. I said that I was from the police without saying that it was the Prague police. I hope you will consider that the information I obtained will excuse me. I found that Gregory had, in the last year, lost £237 to this bookmaker.”

Mercer jumped. “What!”

“Two hundred and thirty-seven pounds, assistant commissioner. In addition, he had asked for no credit. He had received his winnings and paid his losses in pound notes. The previous year, Gregory had lost slightly less. The year before that, less still. But in those three years quite a lot of money had passed through his hands. His wages could not have been sufficient to absorb such losses.”

“He earned two pounds a week and his keep, according to Wretford,” Denton put in.

Dr. Czissar smiled gently. “The bookmaker had concluded that the bets were really made by Mr. Wretford, who did not wish to have it known that he made bets. It seems that such reticences are not unusual. But Gregory was murdered. That was unusual. The bookmaker’s conclusion did not satisfy me. I made other inquiries. Among other things, I found that eight years ago, just before Mr. Wretford retired, a clerk in his office was convicted of stealing £15,000 in bearer bonds and £300 in cash. I found a full report of the case in the newspaper files. The prosecution showed that he had got into debt through betting and that he had been systematically stealing small sums over a long period. The prosecution argued that, having gained confidence from the fact that his petty thefts went undiscovered, he had stolen the bonds. There was one curious feature about the affair. The bonds were not found and the prisoner refused to say anything about them except that he had stolen them. His sentence was five years in prison. His name was Selton.”

“I remember the case,” said Denton eagerly. “Gregory Selton — that was the name.”

“Precisely!” said Dr. Czissar. “Gregory. A young man who, until his death, was too fond of betting. He must have changed his name when he came out of prison. He was chauffeur for Mr. Wretford, the man he robbed of £15,000!”

Mercer shrugged. “Generous gesture on Wretford’s part. It doesn’t explain why Gregory was shot or who shot him.”

Dr. Czissar smiled. “Nor why Mr. Wretford lied at the inquest?”

“What are you getting at?”

Dr. Czissar held up a finger. “Attention, please. The only logical part of that case against Selton was that he had over a long period stolen sums in cash amounting to £300 and intended to pay off racing debts. That is the thieving of a clerk. That he should suddenly steal £15,000 is different. And we only have his word for it that he did steal them.”

“But why on earth should...?”

“Mr. Wretford’s reputation,” pursued Dr. Czissar, “was not very good in London. I was told that he was the proprietor of a bucket shop, which is some slang but means that he was only technically honest, I think. I believe that those bonds were converted by Mr. Wretford for his own profit, and that he was in danger of being found out when he discovered Selton’s thefts. He was desperate, perhaps. Selton, he thought, would go to prison anyway. Let him agree to take a little extra blame and all would be well. Selton would have his reward when he came out of prison. Alas for Mr. Wretford. An idea that seems good when one is in danger is not so good when the danger has passed. Gregory Selton was not content with comfortable employment. He began, I think, to blackmail Mr. Wretford. Those racing debts, you see. More money, more money always. Threats. Blackmail. Mr. Wretford finally killed him.”

“But...”

“But how? Ah, yes.” Dr. Czissar smiled kindly upon them. “It was, I think, a sudden idea. The grounds of his house are extensive. He probably heard Wilder using the rifle nearby and thought of his own rifle. He used to be a member of a London rifle club. Selton would, he knew, be returning soon. It would be possible for him to get from his house to that place behind the hedge without going on to the road and risking being seen. When Selton was found, the blame would be put on this boy. For him, a few months in prison; for the respectable Mr. Wretford, safety — again. He stood behind the hedge at a range of perhaps ten feet from Selton as he cycled by. It would have been difficult to miss.”

Dr. Czissar stood up. “It is a suggestion only, of course,” he said apologetically. “You will be able to identify Selton from his fingerprints and arrest Mr. Wretford on a charge of perjury. The rifle will no doubt be found when you search the Grange. An examination of Mr. Wretford’s accounts will show that he was being blackmailed by Selton. Those large sums in one pound notes... but it is not for me to teach you your business, eh?” He smiled incredulously at the idea. “It is time for me to go. Good evening, assistant commissioner. Good evening, inspector. Good evening, sergeant.”

The answering “good evenings” echoed dismally in the corridor outside as Dr. Czissar departed.

For a moment there was a silence. Then:

“I knew there was something funny about this case, sir,” said Denton brightly. “Clever chaps, these Czechs.”