dare say I might if I went into the case.”
“Yes, yes—same opinion as inspector’s, eh? I mean an opinion of your own?” The old man scrutinized Hewitt’s face sharply.
“If you’d like me to look into the matter—” Hewitt began.
“Eh? Oh, look into it! Well, I can’t commission you, you know—matter for the police. Mischief’s done. Police doing very well, I think—must be Goujon. But look about the place, certainly, if you like. If you see anything likely to serve my interests, tell me, and—and—perhaps I’ll employ you, eh, eh? Good-afternoon.”
The landlord vanished, and the inspector laughed. “Likes to see what he’s buying, does Mr. Styles,” he said.
Hewitt’s first impulse was to walk out of the place at once. But his interest in the case had been roused, and he determined, at any rate, to examine the rooms, and this he did very minutely. By the side of the lobby was a bath-room, and in this was fitted a tip-up wash-basin, which Hewitt inspected with particular attention. Then he called the housekeeper, and made inquiries about Rameau’s clothes and linen. The housekeeper could give no idea of how many overcoats or how much linen he had had. He had all a negro’s love of display, and was continually buying new clothes, which, indeed, were lying, hanging, littering, and choking up the bedroom in all directions. The housekeeper, however, on Hewitt’s inquiring after such a garment in particular, did remember one heavy black ulster, which Rameau had very rarely worn—only in the coldest weather.
“After the body was discovered,” Hewitt asked the housekeeper, “was any stranger observed about the place—whether carrying anything or not?”
“No, sir,” the housekeeper replied. “There’s been particular inquiries about that. Of course, after we knew what was wrong and the body was gone, nobody was seen, or he’d have been stopped. But the hall-porter says he’s certain no stranger came or went for half an hour or more before that—the time about when the housemaid saw the body and fainted.”
At this moment a clerk from the landlord’s office arrived and handed Nettings a paper. “Here you are,” said Nettings to Hewitt; “they’ve found a specimen of Goujon’s handwriting at last, if you’d like to see it. I don’t want it; I’m not a graphologist, and the case is clear enough for me anyway.”
Hewitt took the paper. “This” he said, “is a different sort of handwriting from that on the paper. The red-ink note about the avenger of the tortoise is in a crude, large, clumsy, untaught style of writing. This is small, neat, and well formed—except that it is a trifle shaky, probably because of the hand injury.”
“That’s nothing,” contended Nettings. “Handwriting clues are worse than useless, as a rule. It’s so easy to disguise and imitate writing; and besides, if Goujon is such a good penman as you seem to say, why, he could all the easier alter his style. Say now yourself, can any fiddling question of handwriting get over this thing about ‘avenging the tortoise’—practically a written confession—to say nothing of the chopper, and what he said to the housemaid as he left?”
“Well,” said Hewitt, “perhaps not; but we’ll see. Meantime”—turning to the landlord’s clerk—“possibly you will be good enough to tell me one or two things. First, what was Goujon’s character?”
“Excellent, as far as we know. We never had a complaint about him except for little matters of carelessness—leaving coal-scuttles on the staircases for people to fall over, losing shovels, and so on. He was certainly a bit careless, but, as far as we could see, quite a decent little fellow. One would never have thought him capable of committing murder for the sake of a tortoise, though he was rather fond of the animal.”
“The tortoise is dead now, I understand?”
“Yes.”
“Have you a lift in this building?”
“Only for coals and heavy parcels. Goujon used to work it, sometimes going up and down in it himself with coals, and so on; it goes into the basement.”
“And are the coals kept under this building?”
“No. The store for the whole row is under the next two houses—the basements communicate.”
“Do you know Rameau’s other name?”
“César Rameau he signed in our agreement.”
“Did he ever mention his relations?”
“No. That is to say, he did say something one day when he was very drunk; but, of course, it was all rot. Some one told him not to make such a row—he was a beastly tenant—and he said he was the best man in the place, and his brother was Prime Minister, and all sorts of things. Mere drunken rant! I never heard of his saying anything sensible about relations. We know nothing of his connections; he came here on a banker’s reference.”
“Thanks. I think that’s all I want to ask. You notice,” Hewitt proceeded, turning to Nettings, “the only ink in this place is scented and violet, and the only paper is tinted and scented, too, with a monogram—characteristic of a negro with money. The paper that was pinned on Rameau’s breast is in red ink on common and rather grubby paper, therefore it was written somewhere else and brought here. Inference, premeditation.”
“Yes, yes. But are you an inch nearer with all these speculations? Can you get nearer than I am now without them?”
“Well, perhaps not,” Hewitt replied. “I don’t profess at this moment to know the criminal; you do. I’ll concede you that point for the present. But you don’t offer an opinion as to who removed Rameau’s body—which I think I know.”
“Who was it, then?”
“Come, try and guess that yourself. It wasn’t Goujon; I don’t mind letting you know that. But it was a person quite within your knowledge of the case. You’ve mentioned the person’s name more than once.”
Nettings stared blankly. “I don’t understand you in the least,” he said. “But, of course, you mean that this mysterious person you speak of as having moved the body committed the murder?”
“No, I don’t. Nobody could have been more innocent of that.”
“Well,” Nettings concluded with resignation, “I’m afraid one of us is rather thick-headed. What will you do?”
“Interview the person who took away the body,” Hewitt replied, with a smile.
“But, man alive, why? Why bother about the person if it isn’t the criminal?”
“Never mind—never mind; probably the person will be a most valuable witness.”
“Do you mean you think this person—whoever it is—saw the crime?”
“I think it very probable indeed.”
“Well, I won’t ask you any more. I shall get hold of Goujon; that’s simple and direct enough for me. I prefer to deal with the heart of the case—the murder itself—when there’s such clear evidence as I have.”
“I shall look a little into that, too, perhaps,” Hewitt said, “and, if you like, I’ll tell you the first thing I shall do.”
“What’s that?”
“I shall have a good look at a map of the West Indies, and I advise you to do the same. Good-morning.”
Nettings stared down the corridor after Hewitt, and continued staring for nearly two minutes after he had disappeared. Then he said to the clerk, who had remained: “What was he talking about?”
“Don’t know,” replied the clerk. “Couldn’t make head nor tail of it.”
“I don’t believe there is a head to it,” declared Nettings; “nor