The Judgement of Larose

Chapter II.—The Man Who Never Failed.-1

Chapter II.—The Man Who Never Failed.“And I am certain, Mr. Larose,” frowned Inspector Roberts of the Eastbourne police, motioning his visitor to a chair, “that we have got that murderer now actually under our hands, as surely as if he were shut up here in the cells.” His lips curled disdainfully. “Among those scented and bejewelled women or among those men of birth and breeding, with their silk underwear and their dude clothes”—he shrugged his shoulders—“lurks a beast as stark and savage as in any of the lowest crime haunts of the world.” His voice trailed away to a deep sigh. “But the devil of it is we don't know which among them the wretch is.”

Gilbert Larose settled himself comfortably in his chair. He was a boyish-looking man in the late twenties, and of so ordinary an appearance that no one would have imagined for one moment that he was a tracker-down of crime of international reputation. He had a pleasant, happy face, with a humorous mouth and smiling eyes. His expression, however, was an alert one.

“Yes, sir,” went on the inspector with a smile, “and now we are depending upon you”—he looked very amused—“'the man who never falls.'”

Larose smiled back. “Well, we'll put our heads together, Inspector, and see if we can't find out something.” He nodded gravely. “They think a lot of you up at the Yard, and I was told this morning that I should find your reports as thorough and searching as I could wish.”

Inspector Roberts flushed. “I've been night and day on the job since Wednesday,” he replied earnestly, “and I don't think you'll find that I have left many stones unturned.” He pulled a sheaf of papers towards him. “Now, you are, of course, familiar with the main outlines of the case; you——”

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Larose quickly, “but please give me your own version of everything just as if I'd heard nothing at all. Then I can put out of my mind a lot that I've read in the newspapers and start right off without any wrong ideas.”

“Good!” exclaimed the inspector. “Then I'll begin when they 'phoned us here.” And he at once commenced in a crisp and business-like tone:

“On Wednesday last at six-forty a.m. we received a telephone call from Sir James Marley of Southdown Court informing us that a guest staying there had met with a violent death during the night and asking us to come immediately. I happened to have come here very early upon another matter, and so within a quarter of an hour, along with two of my men, was up at the Court. The lodge gates had to be unlocked to let our car through. We were informed that, as was the usual custom, they had been closed throughout the night and—with the discovery of the murder—Sir James had instantly given orders that they would not be opened until we arrived, so we were the first to pass since just before midnight, when they had been shut; therefore——”

“One moment, please,” interrupted Larose curiously. “But why are these gates always kept locked at night? Surely it's not generally done in places like this.”

“Perhaps not,” replied the inspector grimly; “but I may tell you in passing that there have been quite a number of burglaries lately at good-class residences about here, and so far, unfortunately, we have not been able to lay their perpetrators by the heels. So Sir James Marley's chauffeur, who lives at the lodge, has orders to lock the gates the last thing, and also, by the by, to loose two big Alsatian dogs to run free in the grounds.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Larose, “that's interesting, but go on.”

“Well, arriving at the house,” continued the inspector, “we learnt that the murder had taken place in the billiard-room, and that the body had been discovered by one of the parlour maids, Betty Yates, when she went in to draw up the blinds about five and twenty minutes to seven. Sir James had then immediately had the door of the billiard-room locked, and so we arrived upon the scene of the crime with everything absolutely undisturbed. The dead man was Captain Hector Dane, and he was one of thirteen guests who were staying at the Court for the Goodwood week. Here are close-up pictures of him exactly as he lay.” And the inspector handed over four mounted photographs of a large size.

There was a long silence as Larose regarded the prints, and then the inspector went on:

“Killed by one sharp blow over the temple, bone completely crushed in. There was also a slight cut on the lobe of the left ear. Undoubtedly killed with the poker that we found thrown on to the fire. Undoubtedly again, from splashes of blood upon the carpet, upon the lower part of one leg of the trousers, and upon one of his shoes, he was struck when standing up and facing his murderer, and from the other marks of blood, he fell backwards on to that settee and then slipped down on to the floor. Then apparently he did not move again. No signs of a struggle anywhere, and nothing disarranged in the room. As I say—killed by that poker that was then thrown on to the fire. The evening had been chilly, and there had been a fire burning since about eight o'clock, and the assassin took a sure way of getting rid of any incriminating finger-marks. The body was not stiff when we found it, and the medical evidence is that deceased had been dead between five and six hours. In the warm room there the setting-in of rigor mortis had been retarded.”

Larose made no comment, and after waiting an appreciable time for his information to sink in the inspector went on:

“Well, we found very little to help us. Nothing had been disturbed anywhere in the house. No cries had been heard and no sounds of anyone moving about during the night. The only thing we know is that deceased was intending to be the last to go to bed, three of the other guests, Dr. Merryweather, Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Donald Culloden, having left him alone in the billiard-room when they went upstairs. He had told them he was feeling chilly, and should be sitting on for a few minutes before the fire.”

“And when those three went upstairs,” asked Larose, “were the lights out all over the house—on the ground floor, I mean—except, of course, in the billiard-room?”

“No,” replied the inspector; “there was one light, a small pilot light, in the hall. It is always left on all night, Sir James tells me, in case any of the guests should want to come down for anything, to get a book from the library, for instance, if they can't sleep”—he grinned—“or to obtain more alcoholic refreshment possibly, if they have not already had enough. There are always, brandy and whisky left handy on the buffet in the billiard-room.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Larose thoughtfully. “In the billiard-room. Well—go on.”

“Now, as to motive,” said the inspector, “and here at any rate we were at once of opinion that we were on pretty firm ground. It was known by everyone at the Court that the deceased had won £2250 in ready-money bets at Goodwood that day, and the money was not to be found. It was all in bank notes, and when at dinner we know he had actually got them upon his person in his hip pocket, for, in answer to a query from one of the women there, a Mrs. Donald Culloden, he told them all openly so, in front of the domestics, even, who were waiting at table.”

“Any one see the notes?” asked Larose. “Is it sure he had won all that money?”

“Sure,” replied the inspector. “He was exhibiting the notes in the lounge when they were having drinks before going up to change for dinner.”

“All right,” nodded Larose; “go on.”

“Well, of course our first line of enquiry,” said the inspector, “was to try and find out if the party who did the killing had come in from outside, and we soon saw that there was no evidence at all in that direction. There was no sign of forcible entry in any part of the house, and all the doors and windows on the ground floor had been found that morning exactly as they had been left the previous night. All locked and bolted, as is the invariable custom, with none of the electric burglar alarms disturbed. Sir James is most insistent about this locking-up, for he has some very valuable silver and art treasures, and the butler goes round everywhere over the house the last thing at night. Then every inch of the walls and high railings enclosing the grounds was scrutinised, and there was no sign of any one having climbed over anywhere. We were helped there because no rain had fallen for more than a week, and the dust everywhere was undisturbed. We should certainly have picked up some traces if any one had passed. Then again there are those two big Alsatians to be considered, and it is highly improbable that any stranger could have crossed to the house without attracting their attention. It was bright moonlight until nearly three, and we are told they are always wandering about.” He shook his head energetically. “No, no; the murderer came from inside, and we never had any doubt about: it.”

“And who searched the body?” asked Larose with his eyes intent upon the photographs.

“Our Detective Howard here,” replied the inspector, and he reached for a paper, “and these are what the pockets contained, I myself putting down each article as it was taken out. Trousers—right-hand pocket—two half-crowns, three shillings, and two pence. Left-hand—bunch of keys, handkerchief, and box of matches. Waistcoat—right-hand—gold pencil case; left-hand—gold cigarette case; Jacket—breast pocket, wallet with four five-pound notes, consecutive numbers; twelve one-pound Treasury notes, all clean and of consecutive numbers; eleven postage stamps; eight visiting cards 'Captain Hector Dane, Malmesbury Chambers, Half Moon Street,' and motor driving licence.” He looked up at the detective. “I may add that in the trunk in his bedroom we found afterwards, in a long envelope, with the inscription of the London and South-Western Bank on the flap, two hundred and thirty-five pounds in bank notes of varying denominations, all clean and uncirculated, and these notes in his wallet, from their numbering, we saw had been taken from that reserve.” He nodded his head. “I presume it was his habit to carry on him in his evening clothes sufficient if they happened to have any bridge. They are apparently all wealthy people up at the Court, and I understand they play pretty high.”

“Go on,” said Larose, for the inspector had stopped speaking.

“Well,” went on the latter briskly, “I determined straight away that the murder had been committed by some one inside the house, and that, therefore, our enquiries could be narrowed down to twenty-one people; the five maids, the cook-housekeeper, the butler, Sir James and Lady Marley, and the thirteen guests that made up the house-party.”

“And the chauffeur,” interrupted Larose; “what about him?”

“Oh, I am purposely leaving him out,” replied, the inspector, “because to bring him in would suppose collusion with some one inside the house, implying at once a premeditated crime, and if we are sure of one thing, Mr. Larose, it is that the murder was unpremeditated, for we know it was by chance only that the captain happened to be remaining alone in the billiard-room after the others had gone to bed that night.”

Larose shook his head. “Chance, sir,” he said, “may only come in that murder was committed in the billiard-room. The robbery may have been no chance at all and indeed, may have been definitely determined upon hours before. It was only the bad luck of the captain, perhaps, that murder had to precede robbery.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The murder in the billiard-room was probably, as you say, unpremeditated, but the robbery—no—that may have been a carefully-thought-out plan.”

The inspector was silent, and the detective went on:

“And you found out nothing about anyone—no suspicious happenings pointing in any way to any of the servants or the guests?”

The inspector shook his head. “From the very moment we arrived we were up against a blank wall. We could light on nothing to help us and more than that, Mr. Larose”—his voice hardened—“the people comprising that house-party are not willing to give any help, even if they can. They are resenting our enquiries and are furious at the scandal, and they would go to any lengths, I believe, rather than have one of their number marched out with the handcuffs on.” He laughed bitterly. “'That damned policeman' is how I heard one of them refer to me, and you should have seen their rage when, in common with the domestic staff, I made them all have their finger-prints taken.”