Ask a Policeman Page 7

  “A wise precaution. Now, Chief Constable, you told us that you were in Mr. Littleton’s room this morning discussing the Little Cadbury case, if I remember rightly. Did you see this pistol that the Superintendent talks about then?”

  Shawford cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. It was lying on Mr. Littleton’s desk.”

  Sir Philip looked speculatively at the designs upon his blotting-paper. “I wonder if it is there now?” he said gently. “I think, Hampton, that it would be as well if you rang up the Yard and asked them to look.”

  The Commissioner was about to leave the room, when Shawford spoke again. “I don’t think it will be there now, sir,” he said timidly.

  “Don’t you, Chief Constable? And what makes you think that?”

  “Well, sir, while I was talking to Mr. Littleton this morning, he picked it up and put it in his pocket. He said something about taking it round to a gunsmith for expert opinion, sir.”

  Sir Philip sighed, and leaned back in his chair. “It is extraordinary how difficult it is to elucidate the truth,” he said wearily. “I might surely have been told this fact without the necessity for cross-examination. I begin to feel that Comstock’s attack on the police was not without some justification. I shall expect you, Hampton, to take some action in regard to this want of frankness.”

  Fortunately for the Commissioner, his reply was interrupted by the buzzing of the house telephone. Sir Philip picked up the instrument and listened. “Yes, certainly, Anderson,” he said. “A special edition, you say? Oh, I know how they got hold of it. The enterprising Mr. Mills gave them the information over the private telephone from Hursley Lodge. Yes, bring it in, by all means.”

  Anderson came in, bearing a special edition of the Evening Clarion, which he handed to Sir Philip. Across the whole width of the front page were the glaring headlines:

  MURDER OF LORD COMSTOCK.

  WHAT DO THE POLICE KNOW?

  Sir Philip glanced through the heavily-leaded letter-press. It contained a vivid account of the events of the morning, obviously derived from Mills’ message. Following this was a special article by “Our well-known Crime Expert,” who was obviously in his element.

  “In spite of the fact that one of the Assistant Commissioners of Metropolitan Police, the official who is at the head of our ludicrously inefficient Criminal Investigation Department, was actually present at Hursley Lodge when the dastardly crime was committed, no arrest has yet been made. The British public, accustomed to repeated failures of a similar kind, may see nothing extraordinary in this. But we venture to ask the question, what was the Assistant Commissioner doing at Hursley Lodge? We have authority for stating that his visit was not by appointment with Lord Comstock, and that, in fact, his appearance was entirely unexpected. This visit may have been made with perfectly innocent intentions. But once more we call upon the Home Secretary to insist upon a thorough investigation of the circumstances, and that by some independent body. The Criminal Investigation Department is clearly prejudiced, since its chief official must appear as an actor in the drama. Only the most impartial investigation can be relied upon to solve the mystery of this dastardly outrage.”

  And so on, to the extent of a couple of columns or more.

  Sir Philip’s expression did not betray his thoughts-as he handed the paper to the Commissioner. “Well, Hampton, what do you make of that?” he asked.

  The Commissioner ran his eye through the article, and frowned. “It seems that Comstock’s stunts live after him,” he replied.

  “Stunt or no stunt it seems to me that Littleton’s visit to Hursley Lodge will want a lot of explanation,” said Sir Philip gravely. “As this fellow asks, what was he doing there? We know that he bitterly resented Comstock’s attack on Scotland Yard. Several other details have been revealed, which place his actions in none too favourable a light. And the grim fact remains that Comstock has been murdered.”

  There was no mistaking the significance of the Home Secretary’s words. But the Commissioner, bitterly annoyed as he was with Littleton’s account of his actions, was not prepared to acquiesce tamely in his guilt. Not that he considered it impossible. Littleton was notoriously headstrong. It was certain that he and Comstock could not have met, even for a moment, without a furious altercation arising immediately. This would undoubtedly have led to personal violence if the characters of the two men were considered. Littleton would not have shot Comstock in cold blood. But if Comstock had threatened him with the pistol found on his desk—

  No; the Commissioner’s reluctance to admit the possibility of Littleton’s guilt was not based upon conviction. It was due to his appreciation of the scandal which must ensue if such a thing were suggested. It might well be argued that if an Assistant Commissioner of Police were capable of murder, Comstock’s attacks upon that force were fully justified. For the honour of the Department of which he had charge, it was essential that no breath of official suspicion should cloud for a moment the reputation of his subordinate.

  “If you will forgive my saying so, sir, it is ridiculous to suppose that Littleton can have had anything to do with the crime,” he said stiffly. “I am well aware that he is impulsive to a fault, and that he would go to almost any lengths to defend his colleagues from outside attack. But nobody who knew him well would believe for a moment that he would condescend to murder. Chief Constable Shawford, who for years has worked in close association with him, will bear me out in that.”

  “That I will, sir!” exclaimed Shawford courageously. “I’d sooner suspect myself than Mr. Littleton.”

  “The esprit de corps displayed by the officers of your Department is really touching, Compton,” Sir Philip remarked drily. “In vulgar parlance, they’d rather die than give one another away. I am not likely to forget the difficulty which I experienced in extracting the truth about the second pistol. If you insist that Littleton cannot be guilty, what alternative do you suggest?”

  “I would point out that Sir Charles Hope-Fairweather’s replies to your questions were scarcely satisfactory,” the Commissioner replied equally.

  “Hope-Fairweather! I’ll admit that some politicians are hardly qualified to sit among the angels. But they do not as a rule indulge in personal murder. Besides, why in the world should Hope-Fairweather want to murder Comstock?”

  “There must be a good many people who, for various reasons, will rejoice at his death. He was the sort of man who makes private enemies as well as public ones. For instance, his dealings with women were notorious, and in some cases sufficiently scandalous. And Hope-Fairweather had a woman, whose name he refuses to divulge, with him when he went to Hursley Lodge.”

  “Cherchez la femme, eh? You suggest that this woman supplied the motive, direct or indirect, for Comstock’s murder?”

  “I suggest nothing at present. But I maintain that the identity of this woman calls for investigation. And I cannot overlook Hope-Fairweather’s extraordinary behaviour while he was at Hursley Lodge, nor the fact that he was wearing gloves the whole time he was there.”

  “The evidence on these points is derived solely from a witness who is himself not wholly free from suspicion,” said Sir Philip swiftly. “I shall require something very much more substantial before I can bring myself to believe in the guilt of the Chief Whip of my own party. You say it is ridiculous to suspect Littleton. I reply that it is infinitely more ridiculous to suspect Hope-Fairweather. If the police can produce no more plausible theory than this, I can understand the failures with which Comstock charged them. What have you to say on the subject, Chief Constable?”

  Shawford, thus suddenly appealed to, sat bolt upright in his chair. He was in a quandary. While anxious to shield Littleton at any cost, he did not dare, in the face of the Home Secretary’s disapproval, support the Commissioner’s opinion. He fell back upon a suggestion which seemed to him infinitely tactful.

  “Mr. Mills, as you point out, sir, is a witness not wholly free from suspicion,” he replied. “Lord Comstock seems to have treat
ed him pretty badly, by his own account. And there’s that matter of his having been given notice. His explanation of what Farrant said about that doesn’t sound very convincing to me, sir.”

  Sir Philip nodded. “I did not care very much for Mills’ manner. The impression I derived from his statement was that he was withholding at least part of the truth. What do you think about it, Hampton?”

  “I think that Shawford is talking nonsense,” the Commissioner replied angrily. He was annoyed that the Chief Constable had not endorsed his suggestion. “Farrant is no more worthy of belief than Mills. He may have trumped up that story about Comstock giving his secretary notice to screen himself. It would be just as reasonable to suppose that he shot Comstock himself. If Mills wanted to murder his employer, he had plenty of opportunity for doing so. Would he have been likely to choose a time when the house was beseiged by visitors, including the Assistant Commissioner of Police? I think we can safely disregard such an absurd suggestion.”

  “It would appear that all theories as to the identity of Comstock’s murderer must be equally absurd,” Sir Philip remarked. “But perhaps Superintendent Churchill has formed some opinion?”

  Churchill, who had hoped to be overlooked, flushed crimson. He had formed an opinion, but he would infinitely have preferred to have been allowed to keep it to himself, at least for the present. After all, only one of the visitors to Hursley Lodge had been admitted to Lord Comstock’s presence, and the evidence of a serious altercation having taken place between them was beyond dispute. Moreover, Churchill had been brought up to the narrowest and most fanatical religious views. In his childhood he had been taught that all ecclesiastical dignitaries were servants of the Scarlet Woman, and, since he had probably never met one of them, the influence of this teaching was still strong.

  And yet he hesitated, not at all certain of how his suggestion would be received. It was not until Sir Philip had thrown him a word of rather impatient encouragement—“Come along, Superintendent, let us hear what you have to say!”—that he could bring himself to speak. And then he was surprised at the confident tone of his own voice. “None of the witnesses admit having seen Lord Comstock alive after the departure of His Grace the Archbishop, sir.”

  The Commissioner looked at the wretched Churchill as though he suspected him of having taken leave of his senses. He did not even deign to make any comment. The Archbishop, Comstock’s old headmaster! Words failed him to express his contempt of such an idea.

  But Sir Philip had taken up his pencil once more. “There is more than one example in history of a criminal Archbishop,” he said reminiscently. “But recently the type seems to have gone out of fashion. However, I suppose that none of us here have any experience of what an angry Archbishop is capable. He might consider himself to be the instrument of the justice of Heaven. I don’t know.”

  The Commissioner frowned. He was anxious to get back to Scotland Yard and have a heart-to-heart talk with Littleton. “If I may say so, I do not think that guess-work will help us much, sir,” he ventured. “Until we have had an opportunity for further investigation—”

  But Sir Philip interrupted him. “That’s just it, Hampton. Who is going to conduct this investigation?”

  The Commissioner stared at him. “The officers of the Criminal Investigation Department, I presume,” he replied stiffly.

  “With Littleton at their head?” Sir Philip asked. “No, that won’t do, Hampton. You’re prejudiced, of course, but you must admit that there is something in what this journalist fellow says. It is essentially a bad principle to entrust the conduct of an investigation to one of the parties interested.”

  The Commissioner shrugged his shoulders. “I should not be inclined to pay much attention to the ravings of the Comstock Press,” he replied contemptuously.

  “You do not seem to understand that we must take care not to justify those ravings, as you call them. In any case, I must insist that Littleton be suspended until the mystery of Comstock’s murder is solved.”

  The Commissioner hesitated for a moment, then bowed his head in assent. After all, no great harm could come of this. It would keep Littleton out of further mischief. He had certainly not distinguished himself so far. His subordinates were quite capable of carrying on without his direction.

  “Very well. That point is settled,” Sir Philip continued. “Now, I think we might go a step farther. Comstock and his gang have always maintained that the police are inefficient, and that outside experts, given the necessary facilities, could succeed where they have failed. Comstock himself is now the victim of murder. It seems to me that it would be no more than poetic justice to put his own principles into operation in order to discover the criminal.”

  “I will give instructions that representatives of the Press shall be given such information of the progress of the investigation as seems expedient,” said the Commissioner.

  Sir Philip shook his head. “That won’t do, Hampton,” he replied. “In this case, public opinion must be satisfied that the police are hiding nothing. Comstock’s campaign has produced a deeper impression than you are ready to admit. My instructions are these. Your department must hold its hand—make sure that the inquest does not go beyond evidence of identity, and then adjourns sine die, but that’s all. Instead of you, the outside experts are to be called in, allowed forty-eight hours to make their reports, and, without any reserve whatever, given all the information in your possession to help them to do so. There must be no suggestion of the concealment of the smallest detail. This is the only way to restore the reputation of the police, already compromised by Littleton’s actions.”

  The Commissioner, astounded by this speech, would have raised objections. But Sir Philip gave him no opportunity to speak. “No, Hampton, that is my last word,” he continued. “I have myself had evidence this afternoon of a certain lack of frankness among members of your department. If the public were to get the impression that the police were capable of shielding suspects because of the positions which they occupy, the results would be disastrous. I shall be glad if you will see that my instructions are carried out without delay. And here,” he concluded, “is a list of the experts with whom I propose to get in touch at once.”

  The Commissioner took the list, hoping to find in it an opening for a renewed protest. Instead, he found himself gaping at a neat time-table, and particularly at its last phrase:

  9 a.m. Comstock at breakfast.

  11.35 a.m. (say). C. interviews Archbishop.

  11.50 or 55 a.m. Fairweather arrives.

  By 12 noon. Littleton also there.

  H.-Fairweather in waiting-room.

  At noon. Mills in Office.

  Littleton in waiting-room.

  Comstock and Archbishop in argument.

  12.22 p.m. Mills returns to work in the Office, all the visitors having departed.

  1.5 p.m. Butler calls Mills from Office.

  1.7 p.m. Police informed.

  1.15 p.m. Easton arrives.

  1.30 p.m. C.I.D. informed by Chief Constable.

  2.30 p.m. Home Secretary takes personal charge.

  “But—do you mean, Sir Philip, that you personally …?”

  “What?—Oh, that’s not the list. Those are my notes. This will come up in the House, you know. Here’s the list I meant. If I add to it, I’ll tell Anderson to let you know. That is perfectly clear, I hope?” He recovered the time-table.

  The Commissioner bowed. Further argument, he knew, was useless. He shepherded Shawford and Churchill from the room, and returned to Scotland Yard, taking with him the pistol which had been found by Superintendent Easton.

  Littleton had not yet returned from Winborough, but the Commissioner found a lengthy medical report awaiting him. He read it through, and made a note of the principal points contained in it.

  The examining surgeon reported that, from the appearance and temperature of the body, Comstock must have been dead for certainly more than one and probably two hours when examined at 2.15 p.m. De
ath, therefore, must have taken place before 1.15 p.m. (“helpful,” snorted the Commissioner) and probably before 12.15 p.m.

  From the nature of the wound, death must have been practically instantaneous, The cause of death was penetration of the brain by a bullet, which had entered the head by the left temple. No traces of burning or of powder blackening could be found in the neighbourhood of the wound.

  The course of the bullet had been slightly upward. That is to say, it had been found at a spot slightly higher in the head than the point of entry. It had been extracted, and was of very small calibre,?15 inch, as far as could be judged. Owing to slight flattening, however, it was impossible to measure the calibre exactly. The marks of the rifling, however, could still be detected near the base.

  The bullet itself, wrapped up in tissue paper and enclosed in a pill-box, accompanied the report. The Commissioner unfolded it and looked at it closely. It was certainly flattened at the head, but the base appeared to have retained its original dimensions.

  He took the pistol from his pocket and inserted the base of the bullet into the muzzle. It fitted exactly.

  INTRODUCTION TO PART II

  “DEAR JOHN RHODE,

  “You do indeed know how to take a hint! This is a superb Problem, with all the recognised ingredients—save only our old friend the “blunt instrument,” of which I should have reminded you.

  “Yet I am not much farther forward, for I cannot imagine what the solution of your problem can be. However, there is, as you have shown, a friendly readiness amongst the members of the Detection Club to help the weaker brethren, so I have written to one or two of our friends to ask them to tell me what, in the opinion of their Sleuths, the solution is.

  “By the way, my earlier letter to you rather suggested that I had thought of the title ‘Ask a Policeman.’ Actually, Arthur Barker suggested it to me, but an author is naturally reluctant to give any credit to a publisher.