Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“You’re quite right,” said Crook, smiling. “There’s no rule in the matter of murdering — otherwise our job would be easier”.

I

“Is the room exactly as it was when the maid entered it this morning?” asked Detective Crook.

“Nothing has been moved,” replied the local inspector. “Hardly anything’s been touched.”

“By your orders, I suppose?”

“Yes, by my orders.”

Crook nodded, and glanced round the study — at the overturned chairs, at the waste-paper basket lying on its side, at the heavy picture of a hunting scene that had come down from the wall and lay flat upon the floor, and at the splintered glass on the carpet.

“Does it look like suicide?” muttered the inspector. “Unless the suicide of a raving lunatic!”

“I don’t suppose there was any insanity in Mr. Sherman’s family?” queried Crook casually, as he walked across to the French windows.

“Not that I know of,” answered the inspector. “Keen, hard-headed folk, I should say. Lunatics don’t make successful business men.”

“Then — not to mince matters — you suspect foul play?”

“I do, sir.”

Crook pushed open the French windows, and stepped out on to the narrow balcony. A dozen stone steps led down into the garden, arching over the kitchen area; and it was in the kitchen area, battered lifeless by the stone, that Isaac Sherman had been found that morning. Crook had already seen the body. It had not been a pleasant sight.

“Easy enough to throw yourself out, if you had a mind to,” observed the detective. “It’s a nasty drop.”

“Mr. Sherman had no troubles that I know of,” returned the inspector, after a moment.

“That you know of, probably not. But why should you know Mr. Sherman’s troubles? Nearly every one has troubles — even a successful business man.”

“Well, we’ve not traced any to date,” persisted the inspector. “There’s a total absence of motive.”

Crook smiled. The local inspector was rather rushing matters.

“In the dark, one might slip here,” the detective suggested.

Again the inspector countered.

“Bright moon last night,” he said.

“Which rose at twelve,” added Crook dryly. “Is there any reason why Mr. Sherman might not have met his death at eleven?”

The inspector admitted there was no reason to exclude this possibility.

“We can’t say for certain what time he died,” he observed. “But it must have been after ten, because before that the servants would have seen him fall — or heard him. Mrs. Sherman sleeps on the other side of the house, so she wouldn’t have seen him.”

“But wasn’t Mrs. Sherman alarmed when he didn’t come to bed?”

“Separate rooms,” remarked the inspector succintly. “Her story is that she said good night to him at ten, and that he said he’d probably be working late.”

“I see,” mused Crook, glancing again down into the area, and then raising his eyes to the pretty, sun-lit lawn. “A man who was going to commit suicide might say that.”

“And, also, he might say it,” interposed the inspector, “if — suppose — he expected a visitor?”

“I see your point,” agreed Crook, reentering the room and gazing at the table. “One glass, unbroken, on the table, and another glass, smashed, on the floor. That does suggest a visitor. Any idea who it might be?”

“None,” admitted the inspector ruefully. “Wish I had.”

“You’ve questioned Mrs. Sherman about this?”

“Yes. No result. She hasn’t any idea either.”

“The servants?”

“No one let any visitor in.”

“Then Mr. Sherman must have let the visitor in. Assuming there was one, was the front door bolted this morning when the servants got down?”

“It was. I ascertained that.”

“That’s interesting. You see, inspector, that means our visitor couldn’t have left by the front door, if he’d murdered Mr. Sherman. He must have left by the French windows.”

“And perhaps he came in by the same way,” frowned the inspector. “Believe me, this isn’t really a suicide case, Mr. Crook.”

Crook did not answer immediately. He walked round the room leisurely, then examined the French windows. He peered at the curtains and stopped.

“What about finger-prints?” he inquired as he rose.

“Wash out. Can’t trace anything useful in that line,” grunted the inspector.

“Then let’s try another line. How is Mrs. Sherman taking this?”

“She seems dazed.”

“And upset?”

“Of course.”

“I mean humanly upset, inspector. Not sensationally.”

“Well, I can’t say she seems prostrated with grief exactly. From the few inquiries I’ve made, I gather they’d — well, they’d got a good way beyond the honeymoon stage.”

“Whom did you gather that from?”

“The servants.”

“Why, then, inspector,” exclaimed Crook, smiling, “Mr. Sherman did have a trouble!”

“Oh, but there’s nothing special in that,” argued the inspector. “That’s just... well, the ordinary way of it, isn’t it? A wife doesn’t expect to sit on her husband’s knee after four years.”

“How long have you been married?” asked Crook innocently.

“Eight months — but that’s beside the question,” replied the inspector with a sudden grin.

“Then let’s get back to the question. You say this isn’t suicide. Can you think of a motive for the murder — if such it actually is?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Can you think of somebody who might be the murderer?”

“No idea.”

“Might it be, perhaps, a man wearing a brown coat, with one button missing?”

“What?” shouted the inspector, but was calm again the next instant, and annoyed at his unprofessional emotion. “Let’s hear some more about that!”

“I found this brown bone button beneath the curtain just now,” smiled the detective. “First point to me, inspector.”

The inspector advanced quickly and examined the button. His expression was a study: it was divided between professional delight at the clew, and personal chagrin that he had not unearthed the clew himself.

“Wonder how I came to miss that,” he muttered.

“Perhaps it wasn’t there when you first looked?” suggested Crook. “Perhaps it’s off your coat?”

“Try again,” growled the inspector. “We don’t wear buttons like that.”

“It might be one of Mr. Sherman’s.”

“More likely the mysterious visitor’s—”

“Whose presence we merely assume from the evidence of a second wine glass,” mused Crook.

“Plus a button now,” added the inspector.

II

At Crook’s suggestion, they summoned the parlormaid. She was a tall, trim girl, and, so the inspector whispered, the only member of the staff who had shown no signs of hysteria. When she appeared, the detective eyed her approvingly, and decided that he could get straight to business.

“I want you to answer a few questions, if you will,” he began pleasantly. “Can you give me a list of the people who have called here during the last week?”

If the girl felt any surprise, she concealed it. She knew her place, whether in the presence of her mistress or a police official.

Yes, she thought she could give a list. Though, of course, it was difficult to remember everybody.

There was Mr. Henderson. He came Monday. Who was Mr. Henderson? Oh, just a friend of the family. Then a lady came to tea — Mrs. Edwards. Then on Tuesday there were some relations from America. A man called on Wednesday about the new car. He came from Thompson’s garage. And the vicar called on Wednesday, too. Oh, and Mr. Henderson again.

Then on Thursday. No one come on Thursday. Oh, yes, Mr. Henderson come again in the evening. And on Friday the man from the garage came again, with Mr. Thompson himself, this time, and the American relations came to tea, and Mr. Price, the solicitor, and Mr. Battersby. Who was Mr. Battersby? He was Mr. Sherman’s partner. He come again on Saturday with his wife, for a game of tennis.

“Did Mr. Sherman play tennis?” asked the detective.

“No, he never played,” replied the maid. “Golf was his game. But Mrs. Sherman played tennis.”

“Was there no fourth player on Saturday, then?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Henderson. That’s all I can remember, sir.”

“You have remembered very well,” said Crook approvingly. “Now see if you can remember something else. Can you recall whether any of these visitors wore a brown suit?”

The girl thought. Once she even closed her eyes, as though to visualize some elusive visitor. Watching her, Crook was satisfied that her methods were very thorough, and that her reply would be conclusive. While the inspector fidgeted, he waited patiently. At last the maid spoke.

“Well, that’s funny, sir,” she said. “You’d think there’d be plenty wearing brown suits. But, as far as I remember, sir, none of them was wearing brown. All blues or grays—” she stopped suddenly, as a figure crossed the lawn. “Well, how silly of me! Except Mr. Henderson, of course.”

“Is that Mr. Henderson?” inquired Crook quickly.

“Yes, sir. He generally wore a brown suit.”

“But he’s not wearing one now.”

“No, sir.”

There were police officials who, jealous of Detective Crook’s successes, declared that he was apt to be slow; but behind all his leisurely questions his brain was always acting fast, and when he had made up his mind no man could be quicker.

“Doesn’t Mr. Henderson use the front door?” he demanded sharply.

“He generally comes round the garden,” answered the maid, a little surprised.

“A special privilege, eh? Where does he live?” The maid gave his address. It was half a mile distant. “Has he been here before to-day?”

“Yes, sir. Soon after breakfast.”

“Whom did he ask for?”

The maid hesitated for a second, then responded a little uneasily:

“No, one, sir. He came through the garden then, too. He came to see Mrs. Sherman, I expect.”

“There wasn’t anybody else,” added the inspector grimly, and explained that the study was not the only room that opened on to the garden. A breakfast room, on the lawn level, also had French windows.

“Mrs. Sherman uses this breakfast room?” asked Crook, turning again to the maid.

“Yes, sir,” faltered the maid. “I think she’s there now.”

“Probably he’s come to express his sympathy, and to ask if he can do anything for her,” commented the inspector a little dryly. “Friend of the family — quite natural, eh?”

“One more question,” said Crook. “Did Mr. Henderson enter this room this morning, or make any attempt to?”

“He didn’t enter this room — I can tell you that,” returned the inspector. “And, if he’d tried it wouldn’t have been any use. I’d given my orders.”

Crook nodded, and walked to the door.

“I’ll be back in an hour or two,” he said. “Meanwhile don’t do anything that’s not strictly necessary until I return. And you,” he added, to the maid, “will say nothing about our conversation for the moment. I can rely on that?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the maid in a low voice. “But... oh, I do hope I’ve not said more than I ought to.”

Impressed by her tone, Crook looked at her a little more closely.

“What makes you think you may have?” he asked. The girl did not reply. “You’ve only answered my questions — and answered them well. You haven’t incriminated anybody.”

And then the maid momentarily lost control of herself.

“It couldn’t be him — it couldn’t be him!” she exclaimed. “He’s much too—”

She stopped, as though appalled by her words.

“Who?” asked Crook.

But the maid had recovered herself.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she answered rather stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Crook did not press the point, but he cogitated over the maid’s little outburst as he left the house.

“She’s afraid for Mr. Henderson,” he reflected, “and she cannot conceive him to be guilty. Now, is she afraid for him merely on account of my questions? Or does she think his relations with Mrs. Sherman might prejudice him? That may be so.

“But, on Mr. Henderson’s side, is the faith of a maid who appears to have more than the usual share of sanity. I’ll remember that, Mr. Henderson.”

III

Twenty minutes later, the door of Mr. Henderson’s flat was opened to Detective Crook by that interesting gentleman’s butler. The visitor asked for Mr. Henderson, and affected mild surprise and disappointment on learning that he was out.

“That’s unfortunate,” said the visitor. “I am from Graydon & Henshaw’s, and Mr. Henderson asked me to call about making him a new wardrobe — slightly larger than the one he has! I expect he told you?”

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” returned the butler rather suspiciously.

“Well, well! And I’ve made a special journey! I wonder if you could just show me the wardrobe? I could get some idea, and might not have to trouble to call again.”

“Have you a card, sir?” asked the butler.

Crook produced one. Graydon & Henshaw’s were one of a round dozen addresses which the detective was privileged to use, and had he been run over by a motor bus the contents of his cardcase would have identified him by twelve different names.

The butler looked hard at the card, looked harder at the visitor, and then, with a shrug, intimated that the business could proceed; but he kept very close to the detective’s heels all the time the detective was in the flat.

“Ah — so that’s the wardrobe!” exclaimed Crook when he had been ushered into the bedroom. “H’m. A nice piece, that — a very nice piece. I really can’t see what he wants with a bigger one. Though, of course, it’s not in the interests of my firm to dissuade Mr. Henderson. Perhaps—”

He swung open the wardrobe door, and nodded his head.

“Ah, that explains it. Mr. Henderson has rather a large outfit, hasn’t he? I wish I could afford half as many suits!”

He dived his hand in among them, an action which brought a frown to the butler’s face.

“What’s that for?” he demanded.

“Yes — they go all the way back,” murmured Crook to himself. “Probably the same width would do, but a little greater depth. H’m, yes. Thank you.” He closed the door. “By the way, I’m not surprised that it takes some doing to keep such a large wardrobe as that in repair.”

“Nothing broken, is there?” asked the butler.

“I meant the contents of the wardrobe. Before your master comes home, some one had better sew on the missing button of his brown suit.”

He chuckled at his little joke, but the butler did not see any humor in it.

“I’ll tell Mr. Henderson you called,” he said shortly.

“Yes, please do,” answered Crook. “I very nearly called last night. Would I have found him in?”

“No, he was out.”

“But it was late when I passed — half past ten. He might have been in by then?”

“He didn’t come in till after eleven,” growled the butler as he opened the front door, “and even if he had, I don’t suppose he’d have seen a visitor at that time of night.”

“No, I dare say not,” admitted Crook amiably. “That’s really why I didn’t call.”

On his way back, Detective Crook’s face grew grave and thoughtful.

“Well?” exclaimed the inspector, meeting him at the front door of the late Isaac Sherman’s house. “Have you traced anything?”

“I have traced the home of the missing button,” answered Crook.

“Where—”

“Wait till we’re inside.”

In the study once more, the inspector repeated his question.

“Where is the home of the missing button?” he demanded.

“On Mr. Henderson’s brown coat, now hanging in his wardrobe,” returned Crook.

“Ah!” The inspector’s eyes glowed with gratification. “We’re getting on. Then Mr. Henderson must have been here last night!”

“It looks like it.”

“Looks like it? Is a haystack a haystack? Now, it’s gather odd that Mr. Henderson hasn’t mentioned his visit.”

“Where is he now?”

The inspector looked grim.

“Still with Mrs. Sherman, comforting her. Staying to lunch, I take it. You’d think she’d be lying down prostrated, now, wouldn’t you?”

“After four years, inspector?” reproved Crook. “Perhaps the oddest thing is that a murderer should remain so close to the scene of the tragedy?”

“No, that’s not odd,” retorted the inspector. “People who murder aren’t normal, to begin with. You never know how they’ll act. They may fly. They may stay — held by a sort of fascination, or by a belief that the police won’t see what’s right under their nose.”

Detective Crook smiled appreciatively. “You’re quite right,” he said. “There’s no rule in the matter — otherwise our job would be easier. What do you say to asking Mr. Henderson in here, and putting him through it?”

“Right!” exclaimed the inspector. “Sooner the better, I think. It’s not going to be pleasant, but it’s got to be clone.”

Mr. Henderson received the summons with a frown. He told the maid, who brought him the official request, that he would be in the study in two minutes, and turned to Mrs. Sherman when the maid had departed.

“I wonder what they think I can tell them?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” answered Mrs. Sherman dully. Her face was pale, and her eyes were heavy with unshed tears. “I suppose they’d question everybody, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes. I expect so. But — surely — they can’t know—”

He stopped abruptly. Mrs. Sherman’s frightened eyes were upon him.

“Know — what, Fred?” she faltered.

He colored slightly and turned away; but the next moment he was by her side.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” he whispered. “Keep up your courage. All this — will soon be over.”

He bent down, hesitated, and then, in response to her unspoken appeal, kissed her. Then, gritting his teeth, he left the room, and joined his inquisitors in the study.

“I understand you wish to speak to me?” he said.

Detective Crook regarded him quietly for a second. He saw a well set up man, of about thirty-five, with keen, rather haggard eyes, and a pleasant manner. There was no external evidence of great strength or of great weakness. If one woman saw everything in him, the majority would not have noticed him in a crowd.

“We want you to help us solve the mystery of Mr. Sherman’s death, if you can,” answered the detective. “Will you sit down?”

“Thank you,” replied Mr. Henderson. “Is there any mystery then?”

“You think not?”

“I understood it was suicide. Surely—” A new look suddenly leaped into his eyes. “Surely, you’re not suggesting—”

“We’re not suggesting anything,” interposed Crook quietly, “but we’re exploring everything. That is just our normal job. Now, you were with Mr. Sherman last night—”

“What’s that?” cried Mr. Henderson, jumping up. “I was not — I was at home.”

Then he sat down again, rather weakly. He knew he had made a slip, and was wondering whither it would lead.

“Oh, then I must have been mistaken in my conclusions,” proceeded Crook. “Mr. Sherman had a visitor — that we know. There were two glasses — one you see on the table, by your side — the other lies on the floor, broken.” Mr. Henderson followed the detective’s gaze fascinated. “We conclude that the visitor may have come by the French window, and that, if he murdered Mr. Sherman—”

“Murdered him!” Moisture rose to Mr. Henderson’s forehead.

“—he must have left by the same way, because he could not have let himself out of the front door and bolted it afterward. The reason we thought it might be you, Mr. Henderson,” added Crook, “was because your butler says you were not at home last night — he told me that himself less than an hour ago — and, also, because we found this on the floor by the curtain.” He produced the button. “It is the button missing from your brown suit, now hanging in your wardrobe.”

Mr. Henderson stared at the button, and did not speak for a full minute. Then he smiled, but it was not a happy smile.

IV

“You know your job,” he said bitterly. “Are you accusing me of having killed Mr. Sherman?”

“Not till we’ve heard anything you may have to say — isn’t that right, inspector?” said Detective Crook.

The inspector nodded his head.

Another minute went by. All at once Mr. Henderson clenched his fist impotently.

“The devil of it is,” he burst out, “if I had killed him, there’d have been a motive.”

Crook frowned.

“Don’t you want to let us find that out?” he inquired.

“No, by God, I don’t!” cried Mr. Henderson. “I know something of police ways, and I’m not going to have this matter dragged out through the mud! The quickest way will be to tell you now. I’ve tried to keep this quiet — for Mrs. Sherman’s sake, not for mine — but, I see, you will have it!”

“You’re not bound to say anything, you know,” the inspector reminded him.

“Thank you, inspector. Isn’t that what they tell a man after they’ve arrested him? Well, that doesn’t matter. The simple truth is that I am in love with Mrs. Sherman, and she loves me. But, as God is my judge, we’ve done no wrong. One can’t help one’s feelings, but one can prevent oneself from giving way to them and being a cad.”

“I admire you for your candor, Mr. Henderson,” said Crook, “and, if I may say so, I think you are adopting the right tack. Did Mr. Sherman know of this position?”

“He must have. It wasn’t till last night, though, that I realized it.”

“What happened last night?”

“He’d asked me to come and see him here — in this room — at eleven o’clock. He said it was some private matter; that I was to let no one know, and that I could come through the garden. Perhaps foolishly — I came.”

“Why foolishly?”

“Well — I half guessed what was in the wind. That was why I obeyed his request to secrecy. Mr. Sherman was an ugly man when roused. He... oh, but never mind that. The point is, I came. No one saw me come, I think.

“There was something odd in Mr. Sherman’s attitude — I noticed it at once — but I couldn’t make it out. We had a glass of wine together — I couldn’t well refuse — and then he suddenly laughed. A... a beastly laugh. And he taxed me with... with having betrayed his wife.”

The speaker paused, and covered his face with his hands. Then he raised his head again, and continued more quietly:

“I saw red. No, I didn’t kill him, but I almost believe I could have. You don’t know Mrs. Sherman — her patience and her purity — and when he made his foul suggestions — well, I went for him. He clawed at me, and I knocked him down. It must have been then that he grabbed off my button.

“It was all very quick. He got up, and we faced each other. And then I realized that I might do him some serious damage if I stayed — and that it would all react upon Mrs. Sherman. So I turned on my heel and left him. And this morning I heard that he had committed suicide.”

“Why didn’t you admit having been here?” asked Crook, “Were you afraid you might be connected with his death?”

“No — I never thought of that. That seemed too ridiculous. I accepted the theory of suicide.”

“Then your reason—”

“Was to keep Mrs. Sherman’s name out of it. I didn’t want any chance that the subject of our interview would get around.”

“I see. Were you surprised to learn of the suicide?”

“I was staggered!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson frankly. “I couldn’t find any motive in it. Mr. Sherman wasn’t the sort of man who would take his life, in my estimation.”

“Do you think, Mr. Henderson,” asked Detective Crook quietly, “he was the sort of man who might have been prepared to take the life of another person?”

“I don’t understand,” answered Mr. Henderson, and the inspector glanced at Crook sharply.

“What’s that mean?” he demanded.

“I’ll tell you in a minute. Meanwhile, did your struggle with Mr. Sherman knock over all these chairs, Mr. Henderson, and bring that big picture down?”

“Why — of course, not!”

“And if you had thrown Mr. Sherman out of the window, after a struggle of that sort, you would surely have had the sense to straighten the room a little, so that it might have looked like suicide?”

“I don’t know — I suppose — how do I know?”

Crook smiled.

“Perhaps you don’t know. But I know. It was the first thing I thought of when I saw the state of the room—”

“But damn it, man!” snapped the inspector. “If Mr. Sherman fell out of the window, would he disarrange the furniture first?”

“He might, if he wanted it to appear like murder,” said Crook, “and if he were not in a mood to think very clearly. If he wanted, for instance, to make it appear that his rival, whose button he possessed, had killed him.”

Both the inspector and Mr. Henderson blinked uncomprehendingly.

“Can you remember exactly what happened, just before you drank your wine?” asked Crook. “Think hard.”

“Nothing special happened,” replied Mr. Henderson. “Well, I do remember that, just before we drank, Mr. Sherman turned away for a moment to put the decanter aside, and that I vaguely wondered whether I’d taken up the right glass.”

“You didn’t take the right glass,” answered Detective Crook gravely. “You took the wrong glass, and Mr. Sherman drank the poison he had intended for you.”

“Good God!” gasped Mr. Henderson.

“But Mr. Sherman was found in the kitchen area, with a broken head!” cried the inspector. “What are you driving at?”

“This,” said Crook. “Mr. Sherman did not discover his mistake till after Mr. Henderson had left. The poison was probably a slow one, designed to kill Mr. Henderson when he had returned home. This, if his visit had been kept secret, would have diverted suspicion from Mr. Sherman.

“On the other hand, it was unlikely that Mr. Henderson would be thought to have gone to Mr. Sherman’s house deliberately to poison him. He would not know he was going to be offered wine, and the purchase of the poison could not have been traced to him. So — in order that an impulsive murder should be deduced — he disarranged the room to suggest a scuffle, and then threw himself out of the window.”

“That would take some courage,” commented the inspector.

“I think I myself might prefer it,” answered Crook, “to the torment of death by poison.”

There was a long silence. Suddenly Mr. Henderson’s voice broke the stillness.

“May I go?” he said hoarsely.

After he had gone, the inspector turned to Crook.

“How the devil did you get on to it?” he demanded.

“By not being in too much of a hurry to put two and two together — as you and the others did,” answered Detective Crook. “Mr. Sherman’s isn’t the only poisoned body I’ve seen in my time. Come and have another look at it.”