CHAPTER III
DISCUSSING THE CRIME
The murder of Morris Barnes, considered merely as an event, came as aGodsend to the halfpenny press, which has an unwritten but immutablecontract with the public to provide it with so much sensation during theweek, in season or out of season. Nothing else was talked about anywhere.Under the influence of the general example, Wrayson found himself withina few days discussing its details with perfect coolness, and with aninterest which never flagged. He seemed continually to forget his ownpersonal and actual connection with the affair.
It was discussed, amongst other places, at the Sheridan Club, of whichWrayson was a member, and where he spent most of his spare time. At oneparticular luncheon party the day after the inquest, nothing else wasspoken of. For the first time, in Wrayson's hearing, a new and somewhatominous light was thrown upon the affair.
There were four men at the luncheon party, which was really not aluncheon party at all, but a promiscuous coming together of four of themen who usually sat at what was called the Colonel's table. First of allthere was the Colonel himself,--Colonel Edgar Fitzmaurice, C.B.,D.S.O.,--easily the most popular member of the club, a distinguishedretired officer, white-haired, kindly and genial, a man of whom no onehad ever heard another say an unkind word, whose hand was always in hisnone too well-filled pockets, and whose sympathies were always ready tobe enlisted in any forlorn cause, deserving or otherwise. At his righthand sat Wrayson; on his left Sydney Mason, a rising young sculptor, andalso a popular member of this somewhat Bohemian circle. Opposite wasStephen Heneage, a man of a different and more secretive type. He calledhimself a barrister, but he never practised; a journalist at times, buthe seldom put his name to anything he wrote. His interests, if he hadany, he kept to himself. In a club where a man's standing was reckoned bywhat he was and what he produced, he owed such consideration as hereceived to a certain air of reserved strength, the more noteworthyamongst a little coterie of men, who amongst themselves were accustomedto speak their minds freely, and at all times. If he was never brilliant,he had never been heard to say a foolish thing or make a pointlessremark. He moved on his way through life, and held his place there moreby reason of certain negative qualities which, amongst a community ofoptimists, were universally ascribed to him, than through any morepersonal or likable gifts. He had a dark, strong face, but a slim, weaklybody. He was never unduly silent, but he was a better listener thantalker. If he had no close friends, he certainly had no enemies. Whetherhe was rich or poor no man knew, but next to the Colonel himself, no onewas more ready to subscribe to any of those charities which theSheridanites were continually inaugurating on behalf of their lessfortunate members. The man who succeeds in keeping the "ego" out of sightas a rule neither irritates nor greatly attracts. Stephen Heneage wasone of those who stood in this position.
They were talking about the murder, or rather the Colonel was talking andthey were listening.
"There is one point," he remarked, filling his glass and beaminggood-humouredly upon his companions, "which seems to have been entirelyoverlooked. I am referring to the sex of the supposed assassin!"
Wrayson looked up inquiringly. It was a point which interested him.
"Nearly all of you have assumed," the Colonel continued, "that it musthave taken a strong man to draw the cord tight enough to have killed thatpoor fellow without any noticeable struggle. As a matter of fact, a childwith that particular knot could have done it. It requires no strength,only delicacy of touch, rapidity and nerve."
"A woman, then--" Wrayson began.
"Bless you, yes! a woman could have done it easily," the Coloneldeclared, "only unfortunately there don't seem to have been any womenabout. Why, I've seen it done in Korea with a turn of the wrist. It'sall knack."
Wrayson shuddered slightly. The Colonel's words had troubled him morethan he would have cared to let any one know.
"Woman or man or child," Mason remarked, "the person who did it seems tohave vanished in some remarkable manner from the face of the earth."
"He certainly seems," the Colonel admitted, "to have covered up histraces with admirable skill. I have read every word of the evidence atthe inquest, and I can understand that the police are completelyconfused."
Heneage and Mason exchanged glances of quiet amusement whilst theColonel helped himself to cheese.
"Dear old boy," the latter murmured, "he's off on his hobby. Let him goon! He enjoys it more than anything in the world."
Heneage nodded assent, and the Colonel returned to the subject withavidity a few moments later.
"This man Morris Barnes," he affirmed, "seems to have been a somewhatdespicable, at any rate, a by no means desirable individual. He was ofJewish origin, and he had not long returned from South Africa, whereHeaven knows what his occupation was. The money of which he wasundoubtedly possessed he seems to have spent, or at any rate some partof it, in aping the life of a dissipated man about town. He was knownto the fair promenaders of the Empire and Alhambra, he was an _habitue_of the places where these--er--ladies partake of supper after theexertions of the evening. Of home life or respectable friends he seemsto have had none."
"This," Mason declared, leaning back and lighting a cigarette, "is betterthan the newspapers. Go on, Colonel! Your biography may not besympathetic, but it is lifelike!"
The Colonel's eyes were full of a distinct and vivid light. He scarcelyheard the interruption. He was on fire with his subject.
"You see," he continued, "that the man's days were spent amongst a classwhere the passions run loose, where restraint is an unknown virtue, whereself and sensuality are the upraised gods. One can easily imagine thatfrom amongst such a slough might spring at any time the weed of tragedy.In other words, this man Morris Barnes moved amongst a class of peopleto whom murder, if it could be safely accomplished, would be little morethan an incident."
The Colonel lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair. He was enjoyinghimself immensely.
"The curious part of the affair is, though," he continued deliberately,"that this murder, as I suppose we must call it, bears none of thehall-marks of rude passion. On the contrary, it suggests in more waysthan one the touch of the finished artist. The man's whole evening hasbeen traced without the slightest difficulty. He dined at the Cafe Royalalone, promenaded afterwards at the Alhambra, and drove on aboutsupper-time to the Continental. He left there at 12.30 with a couple ofladies whom he appeared to know fairly well, called at their flat for adrink, and sent one out to his cabby--rather unusual forethought for sucha bounder. When he reappeared and directed the man to drive him toCavendish Mansions, Battersea, the driver tried to excuse himself. Bothhe and his horse were dead tired, he said. Barnes, however, insisted uponkeeping him, and off they went. At Cavendish Mansions, Barnes alightedand offered the man a sovereign. Naturally enough the fellow could notchange it, and Barnes went in to get some silver from his rooms,promising to return in a minute or two. The cabby descended and walked tothe corner of the street to see if he could beg a match for his pipe fromany passer-by. He may have been away for perhaps five minutes, certainlyno more, during which time he stood with his back to the Mansions. Seeingno one about, he returned to his cab, ascended to his seat, naturallywithout looking inside, and fell fast asleep. The next thing he remembersis being awakened by Wrayson here! So much for the cabby."
"What a fine criminal judge was lost to the country, Colonel, when youchose the army for a career," Mason remarked, turning round to order somecoffee. "Such coherence--such an eye for detail. Pass the matches,Wrayson. Thanks, old chap!"
The Colonel smiled placidly.
"I am afraid," he said, "that I should never have had the heart tosentence anybody to anything, but I must admit that things of this sortdo interest me. I love to weigh them up and theorize. The moremelodramatic they are the better."
Heneage helped himself to a cigarette from Mason's case, and leaned backin his chair.
"I never have the patience," he remarked, "to read about these things
inthe newspapers, but the Colonel's _resume_ is always thrilling. Do go on.There won't be any pool till four o'clock."
The Colonel smiled good-naturedly.
"It's good of you fellows to listen to my prosing," he remarked. "No usedenying that it is a sort of hobby of mine. You all know it. Well, we'llsay we've finished with the cabby, then. Enter upon the scene, of allpeople in the world, our friend Wrayson!"
"Hear, hear!" murmured Mason.
Wrayson changed his position slightly. With his head resting upon hishand, he seemed to be engaged in tracing patterns upon the tablecloth.
"Wrayson knows nothing of Barnes beyond the fact that they are neighboursin the same flats. Being the assistant editor of a journal of world-widefame, however, he has naturally a telephone in his flat. By means of thatinstrument he receives a message in the middle of the night from anunknown person in an unknown place, which he is begged to convey toBarnes. The message is in itself mysterious. Taken in conjunction withwhat happened to Barnes, it is deeply interesting. Barnes, it seems, isto go immediately on his arrival, at whatever hour, to the Hotel Francis.Presumably he would know from whom the message came, and the sender doesnot seem to have doubted that if it was conveyed to Barnes he would obeythe summons. Wrayson agrees to and does deliver it. That is to say, hewrites it down and leaves it in the letter-box of Barnes' door, Barnes nothaving yet returned. Now we begin to get mysterious. That communicationfrom our friend here has not been discovered. It was not in theletter-box; it was not upon the person of the dead man. We cannot tellwhether or not he ever received it. I believe that I am right so far?"
"Absolutely," Wrayson admitted.
"Our friend Wrayson, then," the Colonel continued, beaming upon hisneighbour, "instead of going to bed like a sensible man, takes up a bookand falls asleep in his easy-chair. He wakes up about three or fouro'clock, and his attention is then attracted by the jingling of a hansombell below. He looks out of window and sees a cab, both the driver andthe occupant of which appear to be asleep. The circumstance striking himas somewhat unusual, he descends to the street and finds--well, rathermore than he expected. He finds the cabman asleep, and his farescientifically and effectually throttled by a piece of silken cord."
Wrayson turned to the waiter and ordered a liqueur brandy.
"Have one, you fellows?" he asked. "Good! Four, waiter."
He tossed his own off directly it arrived. His lips were pale, and thehand which raised the glass to his lips shook. Heneage alone, who waswatching him through a little cloud of tobacco smoke, noticed this.
"Have you finished with me, Colonel?" Wrayson asked.
"Practically," the Colonel answered, smiling, "unless you can answer oneof the three queries suggested by my _resume_. First, who killed MorrisBarnes? Secondly, when was it done? Thirdly, where was it done? I haveleft out a possible fourth, why was it done? because, in this case, Ithink that the motive and the man are practically identical. I mean thatif you discover one, you discover the other."
Heneage leaned across the table towards the Colonel.
"You are a magician, Colonel," he declared quietly. "I glanced throughthis case in the paper, and it did not even interest me. Since I havelistened to you I have fallen under the spell of the mysterious. Have youany theories?"
The Colonel's face fell a little.
"Well, I am afraid not," he admitted regretfully. "To be perfectlyinteresting the affair certainly ought to present something more definitein the shape of a clue. You see, providing we accept the evidence ofWrayson and the cabman, and I suppose," he added, laying his handaffectionately upon Wrayson's shoulder, "we must, the actual murderer isa person absolutely unseen or unheard of by any one. If you are allreally interested we will discuss it again in a week's time after theadjourned inquest."
"I, for one, shall look forward to it," Heneage remarked, glancing acrosstowards Wrayson. "What about a pool?"
"I'm on," Wrayson declared, rising a little abruptly.
"And I," Mason assented.
"And I can't," the Colonel said regretfully. "I must go down to Balhamand see poor Carlo Mallini; I hear he's very queer."
The Colonel loved pool, and he hated a sick-room. The click of thebilliard balls reached him as he descended the stairs, but he only sighedand set out manfully for Charing Cross. On the way he entered afruiterer's shop and inquired the price of grapes. They were more than heexpected, and he counted out the contents of his trousers pockets beforepurchasing.
"A little short of change," he remarked cheerfully. "Yes! all right, I'lltake them."
He marched out, swinging a paper bag between his fingers, travelled thirdclass to Balham, and sat for a couple of hours with the invalid whom hehad come to see, a lonely Italian musician, to whom his coming meant morethan all the medicine his doctor could prescribe. He talked to himglowingly of the success of his recent concert (more than a score of thetickets sold had been paid for secretly by the Colonel himself and hisfriends), prophesied great things for the future, and laughed away allthe poor fellow's fears as to his condition. There were tears in his eyesas he walked to the station, for he had visited too many sick-beds tohave much faith in his own cheerful words, and all the way back to Londonhe was engaged in thinking out the best means of getting the musiciansent back to his own country, Arrived at Charing Cross, he lookedlongingly towards the club, and ruefully at the contents of his pocket.Then with a sigh he turned into a little restaurant and dined foreighteen-pence.