THE CROW'S INN TRAGEDY (Murder Mystery Classic). Annie Haynes
just as the door gave way and found matters as you know."
The inspector scratched the side of his nose reflectively with the handle of his fountain pen.
"Mr. Bechcombe was quite dead?"
"Quite dead. Had been dead at least two hours, I should say," Dr. Hackett assented.
"And the cause?" the inspector continued, suspending his pen over the paper.
"You will-understand that you will have to wait until after the post-mortem for a definitely full and detailed opinion. But, as far as I can tell you after the examination which was all I could make this afternoon, I feel no doubt that the cause of death was strangulation."
"It seems inconceivable that a man should be strangled in his own office, within earshot of his own clerks," debated the inspector. "Still, it is quite evident even at a casual glance that it has been done here. But I cannot understand why Mr. Bechcombe apparently offered no resistance. His hand-bell, his speaking-tube, the telephone--all were close at hand. It looks as though he had recognized his assassin and had no fear of him."
"I think on the contrary that it was a sudden attack," Dr. Hackett dissented. "Probably Mr. Bechcombe had no opportunity of recognizing his murderer. The assassin sprang forward and--did you notice a sweet sickly smell that seemed to emanate from the body?"
The inspector nodded.
"That was the first thing I noticed. Chloroform, I suppose?"
"Yes," said the doctor slowly. "I should say the assassin sprang forward with the chloroform, or perhaps approached his victim unobserved, and attempted to stupefy him, and then strangled him. That is how it looks to me. For anything more definite we must wait for the post-mortem."
The inspector made a few hieroglyphics in his notebook, then he looked up.
"You say that death took place probably about two hours before you saw the body, doctor? and you were called in about two o'clock. Therefore, Mr. Bechcombe must have died about twelve o'clock. You are quite definite about this?"
"I cannot be more exact as to the time," Dr. Hackett said slowly. "I should say about twelve o'clock--certainly not much after. More probably a little before."
The inspector stroked his clean-shaven chin and glanced over his notes.
"Just one more question, Dr. Hackett. Can you tell me just who was in the room when you got there?"
Dr. Hackett hesitated a moment.
"Well, there was Mr. Walls, who seems to be managing things in Thompson's absence, and three other men whose names I do not of course know, and the late Mr. Bechcombe's secretary, whose name I understand to be Hoyle--Miss Hoyle."
The inspector pricked up his ears.
"I have not seen Miss Hoyle. What sort of a woman?"
"Oh, just a girl," the doctor said vaguely. "Just an ordinary-looking girl. I did not notice her much, except that I thought she looked white and shocked, as no doubt she was, poor girl!"
"No doubt!" the inspector assented. "How was she dressed, doctor?"
"Dressed?" the doctor echoed in some surprise. "Well, I don't take much notice of dress myself. Just a dark gown, I think."
"No hat?"
"No, I don't think so. No, I am sure she hadn't."
"Do you know where she works?"
"Didn't know such a person existed until this afternoon. I know nothing about her," the doctor said, shaking his head.
The inspector coughed.
"Um! Well, that will be all for the present, doctor. It is probable that you may be wanted later, and of course possible that Mrs. Bechcombe may wish to see you."
"I suppose she has been told?"
"Of course," the inspector assented. "We phoned to the house at once, and I gather she was informed of the death, not of course of the cause, by a relative who was there--a Mr. Collyer, a clergyman. I shall go round to see her when I have finished here. I hear that she collapsed altogether on hearing of her loss."
"Poor thing! Poor thing!" the doctor murmured. "Well, inspector, I shall hold myself at your disposal."
Left alone, the inspector looked over his notes once more and then sounded the electric bell twice. One of his subordinates opened the door at once.
"Tell Moore and Carter to take the names and addresses of all the clients. Verify them on the phone and then allow them to go home. If any of them are not capable of verification, have them shadowed. Now send John Walls to me."
The clerk did not keep Inspector Furnival waiting. He came in hesitatingly, dragging his feet like a man who has had a stroke. His face was colourless, his eyes were dark with fear.
"You sent for me, inspector?" he said, his teeth chattering as if with ague.
"Naturally!" the inspector assented, glancing at him keenly. "I want to hear all you know about Mr. Bechcombe's death. But, first, has Amos Thompson returned?"
"N--o!" quavered Walls.
"Can you account for his absence in any way?" the inspector questioned shortly.
"No, I have no idea where he is," Walls answered, gathering up his courage. "But then he is the managing clerk. I am not. I very seldom know anything of his work."
The inspector did not answer this. He drew his brows together.
"When did you see him last?"
"About half-past twelve, it would be. He went out of the office, I have not seen him since. But he did go out to lunch early sometimes. And he may have gone somewhere on business for Mr. Bechcombe." Walls wiped the sweat from his brow as he spoke.
The inspector looked at him.
"I understand that Mr. Bechcombe was heard to tell him to be in readiness to go with him to the Bank at one o'clock?"
"I--I believe Spencer said something about that," Walls stammered. "But I did not hear what Mr. Bechcombe said myself. My desk is farther away than Spencer's and I was busy with my work. All I heard was that Mr. Bechcombe was not to be disturbed on any account. He slightly raised his voice when he said that."
"Did you gather that Mr. Bechcombe had business of an important nature with a mysterious client?"
"I didn't gather anything," said Walls with some warmth. "It wasn't my business to. If Mr. Bechcombe did have an important client he must have admitted him himself by the private door. The last one that went to him in an ordinary way came out in a very few minutes."
"Before twelve o'clock?" questioned the inspector sharply.
"Oh, yes. Some minutes before the clock struck--about a quarter to, I should say. I noticed that."
"Because--" Inspector Furnival prompted.
"Oh, well, because I heard it strike afterwards, I suppose," Walls answered lamely. "There are days when I don't notice it."
"Um!" the inspector glanced at him. "Do you know the name of the last client who saw Mr. Bechcombe?"
"Pounds--Mr. Pounds, of Gosforth and Pounds, the big haberdashers. He came about the lease of some fresh premises they are taking. I happen to know that."
"Ah, yes." The inspector looked him full in the face. "But you don't happen to know why Mr. Anthony Collyer wanted to see his uncle, perhaps?"
The sweat broke out afresh on Mr. Walls's forehead.
"I don't know anything about it."
"You know that Mr. Collyer came," the inspector said with some asperity. "Why did you not mention it?"
Walls glanced at him doubtfully.
"There wasn't anything to mention. Mr. Anthony wanted to see Mr. Bechcombe, and he couldn't, so he went away. He talked to Mr. Thompson, not to me."