Chapter XXXVII
The next day, when Wells called to see him at his office, Inspector Colin Garrett gave him the impression of being a shy, delicate young lad for whom everything appeared too big, from the sturdy desk where he was eating his breakfast, to his brown suit, and especially the murders, burglaries and other crimes spreading like unsightly weeds all over the city. If he had been interested in writing a detective novel, like those his fellow novelist Conan Doyle penned, he would never have described his detective as anything like the nervous, frail-looking individual in front of him, who, to judge by the excited way he shook Wells’s hand, was particularly susceptible to the reverential zeal of hero worship.
Once he was seated, Wells stoically endured, with his usual modest smile, the outpouring of praise for
‘As I say, I enjoyed your book enormously, Mr Wells,’ he said, pushing aside his plate, as though he wished to remove the evidence of his gluttony, ‘and I regret how hard it must be for you, and for all authors of futuristic tales, not to be able to continue speculating about the future now that we know what it is like. If it had remained unfathomable and mysterious, I imagine novels that predict tomorrow’s world would have become a genre in themselves.’
‘I suppose so,’ Wells agreed, surprised: the young inspector’s idea had never even occurred to him. Perhaps he was wrong to judge him on his youthful appearance.
Following this brief exchange, the two men smiled affably at one another, as the sun’s rays filtered through the window, bathing them in a golden light. Finally Wells, seeing that no more praise was forthcoming, decided to broach the matter that had brought him there. ‘Then, as you are a reader of my work, I imagine it will come as no surprise if I tell you I am here about the case of the murdered tramp. I've heard a rumour that the culprit might be a time traveller, and while I have no intention of suggesting I am an authority on the matter, I think I may be of some assistance.’
Garrett raised his eyebrows, as if he had no idea what Wells was talking about.
‘What Fm trying to say, Inspector, is that I came here to offer you my . . . support.’
The inspector cast him a sympathetic glance. ‘You’re very kind, Mr Wells, but that won’t be necessary’ he said. ‘You see, I’ve already solved the case.’
He reached into his desk drawer for an envelope and fanned the photographs it contained on the table. They were all of the tramp’s corpse. He showed them to Wells one by one, explaining in great detail, and with visible excitement, the chain of reasoning that had led him to suspect Captain Shackleton or one of his soldiers. Wells paid scant attention: the inspector was merely reiterating what Gilliam Murray had already told him. Instead he became engrossed in the intriguing wound on the corpse. He knew nothing of guns, but it did not take an expert to see that the grisly hole could not possibly have been inflicted by any present-day weapon. As Garrett and his team of pathologists maintained, the wound looked as though it had been caused by some sort of heat ray, like a stream of molten lava directed by a human hand.
‘As you can see, there is no other explanation,’ concluded Garrett, with a satisfied grin, placing everything back in the envelope. ‘To be honest, I’m waiting until the third expedition leaves. This morning I sent a couple of officers to the crime scene simply for appearance’s sake.’
‘I see,’ said Wells, trying not to show his disappointment.
What could he say to convince the inspector to investigate in a different direction without revealing that Captain Shackleton was not a man from the future, and that the year 2000 was no more than a stage set built of the rubble from demolished buildings? If he failed, Jane would almost certainly die. He stifled a gasp so that he did not betray his anguish to the inspector.
Just then, a bobby opened the door and asked to see Garrett. The young inspector made his excuses and stepped out into the corridor, beginning a conversation with his officer that reached Wells as an incomprehensible murmur. The talk lasted a couple of minutes, after which Garrett came back into the office in a visibly bad mood, waving a scrap of paper in his right hand. ‘The local police are a lot of bungling fools,’ he growled, to the astonishment of Wells, who had not imagined him capable of such an angry outburst. ‘One of my officers found a message painted on the wall at the scene of the crime which those imbeciles overlooked.’
Wells watched him re-read the note several times, leaning against the edge of his desk.
Then the young man shook his head in deep dismay. ‘Although, as it turns out, you couldn’t have come at a better time, Mr Wells,’ he said. ‘This could almost have been taken from a novel.’
Wells raised his eyebrows and took the scrap of paper Garrett was holding out to him. The following words were scrawled on it:
Wells looked up at the inspector, who stared back at him.
‘Does it seem familiar?’ he asked.
‘No,’ replied Wells, categorically.
Garrett took the note from him and read it again, his head swaying from side to side, like a pendulum. ‘Nor for me,’ he confessed. ‘What is Shackleton trying to say?’
After posing the rhetorical question, the inspector appeared to become lost in thought. Wells used the opportunity to rise to his feet. ‘Well, Inspector,’ he said, ‘I shan’t trouble you any longer. I’ll leave you to your riddles.’
Garrett roused himself and shook Wells’s hand. ‘Many thanks, Mr Wells. I’ll send for you if I need you.’
Wells nodded and walked out of Garrett’s office, leaving him to ponder, balanced precariously on the corner of his desk. He made his way down the corridor, descended the staircase and left the police station, hailing the first cab he saw, almost without realising what he was doing – like a sleepwalker, perhaps, or someone under hypnosis, or, why not?, an automaton.
During the journey back to Woking, he did not venture to look out of the window even once, for fear that some stranger strolling along a pavement, or a navvy resting by the side of a road would give him a significant look that would fill him with dread. When he arrived home, he noticed his hands were trembling. He hurried straight along the corridor into the kitchen, without even calling to Jane to tell her he was back.
