A Case in Camera

  I knew, at the time of this our peep forward, that Philip had had his_eclaircissement_ with him, but had no idea of what had passed betweenthem. Calling at Lennox Street one midday on my way to the office I hadfound the house shut up and even Rooke unexpectedly gone. Therefore Ihalf expected that Philip would tell me the whole story on the night ofmy arrival at Santon. In fact, I gave him every opportunity to do so,remaining behind after all but he and I had gone to bed. But he talkedabout anything else, and at half-past ten rose, yawned, said he thoughthe would turn in, apologized again for the change of my room, and gaveme my candle. The same thing happened the next night.

  On the third night I asked him point blank.

  "Eh?" he said. "Oh, that's all right--so far, at any rate. He doesn'tknow anything about it."

  "What!" I exclaimed. "Know nothing about it!... What do you mean--thathe was too stunned or dazed or something to remember?"

  "Oh, no, I don't mean that exactly," Esdaile replied. "He remembers thatpart of it all right. It was the other I didn't tell him."

  "What other?"

  "Why, that anybody else knows anything about the--accident."

  "But didn't you mention the shooting to him, if there was any?"

  "Oh, he admits that, of course."

  "Then in that case he knows you know?"

  "Of course he knows _I_ know. How could I ask him if I didn't know? Whathe doesn't know is that you fellows know. So I told him the best thinghe could do was to come down here and get fit again, and not sayanything to Joan."

  "And--he agreed not to say anything to Joan?" I exclaimed inastonishment.

  "Certainly. What good would that do? Look here: he's here gettinghimself well again; I'm here painting; and you're here on a holiday. Ifthere's any trouble ahead we can't stop it, and so it's no good worryingabout it. Don't you think I'm right?"

  "Oh ... very well," I said in bewilderment, suddenly ceasing myquestions; and I took my candle and went up to my little room over thehen-house with somewhat mixed feelings.

  Just look at a few of the ingredients of the mixture. Here was Joan,knowing nothing about anything except that her lover had had a tumble,had given her a few weeks of torturing anxiety, but was now blessedly upand about again and in her pocket all day long. Then there was thisCharles Valentine Smith, also knowing nothing (for apparently a meretrifle like shooting a man and admitting that you shot him didn'tcount), and, with the Brand of Cain on his untroubled brow, offeringJoan his blood-stained hand in the most matter-of-fact way in the world.And here was Philip, apparently accepting the whole extraordinarysituation with complete calm. I admit that I found all this serenityjust a little perplexing.

  But look at the charm of the situation for me as a novelist! Few of ushave the opportunity of studying what I think I may call the amenitiesof murder at first hand. I dare say that grim mutterings a la Specterof Hangman Hollow would have bored me, writhings and agonies made meuncomfortable; but this new view of murder I found full of pleasinginterest. And the whole of the interest lay in seeing, hearing andasking no questions. Philip was "there painting," I on a holiday. Verywell. I was content.

  And, in case you have any preconceived notions about the daily triflingroutine of murderers' lives, I can only wish you had been at Santon withme at that time. As far as I could see, not a cloud marred the blueheaven of these young people's days. They disappeared as soon asbreakfast was cleared away and returned when they returned. I don't fora moment suppose that the intervening hours were spent in thecontemplation of death, judgment or the burden of undivulged crime.Chummy enjoyed his pipe, and, as he sat at high tea, idolized by theEsdaile boys because he flew, ate as heartily as ever in his pre-murderdays. If his crash on the Lennox Street roof was not mentioned, thatseemed to be only because everything had ended perfectly happily andthere was nothing more to be said about it. In fact, here is a bit ofconversation, taken almost at random, just to show you the way to beentirely happy is to shoot somebody and say nothing to your best girlabout it.

  Coming down to breakfast one morning I thought it my duty to administera sharp rebuke to Miss Merrow about the throwing of a handful ofhen-corn into my window in order (she said) to wake me.

  "I had been up ten minutes, I had shaved, and was more than halfdressed," I said sternly. "I'll tell you what you are doing; you aretrying to train those hens to come _into_ my room by throwing corn in. Ihave now to inform you that I intend to write this morning, and soshall not be able to relieve you of your duties down on the shore."

  "Oh, I say, sir----" young Smith began, but I thought fit to put a spokeinto his wheel also.

  "Not a word!" I ordered him. "Hen-corn has been thrown into my room.What was thrown into your room yesterday morning?"

  (She had tossed up to his casement a bud of the William Allen Richardsonthat grew up the cottage end. Coming round the corner from an earlystroll up the dewy paddock I had seen her do it, as well as the littletoken from her lips that went with it.)

  "I don't care which room I'm given, but I will not share it withpoultry," I continued firmly. "Also I object to this unfairdiscrimination about things thrown in at windows. So understand that Iam busy writing this morning."

  "Well, we're going to Flaunton in the trap," said Joan defiantly.

  "Children," I said, turning to them, "Mr. Smith and Miss Merrow aregoing to Flaunton in the trap. The tuckshop at Flaunton is a much betterone than the Santon one, and there are smugglers there. They are armedto the teeth, and they carry contraband into their echoing caves usuallyat about midday."

  "_That_," declared Joan, "I call mean! Bringing the children in!"

  "It's no worse than bringing the hens in," I retorted; and our murdererguffawed and took another egg.

  I cannot say that I gained much by my protest, since, having put theidea into their heads, I had to hire the station fly and take thechildren to Flaunton myself. But it was a change from the sands, and itgave me the opportunity for studying the blood-stained path of theirdalliance against a fresh background.

  IV

  But as you were. The peep-hole must be closed again. From the point ofview of the unities Charles Valentine Smith is still lying in a hospitalcot, writing daily but brief notes to Joan, forbidding her to come up,and receiving countless boxes of tightly-packed Santon flowers. We arein London again, during the last days of May.

  One morning I had knocked off my private work rather earlier than usual(I had, in fact, been quite unable to settle down properly to it), and,to fill in the time before lunch, had walked up Queen's Gate, enteredthe Gardens by the Memorial, and strolled slowly along in the directionof the Row. It was a pleasant morning, and the riders were out in fullforce. Idly I was admiring glossy flanks and cruppers and bits jinglingand flashing in the sun, when suddenly a horseman overtook me frombehind and called me by my name. I turned, exclaimed, and shook handswith him.

  He was a junior officer in the Australian Light Horse, and several timesI had come more or less closely into contact with him during my ownuneventful period of Military Service. His name was Dudley Hanson, hehad been in Gallipoli, was still in uniform, and was awaiting his boatback home again and demobilization. He plays no part in this storyexcept on this single occasion. He was riding a rather pretty littlechestnut, and his hand patted the animal's neck as he leaned over therailings and talked.

  "By the way," he remarked, after a little chat about men we both knew,"that was rotten luck for poor old Maxwell the other day. You saw it inthe papers, didn't you?"

  "Who?" I said, perhaps with rather a jump.

  "Bobby Maxwell. He used to spot for our lot in Gallip. Came over hereafter. I thought you knew him."

  "What was the rotten luck?" I asked.

  "Why, he came down somewhere in London the other day--crashed--killed onthe spot."

  "Dud," I said, "where are you lunching?"

  "Whoa, lass.... Oh, any old joint, I guess."

  "Then get off back to your stable and come straigh
t along to my Club.Come straight along. Don't stop to change or anything. I want to see youparticularly."

  He seemed a little surprised at my urgency, but waved his hand and wasoff. I continued my walk, but no longer slowly. I always walk quicklywhen I am interested, excited or moved by any emotion.

  I was now all three. Maxwell! Dud Hanson knew him, and had even fanciedthat I might have known him myself!

  Whatever luncheon engagement Hanson might have had that day I can assureyou that I should have urged him to break it.

  My Club is in Piccadilly, and I waited for him in the entrance hall withimpatience. I gave his name to the porter as expressly as if otherwisehe might have been denied; I set my watch by the club clock, I fiddledwith the skeins of tape in the baskets. I had even a momentary scarelest I should not have pronounced the name of my Club distinctly orlest by any chance he should have misheard.

  You see the reason for my eagerness. Maxwell was our unknown quantity,the one big blank in our Case. One or another of us could contribute hisportion of knowledge about everybody else, but nobody knew anything ofMaxwell. His function was entirely unconsidered, his rights totallydisregarded. Rights? I know nothing of the law of the matter, norwhether a dead man has rights; but if he has they should be all the moreenforceable because he is in no position to enforce them for himself.What would Maxwell have had to say about his own shooting? What hadbrought about that shooting? Was he the kind of man who, in MontyRooke's large and equable view of the crime of murder, ought to havebeen shot? Or was he the other kind, whose death was a loss to theworld? These were a few of the questions I wanted Dud Hanson to help meto answer.

  He appeared, and we made our way to the dining-room at once. I gave theorder for the whole of the lunch so that we might be interrupted aslittle as possible, and then I came straight to the point.

  "First of all," I said, "you say you knew Maxwell. Do you know thefellow who came down with him--C. V. Smith?"

  "Smith? Smith? Yes, I think I do, if he was Bobby's pilot out there.Smith's a pretty common name. Slightish build, but tough as they make'em--dashing sort of chap with very lively dark eyes?"

  At the time I could not verify this physical description. "Well, werethey friends?" I asked.

  "I guess a pilot and his observer are like the little birds in theirnests--it's dangerous to fall out," Hanson replied. "What's _to_ allthis?"

  "The position's this. They happened to crash on the roof of a friend ofmine and this fellow Smith's. Smith's still in hospital, and neither myfriend nor I knew Maxwell. So I want you to tell me about him--anythingyou know about the pair of them."

  "Right you are...."

  But if it was evidence of ill-feeling between the two men I was after hecould give me none. Indeed, the probabilities were all the other way. Inother Services the bond between man and man is strict, but there isstill room for preferences and aversions. Your mess, for example, isyours, and you are filled with a jealous pride if an outsider hasanything to say about it; but within its circle you pick and choose yourfriends. The ward-room forces you into the closest physical contacts,but you can still please yourself about the other intimacies. Even in asubmarine, where the death of one is likely to be the death of all, youmay yet like one man more than another. But two men in an aeroplane aretwins in a womb. The very pulse of one must be the pulse of both, theirsenses, glances, thoughts, such a unison of cooperation as the formerworld never saw. For one to harm the other is not assault, butsemi-suicide. Rarely need you even "look for the woman." Gloriana bothserve, but they hardly quarrel about lesser mistresses.

  Yet is it not possible that this extraordinary attachment, thisassociation somewhat in excess of that of natural and aeroplaneless man,may by its very nature have its own reactions? The closer the tie thebitterer the quarrel when it does come. And here an artificial elementis superadded. For, in spite of Joan, who thought that Chummy simplythought of her and flew, man does not naturally fly. If nothing elseforced him into accord the mere mechanical risks would be enough to doso. I remember Smith told me that at one time--whether this is still thecase I cannot say--an observer was not allowed to be trained as a pilotalso, lest, seeing his comrade doing something he himself would not havedone and conscious of the functioning of a different mind, he shouldlose his head at a critical moment and instinctively seize the controls.Had there been such a dissolution of unity on that morning of thebreakfast-party? Had hand hesitated, this factitious identity suddenlyfailed? Of all men living Charles Valentine Smith was the only one whocould answer these questions with authority; but I wanted to get all Icould out of Hanson.

  "Had Maxwell his pilot's ticket?" I musingly asked him presently.

  "Couldn't say. Lots of them have flown hundreds of miles without aticket at all."

  "Was he an Aiglon Company man, by the way?"

  "Dunno. If he was he probably had his ticket. I can't see what use acommercial Company would have for a bomb-sight specialist."

  "Oh, they might. You never know."

  "Well, perhaps so. I'm sorry, old son, but you know as much about poorold Bobby as I do now."

  Summarized, this was all the information I got in exchange for mylunch:--

  Maxwell was four or five years older than Smith, in civil life asurveyor, unmarried, not (so far as Hanson knew) engaged to be married,nice fellow, reasonably abstemious, quite sound in wind and limb.

  Hanson didn't think that Maxwell had spotted for any other pilot thanSmith during the time the two of them were in Gallipoli.

  Maxwell didn't strike Hanson as being a sort of man to lose his head inan emergency; had indeed rather a cool head and steady nerve.

  In conclusion, Maxwell had always seemed particularly attached to ChummySmith.

  "But what's worrying you? Going to put it in a book?" Hanson asked.

  I shook my head. I had no idea at that time that I should ever bewriting this book.

  V

  On that day when I called at Lennox Street and received no answer to myringing I stepped back from the door and looked up at the house again.Little trace of the accident now remained. The broken mulberry branchhad been neatly sawn off and the smaller branches trimmed. The blindswere drawn, the French window clamped up, and quite obviously there wasnobody there. This, as I have said, surprised me, since, even if Esdailehad gone away without letting me know, I had certainly expected to findRooke.

  Then, as I walked down the path again, a thought struck me. Rooke, if Iremembered rightly, ought to be getting married just about then--oughtas a matter of fact to have been married three days before. I had had nonews of this. True, he might simply have neglected to inform me, but Idid not think this likely. Was he married? Suddenly I found myselfwondering and doubting.

  In the King's Road, to which I walked, a blue and white telephone signhanging outside a grocer's shop caught my eye. I walked into the shop. Ihave a good many friends at the Chelsea Arts, and one or other of themought to be able to tell me something about Rooke.

  I got through at the second or third name I asked for. It was Curtis. Heasked me to go on to the Club, but I told him that I couldn't spare thetime, and he next wanted to know where I was speaking from.

  "Then you're hardly a stone's-throw from him," Curtis replied. "He'sback in his old rooms in Jubilee Place."

  I was on the point of asking Curtis whether Rooke was married, butalready I had a divination. If he was not, to ask why he was not wouldonly make talk, and, if he was at home, I could ascertain for myself atlittle more trouble than walking across the road. I thanked Curtis, hungup the receiver, and turned my steps to Jubilee Place.

  I say I had a divination already. At the very outset of this book I toldyou that the Case affected a number of people in various and curiousways and byways, and I was now beginning to think that the descent ofthat parachute on Esdaile's roof had left not one single member of ourgroup unaffected. I must remind you again that at that time I actuallyknew far less than I have already told you; b
ut except by collation,rearrangement and boiling down I could not have set down these facts atall. I had, for example, seen Esdaile's shocked expression ondiscovering that the stranger who had come down on his roof was noneother than his friend Chummy Smith, but up to that time I had not seteyes on that unruffled young criminal himself. I had guessed what thisdiscovery must presently mean to Joan, but was unaware of thatheadstrong dash of Mollie's up to London, and her lagging return toSanton. I had heard Hubbard's fantastic speculations as to the nature ofthe mysterious apparatus Esdaile kept in his cellar, but did not knowthat both Rooke and Mrs. Cunningham had actually been down in thecellar. I had enjoyed the spectacle of a rising barrister unconsciouslyfrustrating the aims of a coroner's jury, but had had to pump Hanson foreven the meagerest scraps of information about the subject of thatinquest. And twice or thrice I had unblushingly lied to a Chesterfieldof the Saloon Bars, but without a suspicion when I had done so that thisvery person, seeing another prime actor in our Case descending a ladder,had had the curiosity to know what made his pocket so lumpy and thedeftness of hand to ascertain.

  So I had begun to look with a good deal of apprehension at our Case. Thebeastly thing was like an egg, that hatched out one creeping thing afteranother. And, as I paused at the end of a long concrete-floored passageand knocked at Rooke's door, I wondered if Rooke would give me news ofstill another.