Arnold Bennett 1867 - 1931
Enoch Arnold Bennett was an English writer. He is best known as a novelist, but he also worked in other fields such as journalism, propaganda and film.
Bennett believed that ordinary people had the potential to be the subject of interesting books. In
this respect, an influence which Bennett himself acknowledged was the French writer Maupassant whose "Une Vie" inspired
"The Old Wives' Tale". Maupassant is also one of the writers on whom Richard Larch, the protagonist of Bennett's first
(and obviously semi-autobiographical) novel, A Man from the North, tries in vain to model his own writing. In 1908 The
Old Wives' Tale was published and was an immediate success throughout the English-speaking world.
Contemporary critics—Virginia Woolf in particular—perceived weaknesses in his work. To her and other Bloomsbury
authors, Bennett represented the "old guard" in literary terms. His style was traditional rather than modern, which made
him an obvious target for those challenging literary conventions. For much of the 20th Century, Bennett's work was
tainted by this perception; it was not until the 1990s that a more positive view of his work became widely accepted.
The noted English critic John Carey praises him, declaring Bennett to be his "hero" because his writings "represent a systematic dismemberment of the intellectuals' case against the masses".
The noted English critic John Carey praises him, declaring Bennett to be his "hero" because his writings "represent a systematic dismemberment of the intellectuals' case against the masses".
MURDER !
(1927)
I
Many great ones of the
earth have justified murder as a social act,
defensible, and even laudable in certain
instances. There is something to be said for
murder, though perhaps not much. All of us, or
nearly all of us, have at one time or another had
the desire and the impulse to commit murder. At
any rate, murder is not an uncommon affair. On an
average, two people are murdered every week in
England, and probably about two hundred every
week in the United States. And forty per cent of
the murderers are not brought to justice. These
figures take no account of the undoubtedly
numerous cases where murder has been done but
never suspected. Murders and murderesses walk
safely abroad among us, and it may happen to us
to shake hands with them. A disturbing thought!
But such is life, and such is homicide.
II
Two men, named respectively Lomax
Harder and John Franting, were walking side by
side one autumn afternoon, on the Marine Parade
of the seaside resort and port of Quangate
(English Channel). Both were well-dressed and had
the air of moderate wealth, and both were about
thirty-five years of age. At this point the
resemblances between them ceased. Lomax Harder
had refined features, au enormous forehead, fair
hair, and a delicate, almost apologetic manner.
John Franting was low-browed, heavy chinned,
scowling, defiant, indeed what is called a tough
customer. Lomax Harder corresponded in appearance
with the popular notion of a poet, save
that he was carefully barbered. He was in fact a
poet, and not unknown in the tiny, trifling, mad
world where poetry is a matter of first-rate
interest. John Franting corresponded in
appearance with the popular notion of a gambler,
an amateur boxer, and, in spare time, a deluder
of women. Popular notions sometimes fit the
truth.
Lomax Harder, somewhat nervously
buttoning his overcoat, said in a quiet but firm
and insistent tone:
"Haven't you got anything to
say ?"
John Franting stopped suddenly in
front of a shop whose façade bore the
sign: "Gontle. Gunsmith."
"Not in words," answered
Franting. "I'm going in here."
And he brusquely entered the
small, shabby shop.
Lomax Harder hesitated half a
second, and then followed his companion.
The shopman was a middle-aged
gentleman wearing a black velvet coat.
"Good afternoon," he greeted
Franting, with an expression and in a tone of
urbane condescension which seemed to indicate
that Franting was a wise as well as fortunate man
in that he knew of the excellence of Gontle's and
had the wit to come into Gontle's.
For the name of Gontle was
favourably and respectfully known wherever
triggers are pressed. Not only along the whole
length of the Channel coast, but throughout
England, was Gontle's renowned. Sportsmen would
travel to Quangate from the far north and even
from London, to buy guns. To say: "I bought it
at Gontle's," or "Old Gontle recommended it," was
sufficient to silence any dispute concerning the
merits of a fire-arm. Experts bowed the head
before the unique reputation of Gontle. As for
old Gontle, he was extremely and pardonably
conceited. His conviction that no other gunsmith
in the wide world could compare with him was
absolute. He sold guns and rifles with the
gesture of a monarch conferring an honour. He
never argued; he stated; and the customer who
contradicted him was as likely as not to be
courteously and icily informed by Gontle of the
geographical situation of the shop-door. Such
shops exist in English provinces, and nobody
knows how they have achieved their renown. They
could exist nowhere else.
"'d afternoon," said Franting
gruffly, and paused.
"What can I do for you?" asked
Mr. Gontle, as if saying: "Now don't be afraid.
This shop is tremendous, and I am tremendous; but
I shall not eat you."
"I want a revolver," Franting
snapped.
"Ah! A revolver!" commented Mr.
Gontle, as if saying: "A gun or a rifle, yes!
But a revolver, an arm without
individuality, manufactured wholesale ! . . .
However, I suppose I must deign to accommodate
you."
"I presume you know something
about revolvers ?" asked Mr. Gontle, as he began
to produce the weapons.
"A little."
"Do you know the Webley Mark
III ?"
"Can't say that I do."
"Ah! It is the best for all
common purposes." And Mr. Gontle's glance said:
"Have the goodness not to tell me it isn't."
Franting examined the Webley Mark
III.
"You see," said Mr. Gontle. "The
point about it is that until the breach is
properly closed it cannot be fired. So that it
can't blow open and maim or kill the would-be
murderer." Mr. Gontle smiled archly at one of
his oldest jokes.
"What about suicides?" Franting
grimly demanded.
"Ah !"
"You might show me just how to
load it," said Franting.
Mr. Gontle, having found
ammunition, complied with this reasonable
request.
"The barrel's a bit scratched,"
said Franting.
Mr. Gontle inspected the barrel
with pain. He would have denied the scratch, but
could not.
"Here's another one," said he,
"since you are so particular." He had to put
customers in their place.
"You might load it," said
Franting.
Mr. Gontle loaded the second
revolver.
"I'd like to try it," said
Franting.
"Certainly," said Mr. Gontle, and
led Franting out of the shop by the back, and
down to a cellar where revolvers could be
experimented with.
Lomax Harder was now alone in the
shop. He hesitated a long time and then picked
up the revolver rejected by Franting, fingered
it, put it down, and picked it up again. The
back-door of the shop opened suddenly, and,
startled, Harder dropped the revolver into his
overcoat pocket: a thoughtless, quite
unpremeditated act. He dared not remove the
revolver. The revolver was as fast in his pocket
as though the pocket had been sewn up.
"And cartridges?" asked Mr.
Gontle of Franting.
"Oh," said Franting, "I've only
had one shot. Five'll be more than enough for the
present. What does it weigh ?"
"Let me see. Four inch barrel?
Yes. One pound four ounces."
Franting paid for the revolver,
receiving thirteen shillings in change from a
five-pound note, and strode out of the shop,
weapon in hand. He was gone before Lomax Harder
decided upon a course of action.
"And for you, sir?" said Mr.
Gontle, addressing the poet.
Harder suddenly comprehended that
Mr. Gontle had mistaken him for a separate
customer, who had happened to enter the shop a
moment after the first one. Harder and Franting
had said not a word to one another during the
purchase, and Harder well knew that in the most
exclusive shops it is the custom utterly to
ignore a second customer until the first one has
been dealt with.
"I want to see some foils."
Harder spoke stammeringly the only words that
came into his head.
"Foils!" exclaimed Mr. Gontle,
shocked, as if to say: "Is it conceivable that
you should imagine that I, Gontle, gunsmith, sell
such things as foils ?"
After a little talk Harder
apologized and departed, a thief.
"I'll call later and pay the
fellow," said Harder to his restive conscience.
"No. I can't do that. I'll send him some
anonymous postal orders."
He crossed the Parade and saw
Franting, a small left-handed figure all alone
far below on the deserted sands, pointing the
revolver. He thought that his ear caught the
sound of a discharge, but the distance was too
great for him to be sure. He continued to watch,
and at length Franting walked westward diagonally
across the beach.
"He's going back to the
Bellevue," thought Harder, the Bellevue being the
hotel from which he had met Franting coming out
half an hour earlier. He strolled slowly towards
the white hotel. But Franting, who had evidently
come up the face of the cliff in the penny lift,
was before him. Harder, standing outside, saw
Franting seated in the lounge. Then Franting rose
and vanished down a long passage at the rear of
the lounge. Harder entered the hotel rather
guiltily. There was no hall-porter at the door,
and not a soul in the lounge or in sight of the
lounge. Harder went down the long passage.
III
At the end of the passage Lomax
Harder found himself in a billiard-room, an
apartment built partly of brick and partly of
wood on a sort of courtyard behind the main
structure of the hotel. The roof, of iron and
grimy glass, rose to a point in the middle. On
two sides the high walls of the hotel obscured
the light. Dusk was already closing in. A small
fire burned feebly in the grate. A large radiator
under the window was steel-cold, for though
summer was finished, winter had not officially
begun in the small economically-run hotel: so
that the room was chilly; nevertheless, in
deference to the English passion for fresh air
and discomfort, the window was wide open.
Franting, in his overcoat, and an
unlit cigarette between his lips, stood lowering
with his back to the bit of fire. At sight of
Harder he lifted his chin in a dangerous
challenge.
"So you're still following me
about," he said resentfully to Harder.
"Yes," said the latter, with his
curious gentle primness of manner. "I came down
here specially to talk to you. I should have said
all I had to say earlier, only you happened to be
going out of the hotel just as I was coming in.
You didn't seem to want to talk in the street;
but there's some talking has to be done. I've a
few things I must tell you." Harder appeared to
be perfectly calm, and he felt perfectly calm. He
advanced from the door towards the billiard-table.
Franting raised his hand,
displaying his square-ended, brutal fingers in
the twilight.
"Now listen to me," he said with
cold, measured ferocity. "You can't tell me
anything I don't know. If there's some talking to
be done I'll do it myself, and when I've finished
you can get out. I know that my wife has taken a
ticket for Copenhagen by the steamer from
Harwich, and that she's been seeing to her
passport, and packing. And of course I know that
you have interests in Copenhagen and spend about
half your precious time there. I'm not worrying
to connect the two things. All that's got nothing
to do with me. Emily has always seen a great deal
of you, and I know that the last week or two
she's been seeing you more than ever. Not that I
mind that. I know that she objects to my
treatment of her and my conduct generally. That's
all right, but it's a matter that only concerns
her and me. I mean that it's no concern of yours,
for instance, or anybody else's. If she objects
enough she can try and divorce me. I doubt if
she'd succeed, but you can never be sure, with these new laws. Anyhow she's my wife till
she does divorce me, and so she has the usual
duties and responsibilities towards me,
even though I was the worst husband in the world.
That's how I look at it, in my old-fashioned way.
I've just had a letter from her, she knew I
was here, and I expect that explains how you knew
I was here."
"It does," said Lomax Harder
quietly.
Franting pulled a letter out of
his inner pocket and unfolded it.
"Yes," he said, glancing at it,
and read some sentences aloud: "'I have
absolutely decided to leave you, and I won't hide
from you that I know you know who is doing what
he can to help me. I can't live with you any
longer. You may be very fond of me, as you say,
but I find your way of showing your fondness too
humiliating and painful. I've said this to you
before, and now I'm saying it for the last time.'
And so on and so on."
Franting tore the letter in two,
dropped one half on the floor, twisted the other
half into a spill, turned to the fire, and lit
his cigarette.
"That's what I think of her
letter," he proceeded, the cigarette between his
teeth. "You're helping her, are you ? Very well. I
don't say you're in love with her, or she with
you. I'll make no wild statements. But if you
aren't in love with her I wonder why you're
taking all this trouble over her. Do you go about
the world helping ladies who say they're unhappy
just for the pure sake of helping ? Never mind.
Emily isn't going to leave me. Get that into your
head. I shan't let her leave me. She has money,
and I haven't. I've been living on her, and it
would be infernally awkward for me if she left me
for good. That's a reason for keeping her, isn't
it? But you may believe me or not, it isn't
my reason. She's right enough when she says I'm
very fond of her. That's a reason for keeping her
too. But it isn't my reason. My reason is that a
wife's a wife, and she can't break her word just
because everything isn't lovely in the garden.
I've heard it said I'm unmoral. I'm not all
unmoral. And I feel particularly strongly about
what's called the marriage tie." He drew the
revolver from his overcoat pocket, and held it up
to view. "You see this thing. You saw me buy it.
Now you needn't be afraid. I'm not threatening
you; and it's not part of my game to shoot you.
I've nothing to do with your goings-on. What I
have to do with is the goings-on of my wife. If
she deserts me, for you or for anybody or
for nobody, I shall follow her, whether
it's to Copenhagen or Bangkok or the North Pole
and I shall kill her, with just this very
revolver
you saw me buy. And now you can get out."
Franting replaced the revolver,
and began to consume the cigarette with fierce
and larger puffs.
Lomax Harder looked at the grim,
set, brutal scowling bitter face, and knew that
Franting meant what he had said. Nothing would
stop him from carrying out his threat. The fellow
was not an argufier, he could not reason; but he
had unmistakable grit and would never recoil from
the fear of consequences. If Emily left him,
Emily was a dead woman; nothing in the end could
protect her from the execution of her husband's
menace. On the other hand, nothing would persuade
her to remain with her husband. She had decided
to go, and she would go. And indeed the mere
thought of this lady to whom he, Harder, was
utterly devoted, staying with her husband and
continuing to suffer the tortures and
humiliations which she had been suffering for
years, this thought revolted him. He could
not think it.
He stepped forward along the side
of the billiard-table, and simultaneously
Franting stepped forward to meet him. Lomax
Harder snatched the revolver which was in his
pocket, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
Franting collapsed, with the
upper half of his body somehow balanced on the
edge of the billiard-table. He was dead. The
sound of the report echoed in Harder's ear like
the sound of a violin string loudly twanged by a
finger. He saw a little reddish hole in
Franting's bronzed right temple.
"Well," he thought, "somebody had
to die. And it's better him than Emily." He felt
that he had performed a righteous act. Also he
felt a little sorry for Franting.
Then he was afraid. He was afraid
for himself, because he wanted not to die,
especially on the scaffold; but also for Emily
Franting who would be friendless and helpless
without him; he could not bear to think of her
alone in the world — the central point of a
terrific scandal. He must get away instantly. . .
.
Not down the corridor back into
the hotel lounge! No! That would be fatal! The
window. He glanced at the corpse. It was more
odd, curious, than affrighting. He had made the
corpse. Strange! He could not unmake it. He had
accomplished the irrevocable. Impressive! He saw
Franting's cigarette glowing on the linoleum in
the deepening dusk, and picked it up and threw it
into the fender.
Lace curtains hung across the
whole width of the window. He drew one aside, and
looked forth. The light was much stronger in the
courtyard than within the room. He put his gloves
on. He gave a last look at the corpse, straddled
the window-sill, and was on the brick pavement of
the courtyard. He saw that the curtain had fallen
back into the perpendicular.
He gazed around. Nobody ! Not a
light in any window ! He saw a green wooden gate,
pushed it; it yielded; then a sort of
entry-passage. . . . In a moment, after two
half-turns, he was on the Marine Parade again.
He was a fugitive. Should he fly to the right,
to the left ? Then he had an inspiration. An idea
of genius for baffling pursuers. He would go into
the hotel by the main-entrance. He went slowly
and deliberately into the portico, where a
middle-aged hall-porter was standing in the
gloom.
"Good evening, sir."
"Good evening. Have you got any
rooms ?"
"I think so, sir. The housekeeper
is out, but she'll be back in a moment, if
you'd like a seat. The manager's away in London."
The hall-porter suddenly
illuminated the lounge, and Lomax Harder,
blinking, entered and sat down.
"I might have a cocktail while
I'm waiting," the murderer suggested with a
bright and friendly smile. "A Bronx."
"Certainly, sir. The page is off
duty. He sees to orders in the lounge, but I'll
attend to you myself."
"What a hotel !" thought the
murderer, solitary in the chilly lounge, and gave
a glance down the long passage. "Is the whole
place run by the hall-porter? But of course it's
the dead season."
Was it conceivable that nobody
had heard the sound of the shot ?
Harder had a strong impulse to
run away. But no ! To do so would be highly
dangerous. He restrained himself.
"How much ?" he asked of the
hall-porter, who had arrived with a surprising
quickness, tray in hand and glass on tray.
"A shilling, sir."
The murderer gave him
eighteenpence, and drank off the cocktail.
"Thank you very much, sir." The
hall-porter took the glass.
"See here !" said the murderer.
"I'll look in again. I've got one or two little
errands to do."
And he went, slowly, into the
obscurity of the Marine Parade.
IV
Lomax Harder leant over the left
arm of the sea-wall of the manmade port of
Quangate. Not another soul was there. Night had
fallen. The lighthouse at the extremity of the
right arm was occulting. The lights, some
red, some green, many white of ships at
sea passed in both directions in endless
processions. Waves plashed gently against the
vast masonry of the wall. The wind, blowing
steadily from the north-west, was not cold.
Harder, looking about though he knew he
was absolutely alone, took his revolver from his
overcoat pocket and stealthily dropped it into
the sea. Then he turned round and gazed across
the small harbour at the mysterious amphitheatre
of the lighted town, and heard public clocks and
religious clocks striking the hour.
He was a murderer, but why should
he not successfully escape detection ? Other
murderers had done so. He had all his wits. He
was not excited. He was not morbid. His
perspective of things was not askew. The
hall-porter had not seen his first entrance into
the hotel, nor his exit after the crime. Nobody
had seen them. He had left nothing behind in the
billiard-room. No finger marks on the window-sill.
(The putting-on of his gloves was in itself
a clear demonstration that he had fully kept his
presence of mind.) No footmarks on the hard, dry
pavement of the courtyard.
Of course there was the
possibility that some person unseen had seen him
getting out of the window. Slight: but still a
possibility! And there was also the possibility
that someone who knew Franting by sight had noted
him waking by Franting's side in the streets. If
such a person informed the police and gave a
description of him, inquiries might be made. . .
. No ! Nothing in it. His appearance offered
nothing remarkable to the eye of a casual
observer — except his forehead, of which he
was rather proud, but which was hidden by his
hat.
It was generally believed that
criminals always did something silly. But so far
he had done nothing silly, and he was convinced
that, in regard to the crime, he never would do
anything silly. He had none of the desire,
supposed to be common among murderers, to revisit
the scene of the crime or to look upon the corpse
once more. Although he regretted the necessity
for his act, he felt no slightest twinge of
conscience. Somebody had to die, and surely it
was better that a brute should die than the
heavenly, enchanting, martyrized creature whom
his act had rescued for ever from the brute! He
was aware within himself of an ecstasy of
devotion to Emily Franting, now a widow and
free. She was a unique woman. Strange that a
woman of such gifts should have come under the
sway of so obvious a scoundrel as Franting. But
she was very young at the time, and such freaks
of sex had happened before and would happen
again, they were a widespread phenomenon in the
history of the relations of men and women. He
would have killed a hundred men if a hundred men
had threatened her felicity. His heart was pure;
he wanted nothing from Emily in exchange for what
he had done in her defence. He was passionate in
her defence. When he reflected upon the
coarseness and cruelty of the gesture by which
Franting had used Emily's letter to light his
cigarette, Harder's cheeks grew hot with burning
resentment.
A clock struck the quarter.
Harder walked quickly to the harbour front, where
was a taxi-rank, and drove to the station. . . .
A sudden apprehension ! The crime might have been
discovered ! Police might already be watching for
suspicious-looking travellers ! Absurd ! Still, the
apprehension remained despite its absurdity. The
taxi-driver looked at him queerly. No !
Imagination ! He hesitated on the threshold of the
station, then walked boldly in, and showed his
return ticket to the ticket-inspector. No sign of
a policeman. He got into the Pullman car, where
five other passengers were sitting. The train
started.
V
V
He nearly missed the boat-train
at Liverpool Street because according to its
custom the Quangate flyer arrived twenty minutes
late at Victoria. And at Victoria the foolish
part of him, as distinguished from the
common-sense part, suffered another spasm of fear.
Would detectives, instructed by telegraph, be waiting
for the train? No! An absurd idea ! The boat-train
from Liverpool Street was crowded with
travellers, and the platform crowded with
senders-off. He gathered from scraps of talk
overhead that an international conference was
about to take place at Copenhagen. And he had
known nothing of it not seen a word of it
in the papers ! Excusable perhaps; graver matters
had held his attention.
Useless to look for Emily in the
vast bustle of the compartments ! She had her
through ticket (which she had taken herself, in
order to avoid possible complications), and she
happened to be the only woman in the world who
was never late and never in a hurry. She was
certain to be in the train. But was she in the
train ? Something sinister might have come to
pass. For instance, a telephone message to the
flat that her husband had been found dead with a
bullet in his brain.
The swift two-hour journey to
Harwich was terrible for Lomax Harder. He
remembered that he had left the unburnt part of
the letter lying under the billiard-table.
Forgetful ! Silly ! One of the silly things that
criminals did! And on Parkeston Quay the
confusion was enormous. He did not walk, he was
swept, on to the great shaking steamer whose dark
funnels rose amid wisps of steam into the starry
sky. One advantage: detectives would have no
chance in that multitudinous scene, unless indeed
they held up the ship.
The ship roared a warning, and
slid away from the quay, groped down the tortuous
channel to the harbour mouth, and was in the
North Sea; and England dwindled to naught but a
string of lights. He searched every deck from
stem to stern, and could not find Emily. She had
not caught the train, or, if she had caught the
train, she had not boarded the steamer because he
had failed to appear. His misery was intense.
Everything was going wrong. And on the arrival at
Esbjerg would not detectives be lying in wait for
the Copenhagen train ? . . .
Then he descried her, and she
him. She too had been searching. Only chance had
kept them apart. Her joy at finding him was
ecstatic; tears came into his eyes at sight of
it. He was everything to her, absolutely
everything. He clasped her right hand in both his
hands and gazed at her in the dim, diffused light
blended of stars, moon and electricity. No woman
was ever like her: mature, innocent, wise,
trustful, honest. And the touching beauty of her
appealing, sad, happy face, and the pride of her
carriage ! A unique jewel, snatched from the
brutal grasp of that fellow who had ripped her
solemn letter in two and used it as a spill for
his cigarette ! She related her movements; and he
his. Then she said:
"Well ?"
"I didn't go," he answered.
"Thought it best not to. I'm convinced it
wouldn't have been any use."
He had not intended to tell her
this lie. Yet when it came to the point, what
else could he say ? He told one lie instead of
twenty. He was deceiving her, but for her sake.
Even if the worst occurred, she was for ever safe
from that brutal grasp. And he had saved her. As
for the conceivable complications of the future,
he refused to front them; he could live in the
marvellous present. He felt suddenly the amazing
beauty of the night at sea, and beneath all his
other sensations was the obscure sensation of a
weight at his heart.
"I expect you were right," she
angelically acquiesced.
VI
The Superintendent of Police
(Quangate was the county town of the western half
of the county), and a detective-sergeant were in
the billiard-room of the Bellevue. Both wore
mufti. The powerful green-shaded lamps usual in
billiard-rooms shone down ruthlessly on the green
table, and on the reclining body of John
Franting, which had not moved and had not been
moved.
A charwoman was just leaving
these officers when a stout gentleman, who had
successfully beguiled a policeman guarding the
other end of the long corridor, squeezed past
her, greeted the two officers, and shut the door.
The Superintendent, a thin man,
with lips to match, and a moustache, stared hard
at the arrival.
"I am staying with my friend Dr.
Furnival," said the arrival cheerfully. "You
telephoned for him, and as he had to go out to
one of those cases in which nature will not wait,
I offered to come in his place. I've met you
before, Superintendent, at Scotland Yard."
"Dr. Austin Bond!" exclaimed the
Superintendent.
"He," said the other.
They shook hands, Dr. Bond
genially, the superintendent half-consequential,
half-deferential, as one who had his dignity to
think about; also as one who resented an
intrusion, but dared not show resentment.
The detective-sergeant recoiled
at the dazzling name of the great amateur
detective, a genius who had solved the famous
mysteries of "The Yellow Hat," "The Three Towns,"
"The Three Feathers," "The Gold Spoon," etc.,
etc., etc., whose devilish perspicacity had again
and again made professional detectives both look
and feel foolish, and whose notorious friendship
with the loftiest heads of Scotland Yard
compelled all police forces to treat him very
politely indeed.
"Yes," said Dr. Austin Bond,
after detailed examination. "Been shot about
ninety minutes, poor fellow ! Who found him ?"
"That woman who's just gone out.
Some servant here. Came in to look after the
fire."
"How long since ?"
"Oh ! About an hour ago."
"Found the bullet ? I see it hit
the brass on that cue-rack there."
The detective-sergeant glanced at
the Superintendent, who however, resolutely
remained unastonished.
"Here's the bullet," said the
Superintendent.
"Ah !" commented Dr. Austin Bond,
glinting through his spectacles at the bullet as
it lay in the Superintendent's hand. "Decimal 38,
I see. Flattened. It would be."
"Sergeant," said the
Superintendent. "You can get help and have the
body moved, now Dr. Bond has made his
examination. Eh, Doctor ?"
"Certainly," answered Dr. Bond,
at the fireplace. "He was smoking a cigarette, I
see."
"Either he or his murderer."
"You've got a clue ?"
"Oh yes," the Superintendent
answered, not without pride. "Look here. Your
torch, sergeant."
The detective-sergeant produced a
pocket electric-lamp, and the Superintendent
turned to me window-sill.
"I've got a stronger one than
that," said Dr. Austin Bond, producing another
torch.
The Superintendent displayed
finger-prints on the window-frame, footmarks on
the sill, and a few strands of inferior blue
cloth. Dr. Austin Bond next produced a magnifying
glass, and inspected the evidence at very short
range.
"The murderer must have been a
tall man, you can judge that from the angle
of fire; he wore a blue suit, which he tore
slightly on this splintered wood of the window-frame:
one of his boots had a hole in the middle
of the sole, and he'd only three fingers on his
left hand. He must have come in by the window and
gone out by the window, because the hall-porter
is sure that nobody except the dead man entered
the lounge by any door within an hour of the time
when the murder must have been committed."
The Superintendent proudly gave many more details, and ended by saying that he had already given instructions to circulate a description.
The Superintendent proudly gave many more details, and ended by saying that he had already given instructions to circulate a description.
"Curious," said Dr. Austin Bond,
"that a man like John Franting should let anyone
enter the room by the window ! Especially a
shabby-looking man !"
"You knew the deceased personally
then ?"
"No! But I know he was John
Franting."
"How, Doctor ?"
"Luck."
"Sergeant," said the
Superintendent, piqued. "Tell the constable to
fetch the hall-porter."
Dr. Austin Bond walked to and
fro, peering everywhere, and picked up a piece of
paper that had lodged against the step of the
platform which ran round two sides of the room
for the raising of the spectators' benches. He
glanced at the paper casually, and dropped it
again.
"My man," the Superintendent
addressed the hall-porter. "How can you be sure
that nobody came in here this afternoon ?"
"Because I was in my cubicle all
the time, sir."
The hall-porter was lying. But he
had to think of his own welfare. On the previous
day he had been reprimanded for quitting his post
against the rule. Taking advantage of the absence
of the manager, he had sinned once again, and he
lived in fear of dismissal if found out.
"With a full view of the lounge ?"
"Yes, sir."
"Might have been in there
beforehand," Dr. Austin Bond suggested.
"No," said the Superintendent.
"The charwoman came in twice. Once just before
Franting came in. She saw the fire wanted making
up and she went for some coal, and then returned
later with some coal. But the look of Franting
frightened her, and she went back with her coal."
"Yes," said the hall-porter. "I
saw that."
Another lie.
At a sign from the Superintendent
he withdrew
"I should like to have a word
with that charwoman," said Dr. Austin Bond.
The Superintendent hesitated. Why
should the great amateur meddle with what did not
concern him ? Nobody had asked his help. But the
Superintendent thought of the amateur's relations
with Scotland Yard, and sent for the charwoman.
"Did you clean the window here
to-day ?" Dr. Austin Bond interrogated her.
"Yes, please, sir."
"Show me your left hand." The
slattern obeyed. "How did you lose your little
finger ?"
"In a mangle accident, sir."
"Just come to the window, will
you, and put your hands on it. But take off your
left boot first."
The slattern began to weep.
"It's quite all right, my good
creature." Dr. Austin Bond reassured her. "Your
skirt is torn at the hem, isn't it ?"
When the slattern was released
from her ordeal and had gone carrying one boot in
her grimy hand, Dr. Austin Bond said genially to
the Superintendent:
"Just a fluke. I happened to
notice she'd only three fingers on her left hand
when she passed me in the corridor. Sorry I've
destroyed your evidence. But I felt sure almost
from the first that the murderer hadn't either
entered or decamped by the window."
"How ?"
"Because I think he's still here
in the room."
The two police officers gazed
about them as if exploring the room for the
murderer.
"I think he's there."
Dr. Austin Bond pointed to the
corpse.
"And where did he hide the
revolver after he'd killed himself ?" demanded the
thin-lipped Superintendent icily, when he had
somewhat recovered his aplomb.
"I'd thought of that, too," said
Dr. Austin Bond, beaming. "It is always a very
wise course to leave a dead body absolutely
untouched until a professional man has seen it.
But looking at the body can do no harm.
You see the left-hand pocket of the overcoat.
Notice how it bulges. Something unusual in it.
Something that has the shape of a...Just feel inside it, will you ?"
The Superintendent, obeying, drew
a revolver from the overcoat pocket of the dead
man.
"Ah ! Yes !" said Dr. Austin Bond.
"A Webley Mark III. Quite new. You might take out
the ammunition."
The Superintendent dismantled the weapon. "Yes, yes ! Three chambers empty. Wonder how he used the other two ! Now, where's that bullet ? You see ? He fired. His arm dropped, and the revolver happened to fall into the pocket."
The Superintendent dismantled the weapon. "Yes, yes ! Three chambers empty. Wonder how he used the other two ! Now, where's that bullet ? You see ? He fired. His arm dropped, and the revolver happened to fall into the pocket."
"Fired with his left hand, did
he ?" asked the Superintendent, foolishly ironic.
"Certainly. A dozen years ago
Franting was perhaps the finest amateur light-weight
boxer in England. And one reason for it
was that he bewildered his opponents by being
left-handed. His lefts were much more fatal than
his rights. I saw him box several times."
Whereupon Dr. Austin Bond
strolled to the step of the platform near me door
and picked up the fragment of very thin paper
that was lying there.
"This," said he, "must have blown
from the hearth to here by the draught from the
window when the door was opened. It's part of a
letter. You can see the burnt remains of the
other part in the corner of the fender. He
probably lighted the cigarette with it. Out of
bravado! His last bravado ! Read this."
The Superintendent read:
". . . repeat that I realize how fond you are of
me, but you have killed my affection for you, and
I shall leave our home tomorrow. This is
absolutely final. E."
Dr. Austin Bond, having for the
nth time satisfactorily demonstrated in his own
unique, rapid way, that police-officers were a
set of numskulls, bade the Superintendent a most
courteous good evening, nodded amicably to the
detective-sergeant, and left in triumph.
VII
"I must get some mourning and go
back to the flat," said Emily Franting.
She was sitting one morning in
the lobby of the Palads Hotel, Copenhagen. Lomax
Harder had just called on her with an English
newspaper containing an account of the inquest at
which the jury had returned a verdict of suicide
upon the body of her late husband. Her eyes
filled with tears.
"Time will put her right,"
thought Lomax Harder, tenderly watching her. "I
was bound to do what I did. And I can keep a
secret for ever."