Ask a Policeman. Агата Кристи
leave you to get the story out of them.”
The Commissioner opened the door which led into the Private Secretary’s room beyond. He looked round sharply, hoping to see the truculent figure of the Assistant Commissioner among the group which stood there, nervous and ill at ease. A frown expressed his disappointment. He beckoned sharply to three men, standing by. In single file they followed him into Sir Philip’s presence.
Hampton introduced them curtly. “Chief Constable Shawford, Superintendent Churchill, sir. Both of the Yard. This is Superintendent Easton, of the local police.” Sir Philip glanced at the men in turn, nodded at each but said nothing beyond a curt “sit down,” addressed to them all in general. They obeyed—the lower the rank, the greater the distance maintained from the Home Secretary. The Commissioner at first occupied a large arm-chair touching the desk, but as the interview went on he ceased to have a regular station—he would sit one minute, stand the next, lean on the big desk, and almost promise (so it seemed to the inexperienced Easton) to whisk away the Home Secretary and occupy his chair. Sir Philip, picking up his pencil again, drew with more deliberation than skill, a large circle upon his blotting-paper.
“Easton’s district includes Hursley Lodge, sir,” the Commissioner began, without further preface. “He was at the police-station when a call was received that Lord Comstock had been found dead in his study. This was at 1.7 this afternoon.”
Sir Philip glanced at the clock on his desk. It was then 2.35 p.m.
“He drove at once to Hursley Lodge, and was received by Lord Comstock’s secretary, Mr. Mills, who took him straight up to the study. His story will be more easy to follow, sir, if you keep this plan in front of you.”
He placed a neatly-drawn diagram on the desk, and Sir Philip studied it curiously. “Where did this come from?” he asked.
“Easton brought it with him from Hursley Lodge, sir,” replied the Commissioner, with a touch of impatience. He was anxious to get on with the facts.
Sir Philip looked up, and for the first time Easton appeared to him as an individual. He was tall, with a soldierly moustache and bearing, but obviously unnerved by the distinguished company in which he found himself; the Home Secretary’s glance had somehow brought him to his feet, and under his gaze he shifted from one foot to the other, and with difficulty suppressed an almost irresistible inclination to salute.
“Pretty smart of you to get hold of a plan like this, Easton,” said Sir Philip encouragingly. “Where did you find it?”
“Mr. Mills gave it to me, sir—the secretary,” replied Easton. Something in Sir Philip’s manner seemed to have put him quite at his ease. During the rest of the interview he addressed himself to him exclusively, as though some mysterious bond of sympathy had been established between them. He even took a couple of paces towards the Home Secretary’s desk.
“Mr. Mills gave it to you, did he?” said the Home Secretary. “Where did he get it from? People don’t as a rule have plans of their houses ready to hand like that.”
“It’s a rough tracing of a plan of the drains, really, sir,” Easton explained gravely, “with the drains left out and a few other things put in. Mr. Mills told me that a new system of drainage had recently been put in at Hursley Lodge, and the builder left a plan behind in case any alterations were required.”
“I see. Very well, Easton. Tell me what you found when you got into the study.”
“It was a large room, sir, with a big bow-window on the south side. The frames were of the casement type, and were all wide open. There was very little furniture in the room, sir. A row of bookcases round the walls, and half a dozen chairs standing in front of them. One of them had been overturned, and was lying close inside the door leading into the hall. There were two other doors, sir. One led into the drawing-room, and was disguised as a bookcase. The bookcase swung open with the door, if you understand me, sir.”
Sir Philip nodded. “And the third door?” he asked.
“That was a double door, sir, leading into the room which Mr. Mills used, and which he called the office. At the farther end of the room was a heavy desk, standing close to the window. Behind this desk, and between it and the window, lay the body of Lord Comstock. His lordship lay on his right side, with his knees drawn up towards his chin. I could see at once that he was dead, sir.”
“And did you discover as promptly what had killed him?”
“There was a very small bullet-wound in his left temple, sir. So small that I thought at first it was a stab with some round weapon like a thick hat-pin.”
“What made you alter your opinion, Easton?”
“When I looked on the desk, sir, I found this,” replied Easton simply. He put his hand in his pocket, and produced something wrapped carefully in a handkerchief. He opened this out, and disclosed a miniature revolver, which he laid on the edge of the Home Secretary’s desk. At the sight of it, Chief Constable Shawford made a sound as though about to speak. But a sharp glance from the Commissioner silenced him before he could utter anything articulate.
Sir Philip looked at it curiously. “Vicious little toy!” he exclaimed. “And you think this is what killed Lord Comstock, do you, Easton?”
“I think so, sir. One chamber has been discharged, and that quite recently, by the look of the fouling. But, as far as I have been able to make out, sir, there are no finger-marks.”
The Commissioner rose and stepped to the desk. “You had better take charge of this, Shawford,” he said. “The sooner it is examined by the experts the better.”
He was about to pick up the pistol, when Sir Philip waved him aside. “No, let it stay there for the present,” he said. “Now, let’s get this clear, Easton. You say that Lord Comstock was lying on the floor, and that the pistol was on the desk. Did it occur to you that Lord Comstock might have shot himself?”
“It did occur to me, sir. But if he had been sitting in his chair at the time, I don’t see how the pistol could have fallen to where I found it. It was on the other side of the desk, sir.”
“When you found it, perhaps. But other people must have entered the room before you reached the house. Several other people, I dare say?”
It was the Commissioner who replied. He was evidently anxious to atone for his slight faux pas over the pistol. “Two at least, Sir Philip. Comstock’s secretary and his butler. They are waiting in the next room. Shall I bring them in?”
“All in good time,” said Sir Philip. “I expect that Easton has more to tell us yet. I should like more light on the point of whether Comstock could have shot himself. There are no finger-prints to be seen on the pistol. The inference is that whoever handled it last wore gloves or else it has been wiped over. Was it as hot in the study at Hursley Lodge as it is in here?”
“It was certainly very warm, sir.”
“I expect it was. It’s one of the hottest June days I remember. I say, Hampton, would you mind putting one of those candlesticks on my desk?”
He nodded towards the mantelpiece, on which stood a pair of silver candlesticks. The Commissioner walked up to the nearest one, picked it up, and laid it down beside the pistol.
“Thank you, Hampton. Now, Chief Constable, will you look at that candlestick and tell me if you can see any finger-prints on it?”
Shawford gingerly picked up the candlestick and breathed on it. “They are very plainly visible where Sir Henry Hampton touched it, sir,” he said solemnly.
“That settles the point, I think,” said Sir Philip briskly. “If anybody had touched the pistol with their naked hands this morning they must have left finger-marks upon it. Comstock would not be wearing gloves indoors. We can leave it at that for the present. Now, Easton, what did you do after you had looked round the study?”
“The first thing I did, sir, was to telephone to my Chief. I thought he would want to