The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

THE MYSTERY OF THE TAXI-CAB by Howel Evans

Now we step back in time again. I know little about Frank Howel Evans. He wrote several boys’ books as Atherley Daunt at the turn of the last century, and it’s probable that he was an actor or worked in the theatre in some capacity, as many of his stories involve the stage. He even wrote a Sexton Blake novel called The Actor Detective (1905). The following comes from a series of stories Evans wrote for The Novel Magazine in 1922 and which was reworked into the book The Murder Club (1924). The Murder Club is a collection of individuals who delight in solving bizarre crimes – such as the following.

“Once more a humble person craves admission – NUMBER ONE.”

Brinsley read this out from a slip of paper at the next meeting of the Murder Club.

White-haired, beaming. Number One, was admitted with Brinsley’s butler carrying a large parcel, which he placed on a side table.

“Gentlemen,” said the Chief of the Secret Service, “just a little memento. You will understand when you see it. Good night.”

In a second the little silver-haired man of mystery had gone, and Brinsley, as President, drew the untied wrappings off the parcel and brought to light a magnificent chased gold cigar-box, on the lid of which was an inscription:

TO THE MURDER CLUB

FROM

NUMBER ONE.

“And what’s this?” Brinsley picked up a scrap of paper which lay at the bottom of the box and read aloud:

“I rather fancy the Murder Club and The Wire will be interested in the murder of Sir George Borgham. If the mystery is solved I shall be glad of any particulars that you may not care to give to the public. Secret please – Number One.”

Brinsley grabbed for an evening journal.

“The little man gets busy,” he said. “It only happened this morning and Crimp’s on it, that’s why he’s not here. I’ll read the account, and then we shall have it in our minds clear and sharp.”

And this was the account:

“Sir George Borgham appears to have left his house in Mayer Street, Sloane Square, at about twenty minutes to ten this morning. He was driven in his car by way of Piccadilly, making a call at a bookshop there, and arrived at the Law Courts at five minutes to ten. The policeman on duty outside the Courts, knowing the famous judge’s car, opened the door as usual for Sir George to alight and make his way to the judge’s entrance. But Sir George, instead of jumping out quickly as was his habit – he was a very active man for his sixty-eight years – remained seated in the near corner, with his head sunk on his chest. His silk hat was lying on the seat by his side, and in his right hand was the book which he had bought, closed, with his finger between the pages as if to keep the place. At first the policeman thought that he was asleep, so he said to him: ‘You’re at the Courts, my lord.’ But receiving no answer, he put his head further inside the car, and instinct and experience then told him that he was looking at a dead man.

“The body of the judge was lifted out and carried into his own private room at the Law Courts.

“There is no mystery as to the cause of the death of Sir George Borgham, for, embedded in the chest up to the hilt, piercing his heart, was found a long thin piece of steel, of the shape and size of an ordinary knitting needle, and as sharp as a stiletto, with a sort of handle at the end of it made from a piece of cork.

“That, brother members, seems as far as we have got up to the present with information as to this case.”

Brinsley laid down the evening journal from which he had been reading, and looked at the members.

“It sounds like murder, doesn’t it?” said Eustace Golbourne, the professor of mathematics from Scotland. “Surely a man couldn’t kill himself by driving a thin piece of sharp steel into his heart?”

The president nodded.

“Yet men have done almost incredible things when determined to take their own lives,” he said. “I’ll ring up my office and see if anything further has come in from the police,” and he reached for the telephone at his side. “If there’s anything fresh Crimp will be at The Wire office by now.”

Brinsley spoke through to his office, and after listening to the answer, replaced the receiver.

“The only further scrap of news is,” he said, “that on the little finger of Sir George Borgham’s left hand there was tied a small piece of red tape.”

“The affair has a peculiar interest for me,” put in a round jolly-faced man about fifty-eight or sixty, the Rev. Thomas Bowen, of Cornwall, the greatest living authority on the mental and moral out-look of the criminal. “A sad interest, indeed, for only last night I saw Sir George at the Athelonian Club, of which I’m a country member, and we had quite a long chat together.”

“That’s interesting, Mr Bowen!” said Brinsley. “Did you know him well?”

“Not very well,” answered the clergyman. “Just well enough for us to be pleased to see each other when I happened to come into the club and find him there, and to enjoy a little chat together. A genial and a learned man was Sir George.”

“Yes,” agreed Brinsley. “Though I daresay, as a judge, he had a good many enemies. He has sent a lot of people to prison in his time, and hanged more than one. Revenge may have been the motive for the crime.”

There came a gentle knock at the door, and Brinsley’s manservant entered with a parcel, which the newspaper proprietor rapidly tore open.

“As I expected, gentlemen,” he said, “here is the official photograph of the weapon with which the crime was committed. One, of course, has gone to every newspaper office in the kingdom, circulated by the police, and as a special favour, I asked Scotland Yard to let me have one here.”

Just an ordinary plain, untouched photographic print showed a long strip of thin, flat steel, one end of which came to a sharp point, while the other was embedded in a long piece of cork.

“The steel is sharp at each edge,” went on Brinsley. “The police have notified us of that. And with that sharp point it would go through the flesh like a knife through butter. And the long piece of cork would make a splendid handle, so that anybody could use it as a dagger.”

There was silence for a few moments, while each member of the club in turn examined the photograph.

“And this is the latest news my men brought into the office,” said Brinsley. “Sir George Borgham’s chauffeur, Edward Morris, said that his master alighted from the car and stayed for a few minutes at Everton’s bookshop in Piccadilly. He was inside about two minutes, and returned to the car, which the chauffeur drove to the Law Courts by way of Garrick Street and the Strand, to avoid the Covent Garden traffic in Long Acre. The outside limit of time that the journey took from Piccadilly to the Law Courts was five minutes, so, in that time Sir George Borgham met his death. And now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me,” Brinsley rose, “I’ve got to get back to The Wire. Don’t forget that the resources of The Wire are at your disposal, and £500 is my offer for anyone who brings me exclusive news of the identity of Sir George Borgham’s murderer.”

“Come and have a look at Everton’s, the bookshop,” said Mr Bowen, the clergyman from Cornwall, to his friend Eustace Golbourne, as they walked away from Brinsley’s house. “It might give us something to think about. That £500 would be rather useful to send my godson, your boy, to college with, wouldn’t it?”

Golbourne nodded, and they walked on to Everton’s, in Piccadilly.

“Now,” said Mr Bowen, “let’s reconstruct the incident. Sir George leaves the shop, jumps into his car, presumably shuts the door himself, and arrives a few minutes later at the Law Courts with a piece of steel in his heart. Now, Sir George couldn’t possibly have killed himself. The attitude in which he was found precludes all possibility of that. If he had stabbed himself, the body would have collapsed forward; it wouldn’t have been leaning back.”

“How do you know that?” put in Golbourne quickly.

“I was in the War, my friend,” said Bowen a little sadly. “One learnt a good deal there. Very well then, let us assume that Sir George was murdered. Now, he was lying in the corner, nearest to the kerb. Suppose that he was stabbed through the window, by somebody leaning in and striking the blow.”

“Impossible!” said Golbourne suddenly and firmly.

“Here’s an empty taxi. I just want to try an experiment. Hi! Just a moment,” he cried to the driver. “Stop still, will you? You’ll get your fare just the same. I only want to get in and out of the cab.”

Golbourne let down the window of the cab nearest the pavement, shut the door to again, and then, putting his hand and arm through the window, struck an imaginary blow, as if attempting to kill a man in the near-side corner. Then he opened the door, got inside the cab, and Bowen saw him, from various attitudes, bring his arm downwards, more than once, as if again endeavouring to strike a murderous blow.

“That’s all right!” Golbourne jumped out and handed the astonished driver half-a-crown. “I don’t want you any longer. Come on,” and he took the clergyman’s arm, “I’ve got an idea, a wild, freakish sort of idea, but I’m going to sleep on it and try an experiment in the morning. It’s too late to-night, the shops aren’t open.”

After breakfast the next morning, Golbourne said to his friend at the hotel where they were staying:

“I’m going down to Guildford Street, Tom. I shan’t be more than a few minutes. You wait here till I come back.”

In less than a quarter of an hour Golbourne returned, and, placing a small, square cardboard box on the table, asked Mr Bowen to take off his coat and roll up his shirt sleeves.

“Don’t look so surprised,” said the professor, smiling, “for here’s something else to make you still more puzzled. Hold out your arm, there’s a good fellow.”

From the cardboard box Golbourne took what at first sight appeared to be a wrist-watch, encased in the usual strap. This he proceeded to fasten round Bowen’s forearm, just below the elbow.

“I’ll tell you all about it in a minute,” he said, settling himself in his chair.

“Now take a penholder, or pencil, or ruler, or anything you like, off that side-table over there, and then stand over me and stab downwards at my heart. You needn’t dig the deadly weapon into me, let it just touch me, that’s all. Just stab downwards and then check it.”

Puzzled, Bowen did as he was directed. Then Golbourne got up and consulted the little round dial in the wrist-strap, and scribbled a figure or two on a scrap of paper.

“All right,” he said. “And now, Tom, you can help me if you’ll just go down to the hall and ring up The Wire office, and ask for Brinsley or Crimp if, with the influence of The Wire, they could communicate with Scotland Yard and ascertain the weight of that weapon which was found in Sir George’s body. Also, I want the height of Sir George’s car from the floor to the roof, and I should like to know whether all the windows in the car, which, I understand, was a large one, were open. Just a minute! What height are you, Tom?”

“Five foot eight and three-quarters.”

“And your length of arm?”

“About two and a half feet, I suppose. I’m pretty long in the arm.”

“Right! I’ll get to work while you’re at the ‘phone. I think I’m just beginning to see a little bit of daylight. I should like to see Sir George’s car, if possible, and measure it myself, but get The Wire people to communicate with Scotland Yard as soon as they can, will you? And ask them to ring us up here. Say that we’ll be down at The Wire office to see Mr Brinsley later on.”

While the clergyman was downstairs at the ‘phone in the hall, Golbourne sat and figured away busily, covering sheet after sheet with figures and geometrical symbols, and was still busy with his calculations when Bowen returned.

“Just a moment, Tom,” he said, without turning round. “Don’t talk for a second or two. I’m in the middle of a most intricate bit of work.”

“There, that’s done for the present,” said the professor a minute later, laying down his pencil with a sigh of relief. “Just let me get the weight and the length of that piece of steel, and things may begin to move. What’s the news? Did you get on to The Wire all right?”

“Yes, I spoke to Crimp. He said Brinsley will be down there before twelve this morning, and he’ll ring up as soon as possible and let us know about the weight and the length of that piece of steel, etc. As regards Sir George’s car, he thinks there’ll be no difficulty in our seeing it. Of course, the police have taken charge of it, but-”

“I suppose he wouldn’t know whether all the windows were open or not?” asked Golbourne.

“No,” answered Bowen, “but the police will be sure to keep it in exactly the same condition as when the body was found in it. Crimp tells me it’s in the police station yard at Bow Street.”

“Good! Then we can look in there on our way down to The Wire office. Ask Crimp whether that can’t be arranged. Perhaps we may represent ourselves as belonging to The Wire, which, indeed, we do while we are investigating this case. Pop along now, Tom, and wait for the answer. Put the figures down carefully, won’t you?”

Bowen returned in a few minutes with a scrap of paper in his hand.

“The length of the piece of steel, including the cork handle,” he read from the paper, “is nine and a half inches, and the weight is exactly one ounce.”

Golbourne turned to the table and again figured away busily.

“There’s something wrong, something funny somewhere,” he said at length.

“A piece of steel of the thinness and the evident suppleness of the weapon which killed Sir George couldn’t possibly weigh an ounce; at least, I don’t think so; but we’ll see after we’ve been to Bow Street, and when we get to Scotland Yard, for that’s where I want to go to see that steel. What about our seeing the car? Will that be all right?”

“Yes, they said at The Wire that the police would be only too glad to show it to us if we mentioned that we were working for the paper.”

“Come along, then.”

They hailed a taxi as soon as they got outside, and were soon being shown the motor-car of the late Sir George Borgham in the yard at Bow Street Police Station.

It was one of the very latest makes, with long sliding, lifting windows in front and at the sides. The two side windows were open; and the one at the left of the driver’s seat was lowered also, the one in front of which the driver sat being closed.

“Is that exactly how it was found when the car arrived at the Law Courts?” asked Golbourne of the officer who was with them.

“Exactly,” was the reply. “The old gentleman always liked plenty of fresh air, so his chauffeur said, and almost invariably had the windows open.”

“If there’s no objection to having one of the doors opened,” said Golbourne, “I should like to take a measurement. I suppose there are no finger-marks on the door handles?”

“No, there are none. That’s one of the first things we do – try for finger-prints,” smiled the officer.

Golbourne produced a tape-measure, and with the assistance of Bowen took just one measurement – the height of the car from the floor to the roof. Then, after thanking the police for their courtesy, the two members of the Murder Club left.

“Tom,” said Golbourne when they were outside, “there’s a quiet little eating-house close by, which I believe boasts of excellent beer and sandwiches, both of which are things of delight. Let us go and lunch while I make certain observations.”

At the little table to which their orders were brought, Golbourne again used his pencil and paper. At length he slipped them back into his breast pocket, and with an air of triumph, almost pointed a finger at Bowen.

“Tom,” he said, “I think I’ve discovered how Sir George Borgham was killed!”

The Rev. Thomas Bowen drew in his breath with a gasp of surprise.

“But by whom,” continued the professor, “and where, it’s at present impossible to say. We’ll go down to the office of The Wire now and get Brinsley to take us to Scotland Yard, where the inspector in charge of the case will, no doubt, allow us to examine the steel which was found in Sir George’s heart.”

“You’ve found out something!” was Brinsley’s greeting when they arrived at The Wire office. “I’m sure, professor, I can see a glint of triumph in your eye. What have you to say?”

“With the powerful resources of The Wire, Mr Brinsley,” said Golbourne, smiling pleasantly, “could you tell us at what rate the wind was blowing in the neighbourhood of the Strand, between twenty minutes and five minutes to ten on the morning of the day on which Sir George Borgham was killed? Do you think they would tell you at the Meteorological Offices in South Kensington?”

“Surely!” said Brinsley. “I’ll get them on the ‘phone myself at once… Hallo – hallo! Meteorological Society?… Yes, it’s the editor of The Wire speaking. Could you tell me at what rate the wind was blowing in London at between twenty and five minutes to ten?… Thanks – just a minute, please… Here, professor, I think you’d better come. It’s a bit too technical for me – something about pressure and weight and atmosphere, and all sorts of strange things.”

Golbourne went to the telephone, listened, and jotted down some notes.

“Give me five minutes to myself,” he said when he’d finished and put back the receiver, “and then I’ll get you to take us to Scotland Yard, Mr Brinsley, if you will.”

In a few minutes Golbourne looked up from his calculations.

“I think,” he said, “that I’ve got at the way in which Sir George was killed. Shall we go to Scotland Yard now and see the weapon? Then I can tell better.”

Inspector Mirch, who had charge of the case, received them with the usual courtesy extended by the police to the Press. The researches of the Murder Club were familiar, and, indeed, had been exceedingly useful, to the authorities, and the inspector willingly produced every exhibit in connection with this latest murder mystery looking with obvious curiosity at the silver-haired, white-moustached, elderly man who asked if he might be allowed to handle the deadly piece of steel.

“But a strip of steel of that length and width,” said Golbourne, “wouldn’t weigh an ounce, but about three-quarters of an ounce.”

“How do you know that, sir?” asked the inspector.

“I should be a poor professor of mathematics if I couldn’t measure and weigh things with my eye,” smiled Golbourne. “Now let us see if the cork weighs the other quarter to make up the full ounce?”

Scientific appliances of every kind are in use at Scotland Yard, including delicate scales which will weigh a thread of silk or a woman’s hair. And after experimenting the inspector said:

“Forty grains under a quarter of an ounce.”

“Of course! I was wrong. I forgot the steel!” Golbourne spoke with excitement. “Gentlemen, I can now tell you how Sir George Borgham was killed!”

The silence in that large square room overlooking the Embankment was only broken for a second or two by the rumble of the traffic outside, and then Golbourne spoke again.

“I think, Mr Inspector,” he said, “that if you cut open that cork, you’ll find that it is weighted inside to make up the exact quarter of an ounce, minus the fraction of weight given by the steel inserted into it.”

Mirch hesitated for a second, and then cut the cork across, severing it in two pieces. The inside proved to be slightly hollowed, and out rolled four or five little round shots of lead.

“Ah! I thought it was weighted,” cried Golbourne triumphantly. “Put these in the scales and you will find that it is they which brought the cork up to a quarter of an ounce, an unusual weight for one of its size.”

Further experiments proved that Golbourne’s calculations were correct.

Then the professor took up one of the pieces of cork, and probed and pricked at it with a pocket knife, and gradually eased the pieces into two.

“You see,” he said, taking up the other half and performing the same operation on it, “the cork was cut in two lengthways, the inside hollowed, the shot inserted, and the cork fastened together again with a strong adherent. It was cleverly done, too.”

“What else have you to say about it, sir?” asked the inspector.

“This,” Golbourne spoke solemnly. “Sir George Borgham was killed with this weapon from a distance of ten feet and a height of eight feet.”

Silence, and again silence, broken after a few tense seconds by Inspector Mirch, who said, without any idea of sarcasm:

“Who was the murderer, then?”

“I don’t know. At least, I’m not sure,” answered Golbourne thoughtfully. “But could you, Inspector, obtain from the Admiralty the address of Sebastian Sanchez? He’s a Spaniard by birth, a naturalized Englishman now. We might call on him. He came over from Brazil just before the War, and was employed at the Admiralty during hostilities. I worked with him there.”

Scotland Yard can obtain any information it wants, and within a minute, over the ‘phone, Inspector Mirch was answered.

“Forty-two Kentish Square, Camden Town, is where Mr Sanchez lives, or did live at any rate, during the time he was employed at the Admiralty.”

“Right! Then we’ll go and call on him, Inspector, if you can spare the time. But, first of all, I’d like to have a chat with Sir George’s chauffeur. I suppose you know where he is?”

“Yes, we’re keeping an eye on him, of course. I told him not to be far away from his garage. We’ll go down there and see him.”

“Good! Come along, Bowen, you’ll see this through with me, won’t you? We’ll come back to The Wire office, Mr Brinsley, if we’ve any news for you.”

At the garage near Sloane Square, Golbourne put a few searching questions to Edward Morris, the chauffeur.

“No, the car didn’t stop anywhere during the journey from Piccadilly to the Law Courts,” said the man. “There was just a little bit of a hold-up at Wellington Street, not enough to actually stop the car, but we had to go very slowly.”

“Ah! Now, can you tell me what sort of a vehicle was exactly in front of you during that block?”

“Yes, sir; it was a van, a fruit van, full of empty orange-boxes. I’ve often seen that same van coming back from Covent Garden at just about the same time when I used to drive my master down. I’ve noticed it for a long time, because it was always so very badly driven and used to get in my way, like it did yesterday morning, when it nearly shaved my front off-wheel when it sneaked in just ahead of me, as it had no right to do.”

“Oh! And was there any name on the car – a covered van I suppose it was, open at the back?”

“That’s right, sir, and the name on it was Sanchez. I remember that quite well, because I vowed once that I’d write to Mr Sanchez and tell him about the nuisance his driver so often was.”

“You didn’t notice anything extraordinary during that little temporary slowdown, did you?”

“No, sir, nothing.”

“Did you turn your head at all?”

The chauffeur considered for a minute.

“Well, I do remember turning round.” Morris allowed himself a little smile. “Because I heard a mate – a pal of mine – toot his horn in a comic way he often does. I meet him most mornings, and I just looked round to give him a nod, but that was all.”

That finished the interview with the chauffeur, and when Mr Bowen, the professor, and the inspector were in the cab again, Golbourne spoke very seriously.

“I’m going to take a risk with this man, Sanchez, Inspector,” he said. “That’s why I want you with me, in case there should be unpleasantness afterwards, or that I am mistaken. I’m only carrying out an idea of my own. Anyway, you’ll keep your eye on the gentleman we’re going to visit, won’t you? I’m not much good at self-defence, or anything of that sort.”

“All right, sir, I’ll keep my eye on him.”

Sebastian Sanchez, a tall, slim, swarthy man of about sixty-five years of age, received Golbourne with out-stretched hand and a smile, and bowed, with the courtesy of his race, to Inspector Mirch and Mr Bowen.

“And to what am I indebted for the pleasure of a visit from my old colleague, Professor Golbourne?” he asked in a smooth, even voice.

“Well, Sanchez, this is going to be a business talk, so why shouldn’t we sit down?” began Golbourne affably. “Mr Sanchez and I,” he said, turning to the others, “were working together at the Admiralty during the War. We were engaged on certain experiments.”

“Yes,” Sanchez smiled a little. “You, the professor of mathematics from the north of Scotland; I, by virtue of my experiments in the same line in Brazil, and as a naturalized Englishman. We worked well together, too, eh? But why-”

“Why am I here now?” Golbourne’s foot went out and touched Mirch’s, who imperceptibly edged his chair a little closer to the Spaniard’s. “Well, I was thinking about that invention which was put before us concerning the discharge of missiles by means of compressed air. You remember it?”

Mirch moved a little in his chair and Bowen bit his under-lip.

“Yes.” Sanchez’s eyes narrowed and then turned to a corner by his desk where stood against the wall what looked like a long, black walking stick with a crutch handle. “Yes.”

His hand stretched out a little as if to reach for the stick, but instinct and training impelled Mirch to snatch at it himself, and Sanchez rolled his eyes, the whites showing, tinged with yellow.

“These are strange proceedings in a gentleman’s house!” he said at length. “I await your explanation, professor.”

“In an interview such as this, Sanchez, witnesses are necessary. This is Inspector Mirch of Scotland Yard, and this is the Rev. Thomas Bowen, a very old friend of mine. Both are gentlemen of repute, whose evidence would be accepted in a court of law as to what took place at this interview.”

Mirch placed the black stick on the floor between his own chair and Mr Bowen’s. Then, leaning over, with professional dexterity, he patted Sanchez on the body from head to foot.

“That’s all right,” said the inspector, “no guns, or anything of that sort! Go on, Mr Golbourne.”

“As I was going to say,” continued the professor, “it occurred to me, Sanchez, that you might know something about the death of Sir George Borgham. In fact, I believe that it was you who killed him.”

Sanchez looked at the carpet, then at the ceiling, then straight at Golbourne.

“Yes, I killed him!” he said very quickly, “and I will pay. So you found it out, I suppose, Professor, and considered it your duty to, well, as you English say, give away. I don’t blame you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I took the risk. And perhaps you’re justified in tracking out an old colleague, though I don’t know whether I should have done it myself.”

“Sir George Borgham was a great and a good man.” Golbourne’s face flushed a little. “And it was my duty to make use of such memory and such powers as I have.”

“Quite right!” Sanchez seemed to be almost enjoying himself. “But Sir George Borgham was not a good man.” Again the Spaniard’s eyes narrowed. “But tell me, Professor, as one old colleague to another, how you found me out, for to me, as a scientific man, it would be interesting. Tell me that,” he repeated, “and I will gladden the heart of our official friend here” – he looked towards Mirch – “and save him a lot of trouble by making a full confession.”

“Shall I?” asked Golbourne, looking towards Mirch. The inspector nodded.

“Well, Sanchez,” said Golbourne, after a moment’s hesitation, “I came to the obvious conclusion that someone had killed Sir George Borgham. I made experiments. I found that it was impossible for Sir George to have been killed by a man stabbing him through the car window, or even getting into the car. There are certain heights – my knowledge of mathematics tells me that – from which a blow must descend in order to ensure a death such as that suffered by Sir George Borgham, and in this case the raising of the arm to the necessary height would have been impossible, as it would have been stopped by the roof of the car, and the blow could not have descended with sufficient force. I proved that by means of an ingenious little instrument which measures the speed and strength of the slightest stroke, either downwards or upwards. I carried through the experiment with the aid of my friend here.”

Mr Bowen nodded, remembering the little instrument which had been fastened to his forearm, which Golbourne had procured from a maker of scientific instruments in Guildford Street.

“And the blow was not delivered slantwise, but straight – absolutely straight, according to the evidence of witnesses who saw the dead body – therefore it must have been dealt from straight in front, and unless the murderer had sat in the car on the right side of Sir George, such a blow would have been impossible of delivery.”

“It might have been dealt from the seat opposite Sir George, though, Professor,” suggested Sanchez, coolly.

“No man could have got into that car and out again without being observed. Therefore the murder must have been committed by someone outside the car; that was my conclusion. Also, it was impossible that the blow could have been delivered by the chauffeur, or anybody sitting by his side. Therefore the weapon, that piece of steel, must have come in through the window in front on the left of the driver, which was open. I say ‘come in,’ by which I mean in some way projected in.”

“That seems quite reasonable; indeed, quite clever, Professor!”

“To be propelled with sufficient force, then, I calculated that there must have been some tremendous power behind it, some power greater than would be possible if it were thrown by hand. By the weight of it, one ounce including the cork loaded with shot – clever that, Sanchez! – I decided that the missile must have been, shall we say fired from a distance of not more and not less than ten feet, to admit of the terrific force necessary to drive such a light weapon into a man’s body. I know that there is no gun in the accepted sense of the word which could fire such a missile, nor is there any explosive which could be used for such a purpose, and memory at once took me back to my work at the Admiralty with you, Sanchez, when there was placed before us – you and me only, mind you, with the exception of the First Lord – a secret idea for the discharge of projectiles of any kind by means of-”

“By means of compressed air,” broke in Sanchez. “A wonderful idea, smokeless, noiseless, on an entirely different principle to the famous Maxim noiseless gun! And it was claimed by the inventor, now dead” – Golbourne nodded – “that it could be adapted for use by any sized gun. Well, I worked at the idea in my spare time, and at length I succeeded to my own satisfaction in producing a serviceable weapon.”

“And that’s it, I suppose,” said Golbourne, pointing to the article resembling a black walking-stick, which still lay on the floor by the inspector’s chair.

“Yes, that’s it.” Sanchez drew his chair a little closer to his desk in order to rest his elbow on it, watched all the time by the inspector. “Quite an interesting little scientific chat, Mr Policeman, isn’t it?” He smiled at Mirch. “I bear no grudge; at least, not much of a one, towards the professor, who will doubtless now proceed with his narrative.”

“I worked it all out,” went on Golbourne, “by the rules of trajectory, velocity, weight, impetus, impact, and the effect, if any, of the wind on the missile at the time of flight when it was fired. These calculations told me that the weapon was dispatched from a distance of ten feet and a height of eight.”

“Quite correct,” agreed Sanchez nodding. “And can you tell us how it was actually discharged?”

“Yes, I think so. I believe that you, Sanchez, were in a fruit van bearing your name. During that block in the traffic just close by Wellington Street, Strand, yesterday, the body of the van was about four feet, perhaps a little more, from the ground, and you were in a crouching position, with your walking-stick gun levelled over a box or two, or at any rate concealed in some way. That would bring the distance of the weapon from the ground to about eight feet. You had been awaiting an opportunity for two or three days to get in front of the judge’s car, and there bide your time until you should be within reasonable distance, and the chauffeur’s attention should be otherwise engaged. I take it, therefore, that you discharged your gun when the chauffeur’s head was turned from the car.”

“Yes, you’re right in practically every detail,” admitted Sanchez.

The two might have been discussing some subject of interesting mathematical concern, instead of a grim murder.

“I run an orange business at Covent Garden,” he went on. “And I had carefully thought out the means which you have disclosed, Professor, of killing Sir George Borgham. Now I come to think of it, I ought to have used another van, but I thought it safer to be in my own, as I so often drive to and from the market in it, and I thought, therefore, that no suspicion would attach to my being in it at any time, of course, with a driver who was used to having me with him, and whose back was naturally turned to me while I sat inside the van, and – well, the rest you know.”

“And why did you kill that good man?” at length asked the Inspector.

“Because he was a swine!” was the astounding answer. “Five years before the then Mr George Borgham returned to England to study for the Bar, he ran a rubber plantation in Brazil. My two brothers and I were peons then.”

Mirch looked a bit puzzled, so Sanchez explained.

“A peon is a low-bred South American, a day labourer, sometimes, working off a debt by bondage. My brothers and I were in bondage – oh, yes, almost slaves! – on George Borgham’s estate. He treated us more than brutally, he treated us vilely, and he killed my two brothers by his treatment of them. And there was a girl; she was of our class, too, and I loved her, and George Borgham took her from me – ah, you don’t know what rubber plantations were like then – when I was sick with fever, and my brothers were dead. But I never forgot the girl, and I never forgot George Borgham. After George Borgham returned to England I was befriended by kind and good people, was educated, highly educated, and eventually worked my way to a professorship in mathematics.”

Sanchez was speaking with his eyes fixed on the wall opposite, as if looking into the darkness of the dreadful past.

“As soon as I could I retired from my professorship and came to England. Here I embarked in business, the orange trade, and all the while I waited and watched Sir George. I meant to kill him in such a manner that no one should know how he came by his death. And you know, gentlemen, how the means and the opportunity came to me.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I had known,” murmured Golbourne, while Mirch fidgeted a little in his chair, and the clergyman put his hand to his face, for the situation was harrowing.

Suddenly, before Mirch could spring at him, Sanchez had pointed something at his forehead, and -

The three men turned sick as the body of Sebastian Sanchez, with the head a terrible bleeding mass, swayed and toppled to the floor.

The tale had to be told, and it was told exclusively to The Wire.

But when the members of the Murder Club met to dine a few days later, there was no feeling of triumph.

“A wonderful man was Sanchez, a wonderful man!” said Golbourne. “The pistol with which he blew his own head away was a marvellous adaptation of the rough idea which was originally set before the two of us. A clever idea originally, it required a genius, as Sanchez undoubtedly was, to bring it so such perfection. And by his will, found in his desk, he has left all particulars to the heirs of the original inventor.”

“Yes, he was a clever man,” said Brinsley. “Still, the law says ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ But hang it all,” the newspaper man gave a little thump to the table, “if Sir George Borgham did what Sanchez said he’d done, he deserved all he got, and more. I’ve cabled over to my South American correspondents to trace back his career, and I’ll print and publish every item of it. Professor, here’s your cheque for £500 from The Wire.”

“I couldn’t take it,” said Golbourne.

And Brinsley, like a wise man, didn’t press the matter, but tore the cheque up, and after a pause the silence was broken by Crimp, the little journalist.

“What about that piece of red tape round Sir George’s finger?” he said. “We’ve forgotten all about that.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Bowen, with a faint smile – the first that evening, “I can explain that! While I was chatting with him at the Athelonian Club the night before his death, he took it out of his pocket, and with a joke about red tape being appropriate for a lawyer, he tied it round his finger to remind him to buy a certain book he wanted for reference the next day. ‘My memory’s shockingly short for trifles,’ he said. ‘I shall go to bed with that on my finger, and wear it again in the morning, and I shall remember.’”

“Oh, so that was all!” said Crimp.

And at his disappointed tone a real laugh went round the table.

A few weeks later England was startled by the authentic and guaranteed story of the brutalities in early life of Sir George Borgham, which had lain hidden for so many years.