The Complete Four Just Men Read online

  ‘To the habitual criminal the world is an immense prison, alternating with an immense jag,’ said Fare. ‘That isn’t my description but one a hundred years old. The habitual criminal is an easy man to deal with. It is when you come to the non-criminal classes, the murderers, the accidental embezzlers – ’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Gonsalez. ‘Now my contention is – ’

  He was not to express his view, for a footman had brought an envelope to the Commissioner, and he interrupted Gonsalez with an apology to open and read its contents.

  ‘H’m!’ he said. ‘That is a curious coincidence . . . ‘

  He looked at Manfred thoughtfully.

  ‘You were saying the other night that you would like to watch Scotland Yard at work close at hand, and I promised you that I would give you the first opportunity which presented – your chance has come!’

  He had beckoned the waiter and paid his bill before he spoke again.

  ‘I shall not disdain to draw upon your ripe experience,’ he said, ‘for it is possible we may need all the assistance we can get in this case.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Manfred. as the Commissioner’s car threaded the traffic at Hyde Park Corner.

  ‘A man has been found dead in extraordinary circumstances,’ said the Commissioner. ‘He holds rather a prominent position in the scient-ific world – a Professor Tableman – you probably know the name.’

  ‘Tableman?’ said Gonsalez, his eyes opening wide. ‘Well, that is extraordinary! You were talking of coincidences, Mr Fare. Now I will tell you of another.’

  He related his meeting with the son of the Professor on the previous night.

  ‘Personally,’ Gonsalez went on, ‘I look upon all coincidences as part of normal intercourse. It is a coincidence that, if you receive a bill requiring payment, you receive two or more during the day, and that if you receive a cheque by the first post, be sure you will receive a cheque by your second or third post. Some day I shall devote my mind to the investigation of that phenomenon.’

  ‘Professor Tableman lives in Chelsea. Some years ago he purchased his house from an artist, and had the roomy studio converted into a laboratory. He was a lecturer in physics and chemistry at the Bloomsbury University,’ explained Fare, though he need not have done so, for Manfred recalled the name; ‘and he was also a man of considerable means.’

  ‘I knew the Professor and dined with him about a month ago,’ said Fare. ‘He had had some trouble with his son. Tableman was an arbitrary, unyielding old man, one of those types of Christians who worship the historical figures of the Old Testament but never seem to get to the second book.’

  They arrived at the house, a handsome modern structure in one of the streets abutting upon King’s Road, and apparently the news of the tragedy had not leaked out, for the usual crowd of morbid loungers had not gathered. A detective was waiting for them, and conducted the Commissioner along a covered passage-way running by the side of the house, and up a flight of steps directly into the studio. There was nothing unusual about the room save that it was very light, for one of the walls was a huge window and the sloping roof was also of glass. Broad benches ran the length of two walls, and a big table occupied the centre of the room, all these being covered with scientific apparatus, whilst two long shelves above the benches were filled with bottles and jars, apparently containing chemicals.

  A sad-faced, good-looking young man rose from a chair as they entered.

  ‘I am John Munsey,’ he said, ‘the Professor’s nephew. You remember me, Mr Fare? I used to assist my uncle in his experiments.’

  Fare nodded. His eyes were occupied with the figure that lay upon the ground, between table and bench.

  ‘I have not moved the Professor,’ said the young man in a low voice. ‘The detectives who came moved him slightly to assist the doctor in making his examination, but he has been left practically where he fell.’

  The body was that of an old man, tall and spare, and on the grey face was an unmistakable look of agony and terror.

  ‘It looks like a case of strangling,’ said Fare. ‘Has any rope or cord been found?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied the young man. ‘That was the view which the detectives reached, and we made a very thorough search of the laboratory.’

  Gonsalez was kneeling by the body, looking with dispassionate interest at the lean neck. About the throat was a band of blue about four inches deep, and he thought at first that it was a material bandage of some diaphanous stuff, but on close inspection he saw that it was merely the discoloration of the skin. Then his keen eye rose to the table, near where the Professor fell.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked. He pointed to a small green bottle by the side of which was an empty glass.

  ‘It is a bottle of crême de menthe,’ said the youth; ‘my uncle took a glass usually before retiring.’

  ‘May I?’ asked Leon, and Fare nodded.

  Gonsalez picked up the glass and smelt it, then held it to the light.

  ‘This glass was not used for liqueur last night, so he was killed before he drank,’ the Commissioner said. ‘I’d like to hear the whole story from you, Mr Munsey. You sleep on the premises, I presume?’

  After giving a few instructions to the detectives, the Commissioner followed the young man into a room which was evidently the late Professor’s library.

  ‘I have been my uncle’s assistant and secretary for three years,’ he said, ‘and we have always been on the most affectionate terms. It was my uncle’s practice to spend the morning in his library, the whole of the afternoon either in his laboratory or at his office at the University, and he invariably spent the hours between dinner and bedtime working at his experiments.’

  ‘Did he dine at home?’ asked Fare.

  ‘Invariably,’ replied Mr Munsey, ‘unless he had an evening lecture or there was a meeting of one of the societies with which he was connected, and in that case he dined at the Royal Society’s Club in St James’s Street.

  ‘My uncle, as you probably know, Mr Fare, has had a serious disagreement with his son, Stephen Tableman, and my cousin and very good friend. I have done my best to reconcile them, and when, twelve months ago, my uncle sent for me in this very room and told me that he had altered his will and left the whole of his property to me and had cut his son entirely from his inheritance, I was greatly distressed. I went immediately to Stephen and begged him to lose no time in reconciling himself with the old man. Stephen just laughed and said he didn’t care about the Professor’s money, and that, sooner than give up Miss Faber – it was about his engagement that the quarrel occurred – he would cheerfully live on the small sum of money which his mother left him. I came back and saw the Professor and begged him to restore Stephen to his will. I admit,’ he half smiled, ‘that I expected and would appreciate a small legacy. I am following the same scientific course as the Professor followed in his early days, and I have ambitions to carry on his work. But the Professor would have none of my suggestion. He raved and stormed at me, and I thought it would be discreet to drop the subject, which I did. Nevertheless, I lost no opportunity of putting in a word for Stephen, and last week, when the Professor was in an unusually amiable frame of mind, I raised the whole question again and he agreed to see Stephen. They met in the laboratory; I was not present, but I believe that there was a terrible row. When I came in, Stephen had gone, and Mr Tableman was livid with rage. Apparently, he had again insisted upon Stephen giving up his fiancée, and Stephen had refused point-blank.’

  ‘How did Stephen arrive at the laboratory?’ asked Gonsalez. ‘May I ask that question, Mr Fare?’

  The Commissioner nodded.

  ‘He entered by the side passage. Very few people who come to the house on purely scientific business enter the house.’

  ‘Then access to the laboratory is possible at all hours?’

 
‘Until the very last thing at night, when the gate is locked,’ said the young man. ‘You see, Uncle used to take a little constitutional before going to bed, and he preferred using that entrance.’

  ‘Was the gate locked last night?’

  John Munsey shook his head.

  ‘No.’ he said quietly. ‘That was one of the first things I investigated. The gate was unfastened and ajar. It is not so much of a gate as an iron grille, as you probably observed.’

  ‘Go on,’ nodded Mr Fare.

  ‘Well, the Professor gradually cooled down, and for two or three days he was very thoughtful, and I thought a little sad. On Monday – what is today? Thursday? – yes, it was on Monday, he said to me: “John, let’s have a little talk about Steve. Do you think I have treated him very badly?” – “I think you were rather unreasonable, Uncle,” I said. “Perhaps I was,” he replied. “She must be a very fine girl for Stephen to risk poverty for her sake.” That was the opportunity I had been praying for, and I think I urged Stephen’s case with an eloquence which he would have commended. The upshot of it was that the old man weakened and sent a wire to Stephen, asking him to see him last night. It must have been a struggle for the Professor to have got over his objection to Miss Faber; he was a fanatic on the question of heredity – ’

  ‘Heredity?’ interrupted Manfred quickly. ‘What was wrong with Miss Faber?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ shrugged the other, ‘but the Professor had heard rumours that her father had died in an inebriates’ home. I believe those rumours were baseless.’

  ‘What happened last night?’ asked Fare.

  ‘I understand that Stephen came,’ said Munsey. ‘I kept carefully out of the way; in fact, I spent my time in my room, writing off some arrears of correspondence. I came downstairs about half past eleven, but the Professor had not returned. Looking from this window you can see the wall of the laboratory, and as the lights were still on, I thought the Professor’s conversation had been protracted, and, hoping that the best results might come from this interview, I went to bed. It was earlier than I go as a rule, but it was quite usual for me to go to bed even without saying good night to the Professor.

  ‘I was awakened at eight in the morning by the housekeeper, who told me that the Professor was not in his room. Here again, this was not an unusual circumstance. Sometimes the Professor would work very late in the laboratory and then throw himself into an armchair and go off to sleep. It was a habit of which I had remonstrated as plainly as I dared; but he was not a man who bore criticism with equanimity.

  ‘I got into my dressing-gown and my slippers, and went along to the laboratory, which is reached, as you know, by the way we came here. It was then that I discovered him on the floor, and he was quite dead.’

  ‘Was the door of the laboratory open?’ asked Gonsalez.

  ‘It was ajar.’

  ‘And the gate also was ajar?’

  Munsey nodded.

  ‘You heard no sound of quarrelling?’

  ‘None.’

  There was a knock, and Munsey walked to the door.

  ‘It is Stephen,’ he said, and a second later Stephen Tableman, escorted by two detectives, came into the room. His big face was pale, and when he greeted his cousin with a little smile, Manfred saw the extraordinary canines, big and cruel-looking. The other teeth were of normal size, but these pointed fangs were notably abnormal.

  Stephen Tableman was a young giant, and, observing those great hands of his, Manfred bit his lip thoughtfully.

  ‘You have heard the sad news, Mr Tableman?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Stephen in a shaking voice. ‘Can I see my father?’

  ‘In a little time,’ said Fare, and his voice was hard. ‘I want you to tell me when you saw your father last.’

  ‘I saw him alive last night,’ said Stephen Tableman quickly. ‘I came by appointment to the laboratory, and we had a long talk.’

  ‘How long were you there with him?’

  ‘About two hours, as near as I can guess.’

  ‘Was the conversation of a friendly character?’

  ‘Very,’ said Stephen emphatically. ‘For the first time since over a year ago’ – he hesitated – ‘we discussed a certain subject rationally.’

  ‘The subject being your fiancée, Miss Faber?’

  Stephen looked at the interrogator steadily.

  ‘That was the subject, Mr Fare,’ he replied quietly.

  ‘Did you discuss any other matters?’

  Stephen hesitated.

  ‘We discussed money,’ he said. ‘My father cut off his allowance, and I have been rather short; in fact, I have been overdrawn at my bank, and he promised to make that right, and also spoke about – the future.’

  ‘About his will?’

  ‘Yes, sir, he spoke about altering his will.’ He looked across at Munsey, and again he smiled. ‘My cousin has been a most persistent advocate, and I can’t thank him half enough for his loyalty to me in those dark times,’ he said.

  ‘When you left the laboratory, did you go out by the side entrance?’

  Stephen nodded.

  ‘And did you close the door behind you?’

  ‘My father closed the door,’ he said. ‘I distinctly remember hearing the click of the lock as I was going up the alley.’

  ‘Can the door be opened from outside?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stephen, ‘there is a lock which has only one key, and that is in my father’s possession – I think I am right, John?’

  John Munsey nodded.

  ‘So that, if he closed the door behind you, it could only be opened again by somebody in the laboratory – himself, for example?’

  Stephen looked puzzled.

  ‘I don’t quite understand the meaning of this enquiry,’ he said. ‘The detective told me that my father had been found dead. What was the cause?’

  ‘I think he was strangled,’ said Fare quietly, and the young man took a step back.

  ‘Strangled!’ he whispered. ‘But he hadn’t an enemy in the world.’

  ‘That we shall discover.’ Fare’s voice was dry and businesslike. ‘You can go now, Mr Tableman.’

  After a moment’s hesitation the big fellow swung across the room through a door in the direction of the laboratory. He came back after an absence of a quarter of an hour, and his face was deathly white.

  ‘Horrible, horrible!’ he muttered. ‘My poor father!’

  ‘You are on the way to being a doctor, Mr Tableman? I believe you are at the Middlesex Hospital,’ said Fare. ‘Do you agree with me that your father was strangled?’

  The other nodded.

  ‘It looks that way,’ he said, speaking with difficulty. ‘I couldn’t conduct an examination as if he had been – somebody else, but it looks that way.’

  The two men walked back to their lodgings. Manfred thought best when his muscles were most active. Their walk was in silence, each being busy with his own thoughts.

  ‘You observed the canines?’ asked Leon with quiet triumph after a while.

  ‘I observed too his obvious distress,’ said Manfred, and Leon chuckled.

  ‘It is evident that you have not read friend Mantegazza’s admirable monograph on the “Physiology of Pain”,’ he said smugly – Leon was delightfully smug at times – ‘nor examined his most admirable tables on the “Synonyms of Expression”, or otherwise you would be aware that the expression of sorrow is indistinguishable from the expression of remorse.’

  Manfred looked down at his friend with that quiet smile of his.

  ‘Anybody who did not know you, Leon, would say that you were convinced that Professor Tableman was strangled by his son.’

  ‘After a heated quarrel,’ said Gonsalez complacently.

  ‘When young Tableman had g
one, you inspected the laboratory. Did you discover anything?’

  ‘Nothing more than I expected to find,’ said Gonsalez. ‘There were the usual air apparatus, the inevitable liquid-air still, the ever-to-be-expected electric crucibles. The inspection was superfluous, I admit, for I knew exactly how the murder was committed – for murder it was – the moment I came into the laboratory and saw the thermos flask and the pad of cotton wool.’

  Suddenly he frowned and stopped dead.

  ‘Santa Miranda!’ he ejaculated. Gonsalez always swore by this non-existent saint. ‘I had forgotten!’

  He looked up and down the street.

  ‘There is a place from whence we can telephone,’ he said. ‘Will you come with me, or shall I leave you here?’

  ‘I am consumed with curiosity,’ said Manfred.

  They went into the shop and Gonsalez gave a number. Manfred did not ask him how he knew it, because he too had read the number which was written on the telephone disc that stood on the late Professor’s table.

  ‘Is that you, Mr Munsey?’ asked Gonsalez. ‘It is I. You remember I have just come from you? Yes, I thought you would recognise my voice. I want to ask you where are the Professor’s spectacles.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘The Professor’s spectacles?’ said Munsey’s voice. ‘Why, they’re with him, aren’t they?’

  ‘They were not on the body or near it,’ said Gonsalez. ‘Will you see if they are in his room? I’ll hold the line.’

  He waited, humming a little aria from El Perro Chico, a light opera which had its day in Madrid fifteen years before; and presently he directed his attention again to the instrument.

  ‘In his bedroom, were they? Thank you very much.’

  He hung up the receiver. He did not explain the conversation to Manfred, nor did Manfred expect him to, for Leon Gonsalez dearly loved a mystery. All he permitted himself to say was, ‘Canine teeth!’