and then at a figure of a young woman, who sat huddled back in an empire chair, just concealed from the general front view by the dancers at rest already mentioned.
The young woman’s figure wore a balloonish skirt, covered with what looked like painted diagrams of the ‘Mander Hopper’. She wore over that a loose circular cloak which had something about it suggestive of a red parachute. On her head was fixed what looked like an aeroplane propeller with red silk trimmings, and over her face a black crepe mask, while her right hand wore a kid glove.
Taking the utmost precaution to disturb as little as possible, the constable walked over to the first object, and bent down to look at it. It was a Mauser automatic pistol. From it he approached the figure of the young woman. He looked at it hard. Then he extended his index finger, and gravely pressed it against the figure’s shoulder. With that he started, bit his lip, and seemed uncertain what to do. Finally he went back to stand by the sliding panel which formed the door to the ‘set’, and waited there for someone to come.
The manager of the store, Mr Robert Kephim, a smart man of middle-age with a very stolid cast of countenance, suddenly entered. He looked at the constable.
‘Mr Hay tells me there is something suspicious here, constable,’ he said. ‘I—’
And then he stopped, and looked very uncomfortable and unhappy. He was not the type of man to feel sick or faint, but the sight of his employer lying on his back there gave him a dreadful jolt.
‘Do you recognise him, sir?’ asked the constable.
Mr Kephim swore, then he nodded. ‘Why, what has happened? That is Mr Mander—I can’t understand it.’
The constable thought that a mild remark. ‘I think the gentleman has been shot,’ he said, ‘and I shouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t another one gone west too.’
Now Mr Kephim did really go pale, and made incoherent noises in his throat.
‘That young woman in the chair over there looks too natural to be true,’ went on the constable, ‘and there is a pistol on the floor. But we must wait till they send the inspector round before we have a look at that.’
Mr Kephim switched his eyes unwillingly to the woman in the chair. His eyes went from her head to her feet, and there remained, while they appeared to grow rounder and more glaring, and his body trembled to such a degree that the constable gripped him in a friendly way to lend him support.
‘Now then, sir, steady!’ he said.
‘The shoes—her shoes, said Kephim thickly. ‘But it can’t be—it can’t!’
A curious look came into the constable’s face. He stared at the man beside him, and put a sharp question.
‘Whose shoes, sir?’
Kephim gulped. ‘It must be a mistake. Of course it is. They aren’t really uncommon—they must sell hundreds of them.’
‘Very good, sir, but perhaps you would like to tell me to whom you are referring?’
Kephim shook his head. ‘Not just now. I may later. But I don’t think it will be necessary. How soon do you think your people can be here?’
‘As they are just round the corner, they may be here any minute,’ said the constable, and went over to look at the shoes in question.
They were not evening shoes, but walking-shoes of brown leather, with a strap decorated with a serpent whose eyes were the buttons. He was still looking when the panel slid back.
Inspector Devenish, who had just come in, accompanied by a detective-sergeant and the police-surgeon, was tall and thin. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a swarthy complexion, and might have passed as a southern Italian. Leaving the sergeant to close the panel behind them, he approached the constable, after a dry glance at the white-faced and trembling Mr Kephim.
‘What’s up here?’ he asked the constable, who saluted.
‘Looks like murder and suicide, sir,’ said the policeman.
He pointed out the body of Mr Mander, and then indicated the sitting figure of the young woman. Inspector Devenish bent over the body of the dead man, examined it cursorily, and then left it to the surgeon.
‘Now let’s see the other,’ he remarked to the constable, quite well aware that Mr Kephim had not concerned himself at all with Mr Tobias on the floor, but had continued to stare at the figure in the chair.
Devenish went over, and gently drew off the circular cloak and the mask from the huddled figure of the young woman. Then a thud behind him made him turn quickly. Mr Kephim had fainted, and fallen.
A SMALL army of officials had taken charge of the ballroom in the main bay of Mander’s Stores. There were many detective officers of various ranks, and two photographers. Leaving them to their routine work, Inspector Devenish had gone upstairs in the lift to Mr Mander’s flat, in the company of Mr Mander’s chief of staff.
Kephim still looked ill, but he was more composed now, and as they entered the lift, he was explaining in a low voice the arrangements his late employer had made to ensure privacy for his own apartments, and his comings and goings out of business hours.
‘He had a private door, and staircase at the back, inspector,’ he said; ‘there was a landing that gave access to a door in the hall of his flat. Then this lift takes you to another door, also opening in his hall, though at another side.’
By this time the lift had taken them to the top-floor, and they got out. Devenish stared at the door before him, then swept the floor with a swift glance.
‘I see. Now if we take it that Mr Mander did not descend into the shop during the weekend, was there any other means than this lift by which he could have been taken down?’
‘But he must have gone down,’ said Kephim, biting his lip. ‘The pistol down there—’
‘I know,’ said the other impatiently, ‘but were there other ways?’
Mr Kephim hesitated for a moment before he replied. ‘Yes, there are, of course, more than a dozen lifts used for parcels and goods from the store-rooms that are on this floor. But Mr Mander’s flat is cut off from that section by an unbroken wall.’
Devenish nodded, and rang the bell of the flat. In a minute the door was opened by a man-servant, a stout and dignified fellow of about fifty. Mr Kephim hastily explained the matter to the man, who looked as upset and frightened as any experienced man-servant can do, and hurriedly voiced his horror and regret.
Devenish nodded. ‘Very natural. Now take us to your master’s drawing-room, please. I shall interview you later, and also the other servants. How many are there?’
‘There’s Hames the footman, sir, Mr Mander’s valet, cook, two housemaids and a parlour-maid.’
‘It’s a large flat then?’
‘Yes, sir. There are ten rooms, and our rooms.’
‘The servants’ quarters are also quite cut off from Mr Mander’s part of the flat,’ explained Kephim.
‘Quite?’
‘I mean except for one communicating door, inspector.’
‘Very well. When I ring, I shall want to interrogate the staff one at a time.’
‘I understand, sir,’ said the butler, intelligently showing them into a vast and expensively furnished drawing-room, and left, closing the door gently behind him.
Devenish sat down, and motioned his companion to a chair.
Kephim sat down, biting his lip, and obviously very ill at ease. The inspector did not add to his embarrassment by staring at him, but surveyed the drawing-room from end to end as he put his first