Ask a Policeman Page 3

  With infinite care he drew a line joining two triangles apex to apex. He contemplated the result with evident satisfaction, then looked up, and continued more briskly. “He loved to talk about himself and his achievements, up to a point. You can guess the sort of thing. The contrast between what he was and what he became. You couldn’t help admiring the fellow as you listened, however much you disliked him. He was an able man in his own way, Hampton, there’s no getting away from that. An able man, and a strong man, with that innate ruthlessness which makes for success. You know how he started life, of course?”

  “Pretty low down in the social scale, from all I’ve heard,” replied the Commissioner.

  “His father worked in a mill somewhere up north. A very decent and respectable chap, I believe. Quite a different type from Comstock. Saved and scraped with only one object in view, to make a gentleman out of that scapegrace son of his. It’s a mercy he never lived to know how completely his efforts failed. Anyhow, he sent the lad to Blackminster Grammar School. Lord knows what sort of a figure he must have cut when he first went there. But he was head of the school before he left.”

  “No lack of brains, even then, apparently,” remarked the Commissioner.

  “No lack of brains, or of determination. But then comes a gap. Comstock disappears from sight—conversationally, I mean—after that. Nobody has ever heard him mention the intervening years. The rungs of the ladder are hidden from us. He reappears in a blaze of glory as Lord Comstock, reputed millionaire, and owner of heaven knows how many disreputable rags. Ambitious, too. Life’s work not yet accomplished, and all that sort of thing. And now you say he’s lying dead at that country place of his, Hursley Lodge. I’ve never seen it. Male visitors were not made welcome there, I’ve always understood.”

  “Welcome or not, there were quite a crowd of them there this morning,” remarked the Commissioner grimly. “Only quite a small house, too.”

  Sir Philip nodded. His reminiscent mood passed suddenly. “All right, bring them in,” he said. “Your own people first. The police, I mean. This chap who was called in first. I’ll leave you to get the story out of them.”

  The Commissioner opened the door which led into the Private Secretary’s room beyond. He looked round sharply, hoping to see the truculent figure of the Assistant Commissioner among the group which stood there, nervous and ill at ease. A frown expressed his disappointment. He beckoned sharply to three men, standing by. In single file they followed him into Sir Philip’s presence.

  Hampton introduced them curtly. “Chief Constable Shawford, Superintendent Churchill, sir. Both of the Yard. This is Superintendent Easton, of the local police.” Sir Philip glanced at the men in turn, nodded at each but said nothing beyond a curt “sit down,” addressed to them all in general. They obeyed—the lower the rank, the greater the distance maintained from the Home Secretary. The Commissioner at first occupied a large arm-chair touching the desk, but as the interview went on he ceased to have a regular station—he would sit one minute, stand the next, lean on the big desk, and almost promise (so it seemed to the inexperienced Easton) to whisk away the Home Secretary and occupy his chair. Sir Philip, picking up his pencil again, drew with more deliberation than skill, a large circle upon his blotting-paper.

  “Easton’s district includes Hursley Lodge, sir,” the Commissioner began, without further preface. “He was at the police-station when a call was received that Lord Comstock had been found dead in his study. This was at 1.7 this afternoon.”

  Sir Philip glanced at the dock on his desk. It was then 2.35 p.m.

  “He drove at once to Hursley Lodge, and was received by Lord Comstock’s secretary, Mr. Mills, who took him straight up to the study. His story will be more easy to follow, sir, if you keep this plan in front of you.”

  He placed a neatly-drawn diagram on the desk, and Sir Philip studied it curiously. “Where did this come from?” he asked.

  “Easton brought it with him from Hursley Lodge, sir,” replied the Commissioner, with a touch of impatience. He was anxious to get on with the facts.

  Sir Philip looked up, and for the first time Easton appeared to him as an individual. He was tall, with a soldierly moustache and bearing, but obviously unnerved by the distinguished company in which he found himself; the Home Secretary’s glance had somehow brought him to his feet, and under his gaze he shifted from one foot to the other, and with difficulty suppressed an almost irresistible inclination to salute.

  “Pretty smart of you to get hold of a plan like this, Easton,” said Sir Philip encouragingly. “Where did you find it?”

  “Mr. Mills gave it to me, sir—the secretary,” replied Easton. Something in Sir Philip’s manner seemed to have put him quite at his ease. During the rest of the interview he addressed himself to him exclusively, as though some mysterious bond of sympathy had been established between them. He even took a couple of paces towards the Home Secretary’s desk.

  “Mr. Mills gave it to you, did he?” said the Home Secretary. “Where did he get it from? People don’t as a rule have plans of their houses ready to hand like that.”

  “It’s a rough tracing of a plan of the drains, really, sir,” Easton explained gravely, “with the drains left out and a few other things put in. Mr. Mills told me that a new system of drainage had recently been put in at Hursley Lodge, and the builder left a plan behind in case any alterations were required.”

  “I see. Very well, Easton. Tell me what you found when you got into the study.”

  “It was a large room, sir, with a big bow-window on the south side. The frames were of the casement type, and were all wide open. There was very little furniture in the room, sir. A row of bookcases round the walls, and half a dozen chairs standing in front of them. One of them had been overturned, and was lying close inside the door leading into the hall. There were two other doors, sir. One led into the drawing-room, and was disguised as a bookcase. The bookcase swung open with the door, if you understand me, sir.”

  Sir Philip nodded. “And the third door?” he asked.

  “That was a double door, sir, leading into the room which Mr. Mills used, and which he called the office. At the farther end of the room was a heavy desk, standing close to the window. Behind this desk, and between it and the window, lay the body of Lord Comstock. His lordship lay on his right side, with his knees drawn up towards his chin. I could see at once that he was dead, sir.”

  “And did you discover as promptly what had killed him?”

  “There was a very small bullet-wound in his left temple, sir. So small that I thought at first it was a stab with some round weapon like a thick hat-pin.”

  “What made you alter your opinion, Easton?”

  “When I looked on the desk, sir, I found this,” replied Easton simply. He put his hand in his pocket, and produced something wrapped carefully in a handkerchief. He opened this out, and disclosed a miniature revolver, which he laid on the edge of the Home Secretary’s desk. At the sight of it, Chief Constable Shawford made a sound as though about to speak. But a sharp glance from the Commissioner silenced him before he could utter anything articulate.

  Sir Philip looked at it curiously. “Vicious little toy!” he exclaimed. “And you think this is what killed Lord Comstock, do you, Easton?”

  “I think so, sir. One chamber has been discharged, and that quite recently, by the look of the fouling. But, as far as I have been able to make out, sir, there are no finger-marks.”

  The Commissioner rose and stepped to the desk. “You had better take charge of this, Shawford,” he said. “The sooner it is examined by the experts the better.”

  He was about to pick up the pistol, when Sir Philip waved him aside. “No, let it stay there for the present,” he said. “Now, let’s get this clear, Easton. You say that Lord Comstock was lying on the floor, and that the pistol was on the desk. Did it occur to you that Lord Comstock might have shot himself?”

  “It did occur to me, sir. But if he had been sitting in his chair at
the time, I don’t see how the pistol could have fallen to where I found it. It was on the other side of the desk, sir.”

  “When you found it, perhaps. But other people must have entered the room before you reached the house. Several other people, I dare say?”

  It was the Commissioner who replied. He was evidently anxious to atone for his slight faux pas over the pistol. “Two at least, Sir Philip. Comstock’s secretary and his butler. They are waiting in the next room. Shall I bring them in?”

  “All in good time,” said Sir Philip. “I expect that Easton has more to tell us yet. I should like more light on the point of whether Comstock could have shot himself. There are no finger-prints to be seen on the pistol. The inference is that whoever handled it last wore gloves or else it has been wiped over. Was it as hot in the study at Hursley Lodge as it is in here?”

  “It was certainly very warm, sir.”

  “I expect it was. It’s one of the hottest June days I remember. I say, Hampton, would you mind putting one of those candlesticks on my desk?”

  He nodded towards the mantelpiece, on which stood a pair of silver candlesticks. The Commissioner walked up to the nearest one, picked it up, and laid it down beside the pistol.

  “Thank you, Hampton. Now, Chief Constable, will you look at that candlestick and tell me if you can see any finger-prints on it?”

  Shawford gingerly picked up the candlestick and breathed on it. “They are very plainly visible where Sir Henry Hampton touched it, sir,” he said solemnly.

  “That settles the point, I think,” said Sir Philip briskly. “If anybody had touched the pistol with their naked hands this morning they must have left finger-marks upon it. Comstock would not be wearing gloves indoors. We can leave it at that for the present. Now, Easton, what did you do after you had looked round the study?”

  “The first thing I did, sir, was to telephone to my Chief. I thought he would want to know at once what had happened. When I had done that, sir, I asked Mr. Mills to send for the doctor who usually attended his lordship.”

  “By his Chief, Easton means the Chief Constable of Southshire, sir,” the Commissioner put in. “Colonel Graham. He rang me up about half-past one, and repeated what Easton had told him. He wanted the Yard to take charge immediately. I thought it best that you should hear all the circumstances at once, and I therefore put a call through to Hursley Lodge. Easton answered it, and I told him to come here as quickly as he could, bringing with him all available witnesses.”

  Sir Philip nodded. “Sit down over there in the corner, Easton,” he said. “You’ve done very well. Ah, wait! one point—when did you reach Hursley Lodge? 1.15? Right. Now you can produce your witnesses, Hampton. One at a time, of course.”

  The Commissioner went to the door, and beckoned. “This is Mr. Mills, Lord Comstock’s secretary, sir,” he announced.

  A young man, somewhere near the thirty mark, entered the room. He was elegantly, a little too elegantly, dressed, his coat cut to suggest a slimmer waist than in fact he possessed. His hair was curly and shone with an odorous ointment. His narrow eyes roamed round the room, his expression a mixture of alarm, bravado, and surprise, and settled finally upon the inexpressive countenance of the Home Secretary.

  “Sit down, Mr. Mills,” said Sir Philip briskly. “I want to hear what you can tell us about Comstock’s death. I saw him in London not many days ago. How long had he been down at Hursley Lodge?”

  Mills moistened his lips. It seemed as if he spoke only by a great effort. “Only since the day before yesterday, sir,” he replied.

  “Had he any particular reason for leaving London just now?”

  “Not to my knowledge, sir. He often went down to Hursley Lodge for a few days at a time. He could work there without being interrupted, or he could, as a rule, sir.”

  “Did you always accompany him on these occasons?”

  An unpleasantly sly look came into Mills’ eyes at this. “Not always, sir. But on this occasion he told me to come, as he would probably want me.”

  “I see. Now please tell me, in your own words, exactly what happened this morning.”

  Again Mills moistened his red lips. He hesitated, and seemed at a loss where to begin. Then all at once he seemed to make up his mind, and spoke rapidly in a harsh and monotonous voice.

  “Lord Comstock came into the dining-room as I was finishing breakfast, sir. I did not expect him so early, as at Hursley Lodge he rarely appeared before half-past nine. Nine was just striking as he came in. He asked me why I wasn’t at work, and without waiting for my answer told me that he would be in his study all the morning, and that he wasn’t on any account to be disturbed. I suppose that he was anxious to think over the policy of the newspapers.”

  “By which you mean the ‘Back to Paganism’ movement, and the attack on the police, I suppose?” the Commissioner inquired.

  “It was probably the latter, Sir Henry. He had that cause very much at heart! Yesterday he was very much upset when he learnt that Mr. Littleton had refused to give the crime expert of the Daily Bugle certain information in connection with the Little Cadbury case. He said that the police were deliberately practising a policy of obstruction, entirely contrary to the interests of justice.”

  Sir Philip glanced at the Commissioner. “Do you know anything of this?” he asked.

  Hampton shook his head, but Shawford cleared his throat apologetically. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I think I know of the incident to which Mr. Mills refers. Mr. Littleton had given orders that no information was to be given to the press for the present. The case concerns the body of a girl who was found murdered in a wood near Little Cadbury, sir. We have a clue, which is being followed up, but we can only succeed if complete secrecy is maintained.”

  “I see. You’re probably right, Mills. Comstock was no doubt looking for a stick with which to beat Scotland Yard. He gave orders that he was not to be disturbed, you say. Was there anything unusual in this?”

  “Nothing at all, sir. It was the rule that Lord Comstock never saw anybody at Hursley Lodge unless he sent for them. He would occasionally ring up one of his editors on the private line to Fort Comstock, and tell him to come down at once. But he very rarely had any other visitors, at least when I was with him. I was all the more surprised when I was told that there was somebody to see him this morning.”

  “One moment, Mills. Where were you when Lord Comstock entered his study?”

  “In the office, sir, which communicates with it by double doors.”

  “And you were there when you were told that somebody wished to see Comstock. What did you do?”

  “Just after half-past eleven Farrant, the butler, came into the office, sir. I had already told him that Lord Comstock would see nobody. But he said that His Grace the Archbishop of the Midlands had called, and insisted upon seeing his Lordship. Farrant told me that he had shown His Grace into the drawing-room. I hurried in there at once, sir. The Archbishop told me that he was one of his oldest friends. If I may say so, sir, this seemed to me very extraordinary, knowing Lord Comstock’s aversion to the Church.”

  Sir Philip smiled. “The Archbishop of the Midlands!” he exclaimed softly. “The Most Reverend William Ansehn Pettifer, D.D. Archbishops never lie, you may be sure of that. And in this case Doctor Pettifer was manifestly speaking the truth. He was certainly one of Comstock’s earliest friends. Not that they can have seen much of one another recently. Rather curious, that, eh, Hampton?”

  “I’m afraid that I don’t quite follow,” replied the Commissioner, with a puzzled expression.

  “Don’t you remember that Doctor Pettifer was for many years Headmaster of Blackminster Grammar School? He only left there when he became Bishop of Bournemouth. He must have known Comstock as a boy, of course. Go on, Mr. Mills, what did Lord Comstock say when you told him that the Archbishop had called to see him?”

  “He—er—he indulged in some very bad language, sir. I went into the study through the door leading from the drawing-room, bei
ng careful to shut it behind me, of course. Lord Comstock asked me what the devil I meant by coming in without being called for, and I replied that the Archbishop was waiting. He was very much annoyed, sir; in fact I may say that he was furious. I should not like to repeat the actual words he used, sir.”

  “I think that we had better hear them,” said Sir Philip. “I doubt if even Comstock’s language could shock the present company.”

  “Well, sir, he said that it was a piece of damned impertinence on the part of the bloody old hypocrite to intrude upon him like that. He spoke so loud, sir, that I am afraid that he must have been audible in the drawing-room. And then he told me to tell His Grace to clear out of the house and get back to his own job of preaching poppy-cock. He was in a very violent mood, sir.”

  “So it appears,” said Sir Philip. “I presume that you did not deliver his message verbatim to the Archbishop?”

  “I was not given the opportunity of delivering the message at all, sir. While Lord Comstock was still speaking, the door opened, and His Grace walked in. I thought it best to leave them alone together, sir, so I retired to my office.”

  “Then you do not know what passed at the interview between your employer and the Archbishop? Their conversation can hardly have been of a most cordial nature on both sides, as the newspapers would say.”

  “I had the impression that it was not, sir. Owing to the thick wall and the double door between the office and the study, I could only hear the sound of voices, raised apparently in altercation. I fancied once or twice that I distinguished the word ‘clap-trap’ uttered by Lord Comstock, but that was all, sir. The interview had lasted for a quarter of an hour or more, when Farrant entered the office to announce a second visitor.”

  “It seems to have been your busy day, Mr. Mills. Who was this second visitor?”

  Mills hesitated for a moment, as though he were not sure how his answer would be received. “Sir Charles Hope-Fairweather, sir,” he replied uneasily.

  Sir Philip, who had never abandoned his pencil, drew an elaborate curve before he made any comment upon this. Then he glanced at the Commissioner. “Comstock’s visiting list is more varied than I imagined. Did you know that he and Hope-Fairweather were on speaking terms? No, of course you wouldn’t. You’re a policeman, not a politician. But it seems odd to me that the Chief Government Whip should have business with a man who devoted columns daily to denouncing the policy of that Government.”