Inspector Whyland shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a case of suicide, doctor. Look here!”
He pointed to the numbered counter. The doctor glanced at it and sniffed contemptuously. “You fellows have got counters on the brain since that business last month,” he said. “How do you know he didn’t put it there himself to throw you off the scent? It’s not uncommon for suicides to try and make their deaths look like murder. You’ll find there’s some question of insurance behind it. Well, I’ll be along at the mortuary and let you know the result of the P.M.”
The doctor bustled away, and Whyland, having made arrangements for the removal of the body, made a very careful examination of the cellar. This done, he sent the constable for the electrician, and asked him to look round and see if he could find anything which had not been there when he left on Saturday.
The man looked about him carefully, and suddenly pointed to the ceiling with an exclamation of astonishment. “Why, there’s the butt of a broken lamp in that holder, sir,” he said. “I didn’t put no lamps in before I left. That’s one of the things I came here to do today.”
“Well, take it out and put in a fresh lamp,” replied Whyland. “I didn’t know the current was on. We’ll be able to see what we’re doing.”
The electrician obeyed him, and no sooner had he put the new lamp in the holder than the cellar was flooded with light. “Hullo!” he exclaimed. “The switch is on. I’ll swear I left it off on Saturday. Why, that’s queer! This isn’t the butt of an ordinary lamp at all. Looks to me like one of them electric detonator things, made to go into a lamp-socket. And it’s gone off, too. You can see where it’s blackened, sir.”
“Was the current on on Saturday?” asked Whyland, quickly.
“Yes, sir, I connected up in the morning,” replied the electrician. “Somebody must have put that thing in the lamp-holder, then turned the switch on. Well, that’s a rum go, and no mistake.”
Whyland, having cautioned the man to say nothing until the inquest, left the house and walked into the confectioner’s shop. Here he interviewed Mr. Briggs and his daughter Marjorie, and obtained from them the story of Mr. Martin’s arrival at Number 407, and of the telephone message from Mr. Lacey. By this time the body had been conveyed to the mortuary, and Whyland set to work to examine the contents of the dead man’s pockets. His most interesting discoveries were the letter which he had received on Saturday morning and the missing key of Number 407.
The doctor arrived and performed his postmortem, which confirmed the suspicions he had already formed. “Prussic acid, right enough, and a pretty powerful dose by the look of it. The queer thing about it is that he seems to have died from breathing the vapour rather than from swallowing the stuff. Looks as if he’d uncorked a bottle of the strong acid and sniffed at it. You didn’t see anything of the kind lying about the cellar, I suppose?”
Whyland shook his head. “No, I didn’t,” he replied. “The only thing I found lying about was a loaded automatic which hadn’t been fired.”
“What did I tell you?” said the doctor triumphantly. “Suicide, without a doubt. He took a pistol with him in case the stuff didn’t act. You’re suggesting that anybody murdered a powerful man like that by making him inhale prussic acid against his will, are you? Why, the idea’s absurd.”
Inspector Whyland left the mortuary in a very thoughtful frame of mind, and returned to the police station. Here he set the telephone to work and invoked the aid of his colleagues. By the middle of the afternoon he had collected some interesting information respecting both Martin and Lacey, upon which he began to build up his own theory as to the former’s death.
Mr. Martin had carried on a wine merchant’s business at 407, Praed Street, until fifteen years before. He had then moved to the Barbican, where he employed two clerks and a couple of packers. He had never married, and lived at a boarding house in Streatham. He had more than once gone away for the weekend without notice, and his absence had therefore caused no concern. He was not known to have any enemies, although more than once there had been some unsavoury rumours in circulation as to his dealings with girls whom he had engaged as his secretaries. His movements on Saturday morning were traced from the time he left his office to his reaching Aldersgate station. Finally, as a result of the hint contained in the letter signed John Lacey, the police had searched his office, and had found there certain papers which threw a flood of light upon a long sequence of jewel robberies extending back for the last twenty years.
Mr. Lacey was the owner of a group of grocer’s shops scattered about West London. He had acquired the lease of Number 407, when the premises were given up by the late tenant, a clothier. He had never heard of Mr. Martin, and had certainly never written to him. He always signed himself John R. Lacey, and the signature on the letter found on Mr. Martin’s body bore no resemblance whatever to his handwriting. He had only once entered the cellars of Number 407, and had made no discoveries there of any kind. On Saturday he had left Liverpool Street at ten o’clock, to stay with his brother in Ipswich, and had not returned until the first train on Monday morning. He had sent no telephone message to Mr. Briggs, nor had he made any appointment with anybody to inspect the drains of Number 407. He
