The Murder at Castle Deeping

CHAPTER I THE ARGUMENT-2

“What’s wrong with the police?”

Steeley regarded the detective dispassionately. “Don’t be so infernally aggressive,” he murmured. “In organization, direction, and general efficiency, the British police force is undoubtedly the best in the world, but it has its weaknesses—or, perhaps it would be better to say, limitations. Not in its personnel, mark you, but in its methods.”

“You could say that about any police force,” put in Colonel Raymond.

“Of course you could,” acknowledged Steeley instantly. “For instance, in my opinion—and you must admit that I have good reasons for knowing something about these things—the German police force is too ponderous, much too ponderous for one hundred per cent efficiency. It can only operate as one colossal machine; if one component breaks, a breakdown can occur which gives the criminal an opportunity to slip through the gears. But there, the Teutonic mind runs on the lines of mass effort; we saw that during the War. France is inclined to go too far the other way. She puts a major murder investigation into the hands of one man, and lets him get on with it. We operate somewhere about the middle of the two methods, and such a compromise has much to recommend it, but that is not to say that it is the ideal system. We don’t make mass arrests and then try to eliminate the innocent, as they do in Germany, but the man who is put in charge of a case more often than not calls in the entire resources of the State to help him—including the Press. He becomes a general commanding an army rather than an individualist.”

Colonel Raymond glanced up. “What would you say is the ideal system?”

Steeley smiled. “As you know, my experience has been gained on both sides of the law,” he said reflectively. “And my conception of the ideal system is not so much a compromise between the French and German methods as a combination of them both.”

“Just how do you mean?”

Steeley leaned forward, his long white fingers toying with an empty matchbox. “Put it this way,” he said thoughtfully. “Maintain your general organization as it is to-day, but into it introduce the French individual method. That is to say, in every major investigation, in addition to the whole police force acting as a team, you would have an expert working solo. Nobody knows him. Nobody knows he is on the job. Yet he is there, unhampered by the regulations, officialdom and precedent that so often retards the work of people like Wayne, besides gradually destroying their personality. In other words, I am thinking on Secret Service lines. One of the weaknesses of the police force as it exists at present lies in the fact that it finds it almost impossible to move without the Press, and therefore the criminal, being aware of it. Neither the Press, the public, nor the criminal would know anything about the super-spy worming his way into the heart of things. Ultimately, of course, the existence of this unseen influence might be suspected. All right, so much the better. It would all act as a deterrent to the potential law-breaker, and seriously affect his morale. You can take it from me as one who has broken the law that it is far more difficult—not to say unnerving—to contend with something you cannot see, but only suspect is there, than with a hundred uniformed constables. So our freelance agent should remain a sort of mystery man. Like his prototype in the Intelligence Service he can take no credit for anything he does. When he has gathered enough evidence for the police to make an arrest he hands the case over to them and disappears again into obscurity, unknown, unseen.”

Wayne raised an accusing finger. “You’ve been reading Edgar Wallace,” he declared. “But come on; you can’t gloss over my question like that.”

“Question?”

“Yes. I asked you if you could name a specific instance . . . the sort of case that the super-sleuth might start on. Can you think of one?”

“I can think of half a dozen,” answered Steeley promptly, somewhat, I fancy, to Wayne’s surprise.

“Let’s have one, then,” invited Wayne brusquely.

“Very well. Take the case of Linton Hales.”

For a moment Wayne looked perplexed, as he ran through the files of his memory. “Ah, you mean that young chap—American wasn’t he?—who was drowned the other day at some castle or other down in Hampshire?”

“That’s right.”

“But the coroner dealt with the inquest in an hour. If I remember rightly he returned a verdict of accidental death, and he was right.”

“How do you know he was right?” asked Steeley quickly.

Wayne hesitated. “Damn it, man, I’m not a fool. I read the evidence.”

“Evidence? Was there any worth the name? Let us, briefly, run over the facts, such as are known. Linton Hales, a Harvard graduate inheriting a fortune, comes to England on a sight seeing tour. Historically—or romantically—minded, he falls under the spell of our ancient monuments—as many Americans have done before him—and decides to acquire a castle of his own. He gets particulars of one through an agent in London and goes down to the country to inspect it. He fails to return, whereupon his hotel manager informs the police of his disappearance. A quick search discovers his dead body in his car, at the bottom of the castle moat, into which, presumably, he had carelessly driven. That’s all. Verdict . . . accidental death.”

“Well, what else would you call it?”

Steeley shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve hardly thought about it.”

“Have you any reason to suppose that the verdict was a bad one?”

“Not necessarily bad; a trifle, shall we say, haphazard? Frankly, I think the coroner took too much for granted, and the police were too careless, or too lazy, to bother about it.”

“You must have a strong reason for thinking that.”

“I have. Do you know anything about Hales?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Wayne glared. “Why should I?”

“I think there is every reason why you should have made it your business to find out something about him.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“A little, but that’s because I’ve been quite a lot in America. Which, in turn, was the reason why I read the case through in the Times the other day when Hales’ name caught my eye. It is doubtful if I should have bothered in the ordinary way, but I was in the train on my way to London, having just landed from the Queen Mary, and I had nothing else to do.”

“And it was because you were dissatisfied in your mind about the coroner’s verdict that you criticised our police methods to-night?” put in the Colonel shrewdly.

“I hadn’t really thought about it in that way, but . . . perhaps you’re right.”

“What do you know about Hales?”

“I know, for one thing, that he was an exponent at aquatic sports. He carried off a large number of inter-collegiate prizes. Didn’t you know that?”

“Er—no.”

“Surely the coroner should have known? I mean . . . after all . . . it was rather odd that he should be drowned, wasn’t it?”

“He was trapped inside a saloon car, don’t forget.”

“Trapped? Do you mean to tell me that an expert swimmer like Hales couldn’t open a door, or a window, and get out, even if the car was under water, and even if it did fall into the moat, as the coroner so readily assumed? I should say that he could have got out had he driven his car into the Thames at London Bridge. Then again, nothing was said at the inquest about what was, perhaps, the most astonishing thing of all. How did Hales come to drive into the moat in the first place? To read the coroner’s summing-up one might imagine that it was quite a normal thing to do—that people in this country go about driving into moats. Why should Hales drive his car off a gravel drive into a moat in broad daylight?”

“How do you know it was daylight?”

“I don’t. I only assume it because I am unable to think of a satisfactory reason why Hales should hang about a place like Castle Deeping after dark. Surely he could have seen all he needed to see in daylight. What point was there in remaining there in the dark, particularly as he had a long drive back to Town in front of him.”

“All right. Let us say the accident happened in daylight. The answer seems to be that he was a bad driver, or a careless one.”

Steeley stared. “Hales was one of the finest amateur exhibition drivers in the States. Motoring was his hobby, possibly because his wealth was derived from the motor industry. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that.”

Colonel Raymond glanced at Wayne. They both looked rather uncomfortable.

Steeley tried to help them out of their embarrassment. “Well, there you are,” he said simply. “You asked for a case and I’ve given you one, also my reasons for selecting it. It was only a fluke that I happened to know something about Hales’ accomplishments in the States, but that does not alter the fundamental facts. In the past it has often been just such a remote chance that has shown a murderer the way to the gallows. I maintain that these things should not be left to chance. It should be the job of a special investigator to collect every relevant fact and lay the whole thing before those who are best qualified to judge them. Frankly, Raymond, knowing what you know now, you are not quite so sure about this assumed accident as you were, are you?”

“I feel that—well, it may have been dealt with rather cursorily.”

“Yet before I raised the point it had not occurred to you to doubt the coroner’s decision?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Precisely! Neither had anyone else, I imagine. Hence my contention that these things are treated all too casually.”

“Ah well; it’s all over and done with now,” announced Wayne, finishing his coffee. I fancy he was anxious to change the subject.

“Just a moment; I’m not so sure that it is,” murmured Colonel Raymond in an odd tone of voice. “Look here,” he said. “We’ve done a lot of theorising to-night; how about putting some of your theories in practice, and seeing how they work out?”

“You mean—this Hales affair?”

“Yes, or any other you care to investigate.”

Steeley looked interested. “Certainly,” he agreed. “I think it would be rather an intriguing experiment. But how should I fit in with you? I mean, what will be my official—or unofficial—position at the Yard?”

“You’d have to come on our establishment, of course. I could put you in under the title of special investigator.”

“With all expenses paid?”

“Of course, and a salary to be decided later if results justify the continuation of the appointment.”

A smile spread slowly over Steeley’s face. “It sounds as if it might be rather good fun,” he observed. “I’ll take it on—that is, if Tubby will cut in to keep me company. I’d have to have an assistant, anyway, to do the dirty work; all detectives do,” he asserted, his smile growing broader.

“Oh hell! Leave me out,” I protested.

Steeley shook his finger under my nose. “Why, you damned old hypocrite,” he admonished me. “You’d have been sick to death if I hadn’t put you in. Besides, assuming that you still have an aeroplane I shall want you to fly me down to the country to-morrow, to give this castle the once-over.” He beckoned to the wine waiter. “I think the occasion warrants another liqueur,” he murmured softly.