CHAPTER IV
The Store on Monday Night
NOT until the regular click-click of the wheels told me that we were well under way did I open my mind to Godfrey; then I spoke with what I deemed a necessary frankness.
“My dear Godfrey,” I began, “I’ve watched you all day, smelling bottles, examining scratches, trying to read faint ink-marks on a blotter, puzzling over a broken cane, and doing various other eccentric things from which you seemed to draw conclusions utterly invisible to me. I’ve heard you assure both Drysdale and Miss Croydon that the former will be cleared of suspicion at to-morrow’s inquest, and that the real culprit will be pointed out. You’ll pardon me if I confess to some curiosity as to how all this is to be accomplished.”
“Did you see her face as she came through that door, Lester?” he asked, staring absently at the seat in front of us. “I tell you, it warmed the heart of even an old reprobate like me! And to think that we did it!” he added. “To think that we did it!”
“You did it,” I corrected. “I was in the chorus to-day—you had the centre of the stage.”
“But you don’t mind, Lester? I couldn’t help it, you know.”
“Of course you couldn’t—that’s where you belong. But now that the curtain’s down and we’re alone together with plenty of time to talk, I’d like to understand”
“And you shall—down to the minutest detail. Let’s see—this is the smoker, isn’t it? Well, suppose we light up—I can think more clearly when I’m smoking.”
“All right; fire away,” I said, as soon as the cigars were going.
“Well,” began Godfrey; “as I pointed out to you this morning, for good and sufficient reasons, I started out in this investigation with the assumption of Tremaine’s guilt.”
“Of course,” I observed, “you know it is the duty of every jury to start out with exactly the contrary assumption.”
“Certainly I know that; but a detective has to work with some definite end in view, or he never gets anywhere. In other words, a detective, after carefully studying the details of any crime, must form a theory concerning it, and must work along that theory. As soon as he discovers any fact that fails to fit with his theory, he must modify it or form another; and he must keep on doing this until he finds the theory which agrees with all the facts—not all but one or two, but with every one. A good many detectives fall into the mistake of being satisfied with the theory which fits most of the facts—a serious error, for the right theory must, of course, inevitably, fit them all. That’s the scientific method and the only safe one. When a detective hits upon a theory which fits all the known facts, he’s got as much right to assume it’s true as an astronomer has or a physicist, who builds up the universe in just the same way.”
“But that’s a difficult thing to do,” I remarked, “to find a theory that fits all the facts.”
“Exceedingly difficult sometimes,” assented my companion, “because the facts often appear to be entirely contradictory. Really, facts are never contradictory—truth is always truth—the trouble is we can’t always tell what is fact and what is fiction. The hardest part of a detective’s work is to sift the wheat from the chaff—to get at the meaty, essential facts.
“Well, as you know, I started out with the theory of Tremaine’s guilt. More than that, I was morally certain that he was guilty, knowing what I knew of the man. And first of all, it was evident to me that no criminal as careful as he is would run the risk of going through that boathouse and committing a murder on the pier outside with young Graham sleeping on a cot a few feet away. I therefore deduced this bottle. Smell of it.”
He uncorked it and held it under my nose.
“Chloroform!” I said.
“Precisely,” and he corked it carefully and returned it to his pocket. “The boy’s story helped me to arrive at it. He had been awakened by that violent thunder-clap, but for the first moment he had found himself unable to move—dizzy, as he explained it.”
“But how did you know where to look for it?” I asked.
“Well, I knew that no experienced criminal would keep about him any such important evidence as a bottle that had contained chloroform. The odour clings to it for a long time. I committed the mistake, at first, of supposing that he had hidden it in the boathouse. I should have known better. Naturally he would throw it into the bay. There was a single chance against me. If he had thrown it in uncorked, it would probably have sunk. That was a point he didn’t think of, and by just that much he fell below perfection. I think he probably administered the chloroform by pouring it upon one corner of the sheet and throwing it over young Graham’s face. No doubt the odour would have been perceptible next morning had anyone thought to look for it. There was only one point in the whole case,” he added thoughtfully, “that was utterly at variance with my theory—and it worried me badly for a time.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“That was the story the jailer told us—that Miss Croydon believed Drysdale guilty. But you have seen how naturally that was explained. I knew then, in that instant, that I was on the right track—that nothing could defeat me. But let us go back to the beginning—and I’d like you to point out any flaws you see in the story.”
“Very well,” I said, and settled back in the seat to listen.
“Tremaine had two very powerful motives for the commission of this crime,” began Godfrey; “he needed money and could take no more from Miss Croydon, since he was trying seriously to win her affection; he was determined to get Drysdale out of the way under circumstances as discreditable as possible, confident that, in that case, he would himself win Miss Croydon. Which,” he added, in a thoughtful aside, “from what you’ve told me of him, I don’t think it all impossible.”
“Not in the least,” I agreed. “I believe Tremaine could win any woman he really set his heart on.”
“At any rate, he learns of Drysdale’s jealousy and of Miss Croydon’s promise to explain things. He sees that at any hazard he must prevent that explanation. Monday morning, he comes to town with Delroy, and the latter tells him that he intends giving the necklace the salt-water treatment. You’ll remember it was Tremaine who originally proposed this, though he could scarcely at that time have foreseen what would come of it.”
“Mere chance,” I nodded.
“Well, Tremaine takes the early train back to Edgemere and lays his plans. He writes the note”
“But you really haven’t any evidence that he did,” I objected.
For answer Godfrey took from his pocket the blotter he had found in Tremaine’s room.
“I told you that these letters aren’t in Tremaine’s hand,” he said; “but if you’ll compare them with the note, you’ll see how nearly they resemble Miss Croydon’s. Again, they are only capital B’s, G’s, and I’s, which are the only capitals used in the note. That’s pretty good circumstantial evidence. Tremaine, of course, burnt the piece of paper he practiced on; but he didn’t think to burn this blotter. It was only the freshest line at the bottom of the paper that left these marks.”
“But did Tremaine have a sample of Miss Croydon’s writing?”
“There’s no reason to think he didn’t have; but if he didn’t, he could no doubt have found plenty of samples among Drysdale’s things. He’s probably an adept at forgery as well as at most other branches of crime.”
“All right; go ahead,” I said.
“Tremaine writes the note and leaves it in Drysdale’s room,” continued Godfrey. “Then he opens the trunk and secures the revolver. Perhaps he knew the revolver was there and perhaps he didn’t. If he hadn’t found it, he’d probably have taken something else belonging to Drysdale for a weapon.
“Having secured the revolver, he returns to his room by way of the balcony. What passed in the early part of the evening you already know. Drysdale goes to keep the rendezvous at the pergola, starting early, because the house, with Tremaine in it, has become unbearable to him. He stops for a chat with Graham, which the latter’s son overhears, and then goes on to the pergola, which is quite at the other end of the grounds from the boathouse.
“Meanwhile, Tremaine has spent the early part of the evening talking with Delroy and Miss Croydon. At last he goes to his room on the pretence of writing letters, gets the revolver, lets himself down by the vine, and starts for the pier. He enters the boathouse softly, feels his way to the cot, whose position he has already seen, and carefully administers the chloroform. The dose was no doubt nicely calculated and the boy would probably have awakened naturally in a few hours.
“That done, Tremaine walks boldly out upon the pier. Old Graham sees him; perhaps challenges him; but of course allows him to approach as soon as he recognises him. They talk together for a moment; then Tremaine, swift as lightning, knocks the other down. Graham probably fell without crying out. I fancy I can see Tremaine pausing to make sure his victim is dead before he goes on to the end of the pier to get the necklace.”
I shivered; I could see him, too, bending over in the darkness, with a horrible calmness…
“That throwing of the pistol into the boat,” continued Godfrey, “was one of those flashes of inspiration which come to a man sometimes. It was superb! It proves that our friend is really an artist. Not one man in a thousand would have thought of it. He must have laughed with sheer satisfaction when he heard it clatter safely into the boat.”
He paused for a moment to think of it, to turn it over, to taste it.
“Well,” he continued, at last, “he secures the necklace, throws away the bottle, and probably goes down to the water’s edge to wash his hands.”
“Did he take the necklace with him to the house?” I asked.
“No,” said Godfrey decidedly. “There was no reason whatever for him to run that risk. He had doubtless picked out a safe hiding-place for it in the afternoon. The necklace once deposited there, he hurries back to the house, climbs up to the balcony, and re-enters his room. He assures himself that there are no bloodstains on him anywhere, then he moves his table near the window and sits down to wait for Drysdale’s return.
“As soon as he hears him enter his room, he gathers up the letters which he had, of course, written during the afternoon, and goes downstairs. And it is here that he makes his most serious mistake. He fancies, perhaps, that he is to have only the country police to deal with—only your Heffelbowers—that he must clinch the nail, that he cannot make the evidence against his victim too strong. So, when he places his letters in the bag on the hall-rack, he also tears off the top button of Drysdale’s rain-coat.
“He returns to the hall, talks with Delroy; the storm comes up and young Graham rushes in. They run down to the pier, kneel beside the body, try to discover signs of life—and Tremaine adroitly shuts the button within the dead man’s hand. That, my dear Lester, is, I fancy, the whole story.”
I smoked on for a moment in silence, turning it over in my mind with a certain sense of disappointment.
“It may be true,” I said. “It seems to hold together. But, after all, there isn’t a bit of positive evidence in it. How are we to convince a jury that Tremaine really did all these things?”
Godfrey blew a great smoke ring out over the seat in front of us.
“I agree,” he said, “that we haven’t as yet any direct evidence against Tremaine; it may be that this whole structure will fall to pieces about my ears. But I don’t believe it. I believe, within an hour, we’ll be in possession of the one piece of positive indisputable evidence that will outweigh all the rest.”
“What is that?” I asked.
He turned to me with that bright light in his eyes that I had seen there once or twice before.
“The necklace,” he answered.