Policeman's Lot

Book 440: Murder Room

by Henry Wade

Genres: Short Stories; Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

A baker's dozen of stories from the Golden Age master of the police procedural: seven from the casebook of Detective Inspector John Poole, whose brilliant work in the The Duke of York's Steps and No Friendly Drop will be remembered by readers of Wade novels; and six miscellaneous narratives of crime and detection, all of them displaying the scientific ingenuity which distinguishes Wade's work.

Release date: July 28, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 287

Sample

‘LIKE the good old times, isn’t it? All for the love of a lady.”

The speaker was a uniformed police-superintendent, ponderous in build and patriarchal in manner. His companion was a considerably younger man in plain clothes, whose firm mouth and steady grey
eyes were becoming only too well known to the underworld—Detective-Inspector Poole, of the C.I.D. The two men were standing on a stretch of sodden grass—a clearing in a wood; at their
feet lay two other men, both in evening clothes, short coat, black tie, one wearing a white waistcoat, one a black—and both dead. In the right hand of each was clasped a small automatic
pistol, and each white shirt-front was saturated with a dark smear of blood.

‘Lady or money. Hardly politics in these days, I’m afraid. Who found them?’

‘Sergeant Robins. A farm labourer reported at Broxbourne this morning that there was an empty car with its lights on standing outside Cowheath Wood—this wood. Robins jumped on a bike
and came along, found the car, did a bit of exploring into the wood, and came across these chaps. Like a sensible fellow, he got straight back to his station and telephoned for me—Enfield, my
headquarters are; I came along with the doctor, had a look—and went off myself and telephoned to the Yard—and here you are. Dr. Vammer just confirmed fact of death, then I sent him away
and said we’d have him back later.’

Poole stroked his chin thoughtfully.

‘You had some reason for calling in the C.I.D., superintendent. On the face of it, it’s a job you could have tackled yourself.’

Superintendent Cox chuckled.

‘Yes, Mr. Poole,’ he said. ‘I had a reason; you’ll probably spot it for yourself when you’ve had a look round.’

Poole nodded.

‘If it’s not a straightforward case,’ he said, ‘footprints are going to be important. Can you tell me how much the ground’s been disturbed?’

‘I think so. Robins showed me exactly the line he’d followed, in and out—he didn’t come closer than ten paces or so—said he knew a stiff when he saw one. The doctor
and I followed in his footsteps as you and I have just done. Of course, we came right up, but we didn’t trample round. I think you’ll find their footmarks quite distinct from ours. Now,
you go ahead.’

For a minute or so Poole continued to gaze down at the bodies of the two duellists, as apparently they were. One was a middle-aged man of fair size—perhaps 5 feet 10 inches, but not
heavily built. The other was younger and smaller, of rather dapper type, but possessed, Poole thought, of an excellent pair of shoulders. He lay on his side, with one arm flung out behind him, the
right arm, in the hand of which was clasped a ·38 Colt. Glancing at his feet, with a view to identifying footprints, the detective saw that they were small, even for his size, and that the
evening shoes had sharply pointed toes. The older man’s feet were larger, and the shoes squarer; there should be no difficulty in distinguishing the two footprints, though there was probably
no importance in them.

‘Square Toes’ also lay on his side, his knees slightly drawn up, one ankle turning inwards in a curiously unnatural manner. His hand also clasped a ·38 Colt; it seemed as if
the two men must have fired simultaneously, at very close range, though not so close as to leave powder marking on the linen shirt-fronts. It was an intriguing affair; such a thing as a duel was
almost unheard of in these days, and in this case it seemed as if the men had been bent upon killing each other without thought of one surviving.

‘Know who they are, sir?’

Superintendent Cox drew some papers from his pocket.

‘One comes from Cheshunt—this one—George Horne; here’s his card. The other hadn’t a card, but he had some letters, addressed to Julian de Lange, Codorna Mansions,
Putney. I don’t know anything about either of them, though Cheshunt’s in my division; inquiries being made now about Horne.’

‘Right, sir. I’ll telephone to the Yard to look up De Lange. Odd position this chap Horne’s in—that ankle, I mean.’

Poole took hold of the legs of the older man and tried to straighten them, but they were quite immovable; De Lange’s legs were nearly straight, but they also were quite stiff.

‘Doctor say anything about time of death, sir?’

‘He put it between twelve and three; Horne’s rigor was a bit more advanced, but he’s an older man—arteries harder.’

With considerable difficulty the detective disengaged the Colt from Horne’s hand, drew out the magazine, extracted the round from the chamber and looked down the barrel.

‘The worst of these automatics is that it’s so jolly difficult to tell how many rounds have been fired,’ he said. ‘The good old-fashioned revolver kept its spent
cartridge in the cylinder—you only had to count. These things spit them out as they reload and you have to hunt on the ground—you can never be sure if you’ve found all there are.
Are you an expert on guns, sir? Can you tell by the fouling of the barrel how many shots have been fired?’

Superintendent Cox shook his head.

‘I can’t, and I doubt if anyone else can—within a round. There’s not much fouling in this, but I can’t guarantee that only one shot’s been fired. What’s
the doubt? They could hardly have missed each other at this range.’

Poole smiled.

‘Scotland Yard’s got to justify your calling it in, sir,’ he said.

A similar examination was made of De Lange’s Colt, with equally indeterminate result.

‘I’ll just go over these footprints before I look for the shell,’ said Poole.

Although the ground was soft enough to take a good impression wherever the earth was exposed, there was so much grass that no clear line of track could be distinguished. In the clearing where
the bodies lay, Poole had the greatest difficulty in picking out any distinct footprints, but nearer the edge of the wood—under the trees—there was no grass, only moss, with many bare
patches of earth. Here—in a line between the bodies and the deserted car—were several clearly defined footprints which Poole, a shoe from each victim in his hands, had no difficulty in
identifying as those of the dead men.

‘Pointed Toes’—De Lange—gave particularly clear marks, except where, in one or two places, ‘Square Toes’ were partially superimposed upon them.

The detective spent a considerable time over these footprints; finally, he called to the superintendent, who was still standing by the bodies.

‘Which of those men would you say was the heavier, sir?’

Mr. Cox studied the bodies with a practised eye.

‘Horne, I should say; he’s inches taller. De Lange has got big shoulders, of course—may have the bigger bones.’

‘There’s no doubt about it from these tracks; De Lange is distinctly the heavier—his impressions are definitely deeper than Horne’s.’

He stood for a while in silence, studying the tracks at his feet.

‘It’s a funny thing, sir,’ he said. ‘These men came here with the obvious intention of killing each other—look at the range they fired at, with both pistols
loaded—and yet one wasn’t afraid of being murdered by the other. These tracks show that De Lange walked in front, and Horne followed behind him—could easily have shot him in the
back. Psychology’s an odd thing. Well, sir, I suppose we must go to Cheshunt now; I’ll just have a hunt round for those shells. The bodies can go off to the doctor; will you ask him to
weigh them, sir, and let me know at the Cheshunt station.’

A thorough search of the ground round the bodies produced, as was to be expected, two spent cartridge-cases. Although the grass was fairly long, Poole felt pretty sure that there were no more.
He next turned his attention to the car; it was a 12 h.p. Yorrick saloon, fairly new—its upholstery clean and yielding no clue of any sort. Poole got leave to borrow it and also Sergeant
Robins; taking leave of the superintendent, he drove off towards Cheshunt.

Having learnt from the local police that Mr. George Horne was a married man, with no children, living in a small house called Five Oaks, about half a mile west of the town, Poole decided to call
upon the vicar, with the double object of getting him to break the news to the widow and of learning any local gossip.

The Rev. James Partacle was an elderly man with an obviously sympathetic nature. He was genuinely distressed by the news brought by the detective, and at once bustled off on his painful errand,
murmuring: ‘Poor girl; poor young girl.’ Mrs. Partacle, to whom the vicar referred Poole for information, was perhaps more worldly than her husband; she was deeply intrigued by the
detective’s news, and was able and willing to throw considerable illumination upon it.

The Hornes, it appeared, had come to Five Oaks soon after their marriage four years previously. For a time they appeared a happy and attached couple, but as time went on, it became evident that
Quirril Horne, a pretty and excitable woman at least ten years younger than her husband, was finding life on the outskirts of a London suburb extremely dull. For a time this difficulty was met by
her husband taking her two or three nights a week to theatres and night clubs in London, but this life soon began to tell upon a hard-worked City man, and gradually he became more reluctant to take
her, more fretful when he did. There was nothing unusual in the situation—it was a common place of post War life—but none the less a tragedy.

Inevitably, as her husband cooled off, Mrs. Horne began to look for other cavaliers; she had no difficulty in finding them. There had been no actual scandal, but there was ‘talk’; a
London ‘gigolo’ was mentioned. There were no children to draw the couple together; they were drifting, (so Mrs. Partacle) to—this.

When the vicar returned, Poole learnt that Mrs. Horne, who had been ‘desperately worried’ at her husband’s absence, was now ‘prostrated with grief.’ The vicar
trusted that it would not be necessary to intrude upon her sorrow; Poole gave a non-committal reply, thanked Mr. and Mrs. Partacle for their help, and drove straight to Five Oaks. Leaving Sergeant
Robins in the car outside the drive gate, Poole walked towards the house. The drive, some fifty yards long, was of new, well-kept gravel, and showed clearly the single track of a car, the tyres
being of the same make as those borne by the Yorrick. From the Cheshunt police Poole had discovered that there had been heavy rain on the previous night from about nine to eleven
p.m.—probably the car had gone out after eleven and had come in (if it had been out at all that day) before nine.

A red-eyed maid admitted Poole, informed him that Mrs. Horne was in the drawing-room, and added that she was in a ‘terrible state, crying her head off.’ The detective was suitably
impressed, and asked for a few words with his informant in the kitchen. As they passed down the passage, the girl jerked her thumb at a door; Poole paused for a moment and heard the sound of deep
sobbing within—it was indeed a severe attack that should last half an hour after the breaking of the news by the kindly vicar.

In the kitchen, Poole learnt that the cook, who ordinarily lived in the house, was away till midday, having been given leave to attend her sister’s wedding in Devonshire on the previous
day. Ethel herself—the house-parlourmaid—did not sleep in the house, but with her parents in Cheshunt. She had given Mr. Horne his (cold) supper at 7.45 p.m. the previous
evening—Mrs. Horne was in London and not returning till late—and, after washing up and turning down the beds, had left the house at about 10 p.m. There was, therefore, Poole observed,
no independent witness of anything that might have occurred in the house after that hour. Ethel certainly did not know that Mr. Horne was expecting anyone that evening, though, of course, he might
have come after she left. Mr. Horne always dressed for dinner, whether he was alone or not.

Having learnt so much, Poole thought he had kept Mrs. Horne, who had probably heard the front door bell ring, waiting long enough. Ethel was persuaded—against her will—to tap at the
drawing-room door and announce him.

Mrs. Horne, dressed in a fawn skirt and a striped jumper, was lying on a sofa, an embroidered shawl over her legs. She did not attempt to rise when Poole entered, but greeted him with the shadow
of a smile and a gesture towards a chair. Her eyes were red, but her colour was high, and she gave the detective the impression of being hysterical rather than prostrated with grief.

Poole made the usual apology for intrusion, followed by the stock question as to when she had seen her husband last.

Quirril Horne put a lace handkerchief to her mouth and stared at the detective with wide-open eyes; she seemed to be stifling her emotion.

‘Yesterday morning—when he went to catch—(sob)—his train. I went up—in the afternoon—to shop—I—never—saw him again—oh, my God!’
She turned on her side, buried her face in her arm, and sobbed wildly.

Poole allowed a minute to pass.

‘And when did you see Mr. de Lange last?’ he asked quietly.

The sob ceased abruptly. Slowly Quirril lifted her head and looked at the detective, her eyes large with innocent surprise.

‘De Lange?’ she said. ‘Who’s he?’

‘The man who was found dead beside your husband. I thought perhaps he was a—an acquaintance of yours.’

Mrs. Horne sat bolt upright, her eyes flashing.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘How dare you? What are you suggesting? Oh, how monstrous!’

‘I have suggested nothing, madam; I only asked—’

‘Oh, but you did! You think he is my lover—that my husband killed him—that they fought a duel for me. Oh, what shall I do? How cruel! How terrible!’

There was no longer any anger in Mrs. Horne’s eyes, but there was a sparkle of something else—was it excitement? Suddenly it dawned upon Poole that Mr. Partacle’s ‘poor
young girl’ was intensely enjoying the scene!

The detective’s manner changed at once. He rose to his feet; when he spoke, his voice was cold and incisive.

‘Mrs. Horne, it is my duty to warn you of your position. In the eyes of the law murder has been committed; if you, being aware of the circumstances, conceal your knowledge from the police,
you are rendering yourself liable to be charged as an accessory either before or after the fact. It is perfectly easy for the police to find out whether or not you knew Mr. de Lange, and when you
were last with him; I strongly advise you to be absolutely frank with me.’

Poole realised that he was talking like a magazine detective, but he felt sure that that was the only kind of talk that Mrs. Horne would appreciate. Certainly it had the desired effect; Quirril
altered her pose. Dropping her voice into a low and earnest key, she made what she called her ‘confession.’

Julian de Lange had been her lover. Her husband began to suspect their ‘guilty passion’ (sic) and last night Julian—with whom she had been dining and dancing in
town—had insisted on coming down with her and having it out with George. She herself had retired to her bedroom (‘What else could I do, inspector? My position was terrible!’), and
for half an hour had listened to loud and angry voices from downstairs. Then the front door had slammed, she heard the garage doors pulled back, and the car being started up and driven away. She
could not imagine what had happened. Had her husband driven away and left her? Or had he merely driven his rival to the station to catch a workmen’s train (‘An anti-climax that
you’d have hated,’ thought Poole).

‘I lay awake all night,’ Quirril concluded, ‘racking my brains, torturing myself with suspense. Oh, it was horrible, horrible! And then this morning—Mr. Partacle
coming—to hear that they were both dead—that they had killed each other for me—what my feelings have been—my remorse—my guilty remorse!’

Tears, sobs, heaving shoulders—all the reactions familiar to the devotee of the cinema. The woman was evidently quite incapable of genuine feeling—of appreciating the true horror of
her position.

Utterly disgusted, Poole decided to cut the ‘scene’; he would probably have to return to it, but he wanted fresh air—morally as well as physically. There were one or two points
to be cleared up before he could decide whether the case was as straightforward as it appeared, or whether the curious doubt that had come into his mind was based upon solid foundations. Rejoining
Sergeant Robins, he drove the dead man’s car back to Cheshunt Police Station; the sergeant in charge at once handed him a message from the doctor who was examining the bodies. Both men had
died of gunshot wounds inflicted some time between midnight and 3 a.m. There was nothing to show whether the wounds were self-inflicted or not; the weight of Horne was 12 stone 12 ounces, and of De
Lange 11 stone 8 ounces.

Poole felt his interest, deadened as it had been by his disgust at Mrs. Horne’s behaviour, quicken into active life. Horne was more than a stone heavier than his rival—and yet his
footprints were appreciably less deep and clear than those of De Lange!

For twenty minutes Poole sat, rapt in thought; by the end of that time he had worked out a theory that might cover the known facts. Driving the Hornes’ Yorrick into the yard at the back of
the police station, he went over it again with a magnifying glass, but without discovering anything either to confirm or disprove his theory. A reference to the Register of Firearms Records was
more enlightening, and he drove back to Five Oaks with a grim tightening of his mouth.

Making his way this time to the back door, where he would not have to pass the drawing-room window, the detective gently knocked and was admitted by a flustered Ethel.

‘Your master’s dressing-room,’ he said. ‘Can you show it me without letting Mrs. Horne know?’

Ethel goggled, but she led the way up a miniature back stairs in silence. The dressing-room was small, but well-furnished—a good mahogany wardrobe, a bow-fronted chest of drawers, and a
boot-cupboard. It was to the latter that Poole turned his attention; opening the door, he pulled out seven pairs of shoes and placed them side by side in a row on the floor—two pairs of
black, one of brown, golf shoes, tennis shoes, old evening shoes, and red slippers; with the exception of the latter they were all evidently built from the same last. Drawing from the small
attaché case that he carried the evening shoe that he had removed from the dead man’s foot for identifying footprints, he compared it carefully with the shoes in front of him; without
a shadow of doubt they were also made from the same last.

‘How marry pairs has he got altogether?’ asked Poole in a low voice. ‘There’ll be another pair of day shoes, perhaps?’

Ethel was looking at the display with a puzzled expression.

‘That’s a funny thing,’ she said. ‘I can’t call to mind—oh, well, I suppose I did—I’ve been that flustered to-day.’

‘What can’t you remember?’ asked Poole sharply.

‘Cleaning them London shoes.’

‘Do you mean the ones he was wearing when he came back from London yesterday? Probably they’re still downstairs.’

‘Not they; he didn’t have but two pairs. It’s one of them two,’ said Ethel, whose grammar was not her strong point.

‘You usually clean them; when?’

‘Not till latish as a rule—morning, I mean. Master, he’d take ’em off of an evening, of course, and I’d take ’em down to the pantry. But he always put on
another pair and another suit come the morning—rested the mollycoddles or something, he said. I usen’t as a rule to brush till after I’d cleared breakfast.’

‘Had you cleared breakfast when I came this morning?’

‘No, I hadn’t—not to say properly, I mean! One or two things I’d brought into the pantry, but I was that flustered-like, what with master not being back and her that
jumpy and excited—’

‘Then when did you clean the shoes?’

‘I didn’t. Leastways, I s’pose I must ’a done. But I don’t know when—I don’t recollect doing it.’

Poole seized the two pairs of black shoes.

‘Which pair was he wearing yesterday?’ he asked.

The question seemed unreasonable, so twin were the two pairs, but Ethel knew her job better than her quantities. She looked carefully at the pairs, then touched the ones in Poole’s left
hand.

‘Them. That tag’s gone—I noticed it yesterday morning.’

‘Look at them carefully—can you tell me whether you cleaned them or not?’

‘Well, look at them? They’re clean enough, ain’t they?’ Ethel’s voice had a tang of indignation.

‘I mean did you clean them?’

The girl stared at him, looked at the shoes again, turned them over—and straightened herself abruptly.

‘That I didn’t—they ain’t black under the arches—master was dead on that—look ’ere!’ She seized the other pair and, turning both over, displayed
the difference to Poole.

‘The suit?’ he said.

Ethel half-turned towards the wardrobe, but stopped. . .