Blood on His Hands E-Book

Max Afford

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 302

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Blood on His Hands by Max Afford is a gripping murder mystery that delves into the dark corners of guilt, deception, and justice. When a respected figure is found dead, with seemingly no motive or suspect, the investigation quickly spirals into a web of lies and hidden agendas. As the authorities close in on the truth, one man is forced to confront the evidence that points directly at him. Is he truly innocent, or is there blood on his hands? In this electrifying tale of suspense, readers will be kept guessing until the shocking conclusion.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Blood on His Hands

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

Landmarks

Table of Contents

Cover

Blood on His Hands

By: Max Afford

Edited by: Rafat Allam

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq Bookstore

Published 1945

No part of this publication may be reproduced whole or in part in any form without the prior written permission of the author

PROLOGUE

From some miles away, the train was a worthwhile sight. It slipped across the gently undulating country like a linked string of flame-coloured jewels, now springing across an iron bridge, now vanishing momentarily from sight as it dived into a cutting. In that desolate stretch of country nothing seemed alive, save the cold stars, already brightening in a sky dusky with approaching night, and that twisting metal snake with the single flashing eye set in its head.

Hans von Rasch, curled up in his corner, paid little attention.

The young man sat upright and, pushing aside his rug, took a leather wallet from his coat-pocket. He drew out a folded letter and first glanced at the newspaper-cutting pinned in one corner.

"A position is offered to a third or fourth year medical student possessing a fairly sound knowledge of anatomy. Applicants should be without family responsibilities. Apply, giving full particulars of training and qualifications, to 'Medicus,' this office."

From the cutting von Rasch lowered his eyes to the letter. There was no printed heading; the address on the top stated briefly "Eldon Towers," and gave the date. The contents he knew by heart.

Dear Sir, I have great pleasure in informing you that your application for the position of assistant to Dr. Bernhardt Meyersen, of this address, has been accepted. You will report for duty on Monday, April 8th. Enclosed you will find cheque to cover your travelling expenses, also directions as to the vicinity of Eldon Towers.

Dr. Bernhardt wishes me to impress upon you the greatest need for discretion about your new position. You are not to discuss the name of your employer nor your destination with any other person.

Please reply to this letter in person. The doctor is expecting you.

Yours faithfully,

R. Austin Linton (Secretary).

A sudden noise recalled him. The door at the end of the carriage was flung open and a guard entered, rolling his body to the lurch of the train. He was a middle-aged man with a stolid, pleasant face. He paused near the solitary traveller.

"Getting near Greycliffe prison now, sir. Thought you might like to take a look." As though excusing his uninvited approach, he added: "Most folks do, travelling on this line, you know."

Von Rasch nodded.

"Thank you," he said. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. Their guttural accent betrayed his nationality, so that the official glanced at him curiously.

"That's where the chap escaped from a week ago," he volunteered. "Warders and dogs been hunting the place for days now—stopped the train once, they did, for a search. Guess they'll never find him now. He's probably fallen into one of those gullies and broken his neck—sure as sin!"

Von Rasch had heard about the queer volcanic formation of this country; of the hollow earth that opened beneath the feet and the depthless caverns with their wells of green and stagnant water. He averted his head. "That is horrible."

The guard ran his tongue along the gum of a cigarette-paper. "Horrible's right." He spat out a wisp of tobacco. "But then, this chap was a horrible one himself. Oscar Dowling, the Golganna murderer. You remember him—no? Well, he murdered his wife and three children—chopped off their hands. Mad, he was—mad 's a hatter! That's why he got life instead of the noose. But I guess he's dead now all right."

"I cannot remember the case," von Rasch replied shortly. "I do not read newspapers."

The guard lit his cigarette and tossed away the match. He seemed glad to impart the information. "Strange case, it was. Made a lot of talk at the time. This Dowling was a well-educated man—one of those chaps who write books and things. Loving husband and father, the newspapers said. All at once he went off his head—phut." He clicked his fingers in the air. "Just like that! Been working too hard, doctors said. Anyhow, when he came round again, he knew nothing of what he'd done. In the court he swore they were sentencing an innocent man, said someone else was responsible for the murders! Then he went off again. They locked him in a madhouse for three months, then shifted him down here. When he was sane they set him to work in the cook-house. That's how he came to escape. Cunning, you see—cunning." The guard nodded to himself. "That's how they all are. But I guess he's gone for keeps now—and the best thing that could happen, I say!"

He paused in his gloomy recital and leaned closer to the window. Then he straightened and turned back. "You're for Henbane station, aren't you?"

"That is right."

"Well, it's the next stop." Reluctantly the guard pinched out his half-smoked cigarette and pocketed it. "Better get ready. We don't stop more than a minute or so." With a nod he moved out of the carriage and vanished with the slamming of a door.

Von Rasch rose to his feet and began to fold the rug. Reaching up, he took the suit-case from the wire rack overhead and, thus laden, began to sway down the corridor, and out onto a vacant platform.

* * *

Ten minutes passed before a sudden commotion aroused him. He jumped to his feet as a man walked into the station and halted a few paces away from him. Von Rasch had a swift impression of a huge, swarthy giant, bearded to the eyes, his great form wrapped from throat to ankles in an old-fashioned Burberry overcoat buttoned about his throat. A slouch hat was pulled low on his forehead. The new-comer stared at the young man for a moment, then asked gruffly:

"Mr. von Rasch?" He barely moved his lips as he spoke.

The young man replied quietly: "That is my name."

Without another word the big man bent and lifted the heavy suit-case as though it were a child's school-bag, then turned and walked out of the station. As the other made no move to follow, he turned and flung the words over his shoulder:

"This way. Carriage's waiting."

It was a small rubber-tyred sulky that waited a few paces away, drawn by a plump mare who fogged the chilling air with her breath.

With a nod he placed one foot on the step and sprang into the seat. With a grunt the big man was by his side, and the next minute they were spanking along the grassy bank leading to the road.

They must have been driving for close on half an hour when von Rasch saw a dark grove of trees some distance ahead. From the tangle of foliage, he could make out something like a squat tower pushing its way, reminding him of a deserted lighthouse in a dark and waveless sea. As they approached along the gently sloping road, he picked out the dim lines of pointed gables and steep roofs, and began to wonder if this house, guarded by the whispering army of trees, was his destination. He was not left long in doubt. The sulky purred on its way and ten minutes later turned in between the high stone pillars of the entrance gate.

The drive was to short that the house seemed almost to leap out from the trees to confront them. Von Rasch had a confused impression of outbuildings lost in obscurity, of arched doorways and twisted chimneys grotesque against the star-spangled sky. The sulky pulled up so abruptly that the mare's hoofs pawed the ground. The driver, lopping the reins about the whip socket, jumped out and nodded to his companion to follow. He gestured in the direction of the house.

"This way," he said briefly.

The young man had naturally assumed that they would enter through the front of the house. But he was mistaken. The servant led the way past massive pillars and a creeper-covered verandah to the side of the building. Here he pushed open a door with his foot and told his companion to enter. In the darkness they groped along a narrow corridor. The guide opened another door, and a flood of light illuminated the corridor.

"Wait in there," the bearded man muttered. Von Rasch heard him moving away, and a slam of a door announced his departure. He moved forward into the room and looked around.

It was apparently the library, this wide room with the four walls lined from floor to ceiling with books. The reds and golds of the bindings winked in the light of an old-fashioned oil-lamp hanging on chains from the ceiling. What little furnishings the room contained were artistic rather than utilitarian. A marble bust of a saturnine Dante sneered from a mahogany cabinet; there were several imitation tapestries stretched on screens here and there, and a barbaric note was struck by the presence of a many-armed Hindu idol raising pious almond eyes in one corner of the room. Von Rasch was about to examine this close, when the servant entered.

"Dr. Meyersen will see you," he said. "Come along."

Again they trod the dark corridors that wound so endlessly that the young man lost all sense of direction. At length they paused before a heavy door. The servant knocked sharply, favoured his companion with a curt nod, and moved off. From within came the harsh scrape of a chair thrust back, and footsteps approached. It was flung open and the young man had his first glimpse of Dr. Bernhardt Meyersen.

His first impression was a pair of deep-set eyes in a face of astonishing pallor, a pallor accentuated by the wild aureole of white hair. The eyes swept him from head to foot as he stood there staring at this man who was to be his employer. The silence became almost embarrassing, and the young man spoke quickly.

"Herr Doctor?"

"Yes." The voice was as thin and as sharp as the face.

"I am Hans von Rasch."

"So?" The eyes narrowed, focused on the other's face. "You are very young. How old are you?"

"Twenty-three, Herr Doctor. I understood you knew that from my letter."

There was no reply. Von Rasch dropped his eyes under this penetrating scrutiny. He was aware that the doctor had stepped aside to allow him to pass. "Come inside," he said.

The room into which they moved was almost Spartan in its severity; he noticed that the floor was of bare, unpolished boards and the furniture heavy and cheap. Near the centre stood a table covered with papers, and above this a hanging oil-lamp spread a yellow tent of light cutting sharply downward and leaving the rest of the room in half-shadow. High in the wall was the outline of a small window, protected by iron bars.

The doctor followed him inside and, pausing by the table, pulled up a chair. "Sit down, Herr von Rasch," he invited, and when the other had obeyed he leaned against the table, folded his arms, and stared down at him. He spoke quietly.

"You have adhered rigidly to the terms of my letter—told nobody of your destination or the name of your employer?"

"I have told no one, Herr Doctor."

"You are not married, nor have you family responsibilities of any kind which bind you to the outside world?"

Von Rasch said simply: "I am quite alone in the world, sir."

Dr. Meyersen nodded and pulled forward a chair. "That is good," he announced. "Now listen carefully, my boy. I want you to understand exactly what is required of you."

CHAPTER I.

Bertha Fenton pushed open the door of her tiny room on the "Weekly Informer" and, moving inside, dropped into a woven-cane chair near the table. For a while she sat limply, yielding to the pleasure of complete relaxation. The mirror on the opposite wall threw back her reflection—a dumpy, untidily dressed, middle-aged woman with sharp, almost cunning features centring about an arrogant beak of a nose. With her mousy hair drawn back and cut as short as a man's, Bertha Fenton looked every day her forty-three years.

A knock on the door aroused her. She peered through the grey haze of tobacco-smoke at the copy-boy who stood in the entrance. He pushed a sleek, pomaded head into the room.

"Mr. Armitage wants you, Miss Fenton."

Bertha made her way into the news editor's room and crossed to his desk.

Herbert Armitage, a prematurely bald young man wearing thick-lensed spectacles, leaned back in his swivel chair and waved a slip of paper. "Carstairs, nosing round the detective office this morning, ran across a pretty definite rumour that Judge Sheldon had been murdered—"

The woman sat up, her indifference dropping like a garment. "Not Sheldon, the K.C.M.G. of Spring Street?"

Armitage nodded; "The same man. It's a wonderful story—if it's genuine."

"There's just a chance that the dailies may not get on to it until late this afternoon," he said. "There's only one thing for you to do, Bertha. Get around there and bluff your way inside somehow. Keep your eyes open and don't let a word out to those daily scroungers."

In the office of the "Informer" Bertha Fenton stood out as an individual, unique almost. But the moment she set foot in the street the great moving throng swallowed her, and her eccentricities were lost in the bewildering kaleidoscope of colour and motion that packed the pavements and overflowed on to the streets.

Carnavon Chambers was a new block of apartments built at the top end of Spring Street. A policeman stood waiting under the striped canvas awning that decorated the entrance. He knew Bertha, and grinned as she approached. "You're the fourth," he told her. "Talk about vultures around a corpse."

The woman halted, standing with feet apart. "Don't be so damned crude, Thomas," she admonished. "Three here, you say? Who are the others?"

"Wilkinson from the 'Courier,' another new chap from the Associated Press—don't know his name—and that fair-haired mother's boy from the 'Globe.' Lascelles, isn't it?" Constable Graves eyed her closely. "How'd you come to get in on this, anyhow?"

"That well-known little bird," Bertha told him airily. She shrugged her shoulders and spoke quickly.

"Who's looking around for the Department?"

Graves considered a moment. "Four of them. Burford, the Coroner Doc Conroy, O'Connor the plain-clothes man, and the fingerprint boys."

"And who's in charge?"

"Denis O'Connor temporarily. They're waiting for Chief Inspector Read."

Bertha pursed her lips. "So-o—? It's that big, is it? The Chief Inspector himself?"

The constable nodded portentously. "In the flesh," he added impressively.

"Then I'm going up," Miss Fenton said abruptly

Like a bird zooming for cover, the elevator soared upward.

The steel cage slid to a stop, and Bertha, stepping out, found herself in a long, brown-panelled corridor. A few paces away from the lift-shaft, a narrow, circular staircase wound downwards. Outside an opening half-way down the corridor two uniformed policemen stood. They watched her suspiciously as she approached, and one, after a whispered conference with his companion, began to walk toward her. Bertha cursed under her breath. If they were going to be officious...

"You're not allowed along here, madam," the policeman told her brusquely. Six feet of blue uniform blocked her way so that she was forced to halt. Bertha stiffened. She fumbled in her bag and produced a tiny leather-and-cardboard square.

"I'm from the 'Weekly Informer,'" she said curtly. "Here's my Press pass."

The constable did not even glance at it. Neither did he move. "I don't care who you are or where you're from," he returned. "You can't come along here."

The woman checked the hot retort that rose to her lips. She realized that it would be foolish to quarrel with these officials at such a time. Producing a card and pencil, she scribbled a few hasty lines and handed the card to the constable.

"Would you mind taking that inside to Mr. O'Connor?" she said, trying to keep the harshness out of her voice.

Miss Fenton waited impatiently, a square-toed shoe drumming the carpet. So! They were trying to keep the Press out of this thing. Wilkinson, Lascelles, and the A.P. man must have got in with the first alarm at headquarters before the police realized the seriousness of the business. They had apparently given orders that all other reporters were to be refused admission. What luck that she happened to know Denis O'Connor! Because, the more dailies excluded from this murder, the more chance for the "Weekly Informer."

The constable returned and was beckoning to her. Bertha allowed herself a sniff, eloquent of the contempt she felt for this underling. Tossing her head, she strode past like a triumphant Amazon.

She was standing in what was apparently a bedroom, a small apartment made to appear larger by the skilful arrangement of the furnishings. Her eyes made a swift survey, took in the low bed, covered with scarlet satin eiderdown, the built-in cupboard and wardrobe, the inlaid table near the bed with its pipe and tobacco-jar, and the small bookcase standing in the far corner. On the opposite side of the room, a door leading to a larger apartment had been torn from its hinges and lay askew, portions of the shattered woodwork splintering about the lock. Bertha was staring at this ruin when it was pushed aside and O'Connor, a thick-set giant of a man with curly hair surmounting a good-natured moon-face, came out. He glanced at her and nodded.

"It certainly never pays to ask a presswoman a favour," he complained. "Sooner or later they'll ask for it back a hundredfold." But the twinkle in his blue eyes belied the tone.

Bertha Fenton grinned and took his hand in a grip firm as a man's. "You know these men, of course?" O'Connor was saying.

The woman nodded and glanced around, exchanging greetings. She recognized the stocky, dapper man with a dark moustache as Dyke Wilkinson, while the tall blond boy standing by the bed was Gilbert Lascelles of the "Globe." The third man had her puzzled for a moment, although she remembered having seen those pleasant, regular features photographed in a trade paper. Then the young man himself came forward, hand outstretched.

"Miss Fenton, isn't it?" he said. "My name is Yates—Martin Yates. I'm the new man on the Associated Press. Took Ken Hubbard's place about a month ago."

The detective spoke quietly.

"It's a bad business, Miss Fenton. We can't hope to hush it up, but we don't want a line more publicity than we can help. Especially at this early stage. In fact, they're getting the new Chief Inspector on the job—the big chief from London. The Coroner and the medical examiner are inside now, with Larsen, the finger-print man. I'll take you inside as soon as they're through. But you must promise to publish nothing save what we—the Chief, that is—actually gives you."

"Does that go for the others?" the woman demanded.

"Naturally."

"Then it suits me." Bertha tossed her bag and hat on the bed and sat down. "Now, what's it all about?"

O'Connor thrust his hands in his pockets. "There's not much we actually know," he said. "Briefly, it amounts to this. Judge Sheldon who has been renting this apartment for about two years, came out of that inner room about seven o'clock last night. He told his man, Hoskins, to take the evening off. The servant watched him return to that apartment, lock himself in, and cross to his desk. Then Hoskins went to his own room (which is farther down the corridor), dressed, and left the building, to return about eleven o'clock and go straight to bed. He says he rose about seven o'clock this morning, came in here, and discovered his master's bed had not been slept in. Crossing to the door of the inner room, he found it still locked, so he knocked. There was no answer. Believing that the judge must have spent the night away, he did not worry until about nine-fifteen, when something happened that aroused his fears."

Bertha, following this recital closely, looked up. "What was that?"

"At that time, the telephone-girl in the desk downstairs came to Hoskins and asked what was the matter with Judge Sheldon's telephone," O'Connor explained. "She said that the Judge had forgotten to replace the receiver on the hook, and although she had rung him several times in the morning he had not answered. This made Hoskins suspicious. While the manager telephoned police headquarters, three porters broke in the door of the apartment." The detective paused for breath. "They found the Judge sitting behind his desk. He was dead—stabbed in the back."

Miss Fenton nodded slowly. "I suppose it was murder?" she said shrewdly.

The detective looked, at her. "Suicide?" he suggested.

"It's happened before now," the woman reminded him.

It was Gilbert Lascelles who drawled from his corner: "Not in this case, Miss Fenton. You see, they can't find the weapon."

Denis O'Connor squared his shoulders like a man tackling an unpleasant task. "There's more to it than that,", he explained. His tone was harsh and awkward. "You people haven't seen the body. The murderer took a souvenir away with him. One of Sheldon's ears is missing. The right ear—neatly sliced off his head."

"I'll take you inside now," he announced. "And please remember to touch nothing. Do you understand—nothing at all!"

It was a much larger room than the one they had left—a long apartment lit by two tall windows in the outer wall. The massive glass-topped desk before the nearest window, the figured blackwood cabinet, the deep leather chairs scattered over the scarlet velvet pile carpet squares—these things bespoke dignity and comfort. At the far end of the room an ornamental grate housed an electric fire, and there were small cabinets and inlaid tables about the room. The floor, uncovered by the carpet squares, was highly polished.

Standing near the desk were four men. Burford was engaged in earnest conversation with Dr. Conroy. Larsen, with his insufflator, was busy searching the glass top for fingerprints. A young man standing near a photographic apparatus was watching him. As the reporters entered, Larsen and his assistant moved across to the long window behind the desk. Burford and the doctor, still talking, paced to the cabinet, leaving the desk clear. It was at that moment that the reporters had their first glimpse of the body of Sir Merton Tenison Sheldon.

It was propped up in a swivel chair behind the desk, slumping limply like a bundle of washing tied to give semblance to a human form. With both hands resting on the desk and the head lolling on one side, the eyes stared glassily. The pallid face still reflected the gracious somnolence that had marked the features during life, but the head was disfigured by a blackish clot of blood where the right ear had been removed.

As the reporters started to walk toward the desk, the Coroner's voice sounded authoritatively:

"Don't touch anything, please! And walk on the carpet."

Martin Yates was first to reach the desk, but Miss Fenton was only a split second behind. They stared at the body. The single-breasted coat, swinging open, showed the material of the waistcoat unstained. Bertha turned to the detective.

"Got it in the back, did he?"

O'Connor nodded. "Took him completely by surprise. Accounts, too, for the lack of expression on his face."

They walked around the desk. Wilkinson moved forward and touched the stain that smeared raggedly across the back of the coat. "Seems to have bled very little for a mortal wound," he remarked, his fingers touching the damp material gingerly.

"That's because of the weapon used," the detective explained. "Something resembling a long, thin piece of steel, very sharp and strong. Most of the bleeding would have occurred inwardly, according to the doctor."

"But why take his ear?" murmured Gilbert Lascelles. And no person offered an explanation.

Burford came forward again. At a nod from O'Connor, the reporters withdrew toward the shattered door. Now Larsen was working on the catch of the long window, and the tall frames stood wide open. Miss Fenton's eyes rested on that tiny balcony outside, the balcony overhanging a sheer drop of eighty feet into the street below.

The reporters crowded together in the doorway. The Coroner and the detective were bending over the dead man, transferring articles from his pockets to the desk. Presently they finished the task. Burford nodded, and O'Connor rejoined the others in the bedroom.

"Anything new?" Yates said eagerly, as he came in.

The detective nodded, his face shadowed. "We've found the key of the locked door," he told them.

"Where was it?"

O'Connor eyed them levelly. "It was in the dead man's waistcoat pocket."

There was a surprised, momentary silence. Then, as the full realization dawned upon the company:

"How could that be?" Wilkinson demanded. "Do you mean to say that the door was locked on the inside?"

O'Connor nodded slowly. "That's what it looks like, doesn't it?"

Gilbert Lascelles gave a droll whistle. "Good Lord—and those windows look out on to a sheer drop of eighty feet!"

"We're faced with an apparent impossibility," Bertha told, the room. "Seeing that Sheldon had the key, that door could have been locked only from the inside. As there are no other known entrances, it means that the murderer must have locked himself in with the dead man. And if he did that," said Miss Fenton forcibly, "where the sweet hell is he now?"

Dyke Wilkinson sniffed. "I once read a story in which a murderer climbed a sheer wall with suckers on his feet. And, if I remember rightly, he shot a man through a window. The story was called 'Strawberry Jam.'"

"'Raspberry Jam,'" Gilbert corrected him. "Carolyn Wells wrote it." He smiled. "Yes, I've read that one also. And now all we have to do is to examine the entire wall with a magnifying glass, looking for damp, circular rings the size of an ordinary breakfast-cup rim." He turned to the detective. "There's your case, Denis."

O'Connor regarded him unsmilingly. "There won't be any need for that," he told them. "Nobody came through that way into the room. Both windows were firmly latched on the inside when we broke down that door. It was one of the first things we looked at."

He broke off as voices raised in conversation were heard in the corridor. The next moment four men entered, and Miss Fenton, watching them as they filed past, named three. The tall, well-dressed man with the military bearing and the bristling grey moustache set against his ruddy face was Chief Inspector William Read. His two companions were plain-clothes detectives—Steve Donlin and Jed Armstrong. It was the fourth man she could not place. He was talking intimately with the Chief Inspector, who had taken his arm as they passed into the room. Bertha, who prided herself that she knew all the officials in the Criminal Investigation Department by their first names, puckered her brows over this stranger.

He was a man in his middle thirties, clean-shaven, with the face of a scholar, a face that might have been severe but for a pair of grey eyes that twinkled humorously. Of medium build, he had that lean fitness that comes from perfect training, and the broad shoulders and spare hips emphasized his well-cut, quiet clothes. One hand was buried in his pocket, the other had its long fingers clasped about a stick and gloves. At that moment O'Connor came forward. The Chief Inspector turned, and Bertha heard him say:

"I want you to meet a friend of mine from London—Mr. Jeffery Blackburn." The young man smiled, acknowledging the greeting quietly, and moved away. Read, about to follow him, appeared to notice the others in the room for the first time. He frowned and turned back to the detectives. "Who are these people?" he snapped. "They have no business up here. Who let them in?" He added quickly: "They haven't touched anything, I hope?"

Detective O'Connor, suddenly sheepish, explained the reporters' presence.

The peppery Inspector was not to be placated. "Get them out of here—at once!" he shouted. He turned and strode into the inner room, muttering to himself.

CHAPTER II.

Jeffery Blackburn stood in the entrance of the late Judge Sheldon's apartment. "From higher mathematics to the mathematics of murder," he murmured.

Chief Inspector William Jamieson Read had been Blackburn senior's closest friend, and young Jeffery had inherited that affection to almost the same degree. The only other thing that threatened to rival his friendship was the young man's love of his work. As a professor of higher mathematics, Jeffery Blackburn was destined for a brilliant career. His parents dead, he had few responsibilities, and every minute that could be spared from his equals and infinitives was spent in the company of the elder man.

They were taking coffee together when the news of the Sheldon death was telephoned from headquarters. Read's suggestion that Jeffery should coma along had been welcomed by the young man. An hour later, they were entering the block of flats side by side.

Read walked across to the desk and ran his eye over its furnishings. In addition to Sheldon's personal belongings, the glass top supported the usual office fittings—a clean sheet of blotter, an automatic calendar in a nickelled frame, a pen-tray and inkwell, some books between bronze stands, and a deep ashtray containing fragments of cigarettes. A desk telephone stood near the edge, but the receiver was hanging at the end of the wire, dangling almost to the floor. A pipe with a highly polished bowl lay near the ash-tray.

Read turned away and spoke sharply.

"Donlin! Armstrong!"

The two plain-clothes men stepped forward alertly.

"Search the room. Every inch of it." The Inspector swung around on the waiting detective. "You've been on the spot all the time, O'Connor. What's the news up to date?"

Speaking in terse phrases, the plain-clothes man put his superior in full possession of the facts, beginning with the story of the manservant, Hoskins, and concluding with the discovery of the key.

Read pulled him up shortly.

"What pocket?"

"Lower right-hand pocket, sir, in the waistcoat."

"H'm." The Inspector tugged at his moustache. "Where is this man Hoskins?"

"In his room. He occupies a small apartment about two doors farther along the corridor."

The Inspector rubbed his hands. His tone was business-like.

"Good! We'll see him as soon as I've had a word with the doctor. In the meanwhile, stand by in case you're wanted." He dismissed the detective and turned to where Conroy was staring out of the long window. "What can you tell me, Doctor?"

Conroy, a fussy little man with a short, pointed beard, walked across to the desk. "Here's my report, Chief. Death almost instantaneous. Caused by a thin, strong, steel weapon entering the back below the shoulder-blades. Weapon pierced the anterior tip of the heart where the large blood vessels lie. As far as can be ascertained, without an autopsy, I should say that the point of the weapon rested somewhere near the sternum bone. Wound neat and clean-edged, resulting in a certain amount of bleeding, but not nearly so much as if the wound had been jagged. A bullet-wound, for instance, would have made an ugly mess." He paused and looked at his superior. "There's one outstanding point. The direction taken by the weapon, the strength of the thrust, and the neatness of the entire business points to some person with a good elementary knowledge of anatomy." Conroy eyed the Inspector quizzically. "Anything more?"

"Very comprehensive," Read admitted. "What about the time of the murder?"

Dr. Conroy frowned, and one hand stroked his beard. "I can't say definitely without an autopsy," he said brusquely. "But rigor is well advanced and the wound has closed..." He considered frowningly. "I should say about twelve hours ago—say round about ten o'clock last night. Can't say nearer, at this stage."

Read nodded. "That's near enough. Anything else?"

The doctor took a turn up and down before the desk. Then he took the Inspector by the arm and walked him around to the rear of the body. "See that stain on the back? Well, it puzzles me. That weapon penetrated the large blood-vessels, and although the orifice was small it should have bled much more freely. That stain's merely a seepage after the blood clotted and closed the wound." Again he eyed the body disapprovingly, as though resentful of this illogical point.

The Chief Inspector considered for a moment. "And what about the ear?"

"Oh, that!" Conroy dismissed it with a gesture. "Another neat job. Sliced off with a sharp instrument—probably a surgeon's scalpel. No mystery there."

"Not from your point of view perhaps," Read muttered. He was silent for a moment. "The weapon used to incise the ear wasn't the same as did the stabbing, I suppose?"

"Impossible. The two wounds are entirely different. A scalpel has only one cutting edge. The weapon used for stabbing was circular, without any cutting edge."

Read frowned. "Queer...queer...he could have quite easily stabbed with the scalpel, I suppose? Then why the devil didn't he?"

Conroy allowed himself a prim smile. "That's your job." He turned away. "That's all the help I can give you at the moment. I'll tell O'Connor to 'phone the morgue and get this body out of your way. Then perhaps I'll be able to tell you more." He moved out of the room, stopping to talk to the detective near the door. The Inspector, watching, raised his voice.

"When you've done that, O'Connor, we'll see that manservant. Then the desk-clerk and the rest of the witnesses. Make it snappy, now." He turned back to Jeffery, who was watching interestedly. "Take a seat, son. And keep your ears wide open. Don't be afraid to ask questions. This isn't a murder case—it's a chapter out of a detective serial."

If, as Chief Inspector Read had said, this was a chapter from a detective serial, then Hoskins, who entered the room with O'Connor, was well cast in the role of sinister servant. Thin, stoop-shouldered, and dressed in sombre black, there was a certain funereal atmosphere about him that clashed with the Inspector's vital personality. He came forward apprehensively and took his stand opposite Read. In deference to the feelings of the witnesses, the Inspector had ordered the body behind the desk to be sheeted, and had Hoskins been face to face with the ghost of his late master, he could not have looked more ill-at-ease. He stood with downcast eyes, hands linked together, every now and then passing his tongue across his pale lips.

"Afraid, eh?" Read barked abruptly.

Hoskins raised his eyes, encountered the sheeted figure, and lowered them quickly. "No, sir. But a thing like that has never happened to me before, and—"

"There's nothing to be afraid of," Read assured him. "If you've nothing to hide, that is. What's your full name?"

"Albert Turner Hoskins, sir."

"How long had you been with the Judge?"

"About five years, sir. I came from Sir Trevor Anthony, the millionaire stockbroker. About five years ago Sir Trevor sailed for London and broke up his home here. I was unemployed when a friend of Sir Merton's, who knew of my service, suggested he should take me on. I have been with the Judge ever since."

"Did you serve him at his home as well?"

Hoskins shook his head. "Not for the past two years, sir. That's since Sir Merton had this apartment. During that time, he visited his home very rarely." He raised his pale eyes. "I understand that Sir Merton and his wife were not—not—"