“Remember that this may be of the utmost importance. You can’t remember whether or not Mr. Brooklyn had a stick when he went out?”
“Not for sure. I think he had.”
“But you can’t say whether it was this stick?”
“No, not for certain.”
“And when he came in?”
“He had a stick; but I’m almost sure it wasn’t this one.”
“Would anyone else be likely to know?”
“I don’t think so. There was no one else about.”
At this point the day porter struck in. “I wonder why you’re so curious about that stick,” he said.
“That, I am afraid, is my business,” said the inspector. “Now, can you tell me where Mr. Brooklyn usually goes of a night?”
“Sometimes to a theatre or variety show. But most often he goes to play bridge at his other club.”
“Where is that?”
“It’s a small place—the Sanctum, in Pall Mall. Only a few minutes from here.”
After a few words more the inspector took his leave en route for Duke Street. The stick he held in his hand had become a clue of the first importance. Its presence in Prinsep’s study seemed to show that its owner had been there on the fatal night. More and more Walter Brooklyn was becoming involved. But how had he got in? That was the mystery still.
At the Sanctum, Inspector Blaikie at first drew a blank—a blank which he had expected. Walter Brooklyn had not been to the club on Tuesday. Nothing had been seen of him since the previous Saturday night.
“So you’ve heard nothing of him this week?” said the inspector, preparing to take his leave.
“Beg pardon, sir,” replied the porter. “It had almost slipped my memory. Mr. Walter Brooklyn rang up one night this week on the telephone. I have a note of the call somewhere.”
“What was it about?”
“He asked if a registered parcel had come for him, because if it had he wanted it sent round to him at once by hand.”
“Sent to his other club?”
“No. He wanted it sent to Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s, Liskeard House, Piccadilly. He gave us the name and address over the phone.”
“Did you send the parcel?”
“No. Because we told him no parcel had come.”
“Has it arrived since?”
“No.”
“When was this call you mention?”
The porter referred to his book. “It was about 11:30, or a bit before. The call before was at 11:20.”
“On what day?”
“On Tuesday of this week.”
“The night of the murder,” thought the inspector. “And did Mr. Brooklyn say where he was speaking from?”
“Yes, he was at Liskeard House, where he wanted the parcel sent.”
So Walter Brooklyn, who had apparently failed to secure admittance to the house just before 10:15, had somehow got into it afterwards, and was there at 11:30. He, like George Brooklyn, had slipped into the house unseen. That fact, with the fact of the stick, seemed to the inspector to determine his guilt, or at least his complicity in the crimes, or one of them. The stick and the telephone message, taken together, proved that he had been in Prinsep’s room.
The inspector next produced the stick. The porter recognised it at once as the one Walter Brooklyn always carried. He had never seen him with another. He was more sure than the porters at the Byron. He was prepared to swear to the stick. “But,” he added, “you’ve gone and lost the ferrule.”
The inspector had noticed that there was no ferrule; but it had not seemed important. It might have dropped off anywhere. He therefore followed up a different line.
“When did you see this stick last?”
“On Saturday, when Mr. Brooklyn was here, he was showing off a billiard stroke with it out there in the hall. It had a ferrule then, all right. I happened to notice it.”
No further information was forthcoming, and the inspector passed on to his next business. He went straight back to Liskeard House, and up to Prinsep’s study. Exhaustive search there failed to reveal any trace of the missing ferrule.
“I may as well try the garden,” said the inspector to himself. “But it’s almost too good to be true.”
Nevertheless, there in the garden the inspector lighted on the ferrule, lying in a heap of gravel near the base of the statue. He cursed himself for missing it before, and then blessed his luck that had enabled him to retrieve the blunder. There could be no doubt that it was the right ferrule. The stick was an outsize and it fitted exactly. The nail-marks and the impression left by the rim on the stick coincided exactly. The ferrule was a little out of shape, as if it had been wrenched, and there was a scratch on it where it was bent. But, when the inspector had bent it back into shape, there could be no doubt about the fit. Walter Brooklyn had been in the garden as well as in Prinsep’s study, and had been on the very spot where the murder of George Brooklyn had taken place. Inspector Blaikie was more than satisfied with his day’s work. Out of seemingly insignificant beginnings, he had built up, he felt, more than enough evidence to hang Walter Brooklyn. He went in the best of spirits to report to his superior officer.
VIII
A Review of the Case
The inspector found Superintendent Wilson in his room. As he told his case, the superintendent kept his eyes closed, but every now and then he gave an approving nod. His subordinate had done well, and it was only right that this should be recognised. The inspector’s spirits rose higher still as he saw the impression he was making.
Having told the full story, he came to the point on which he wanted his superior’s assent.
“And now, sir, I think, as we have abundant evidence, I must ask you to get a warrant made out at once for Walter Brooklyn’s arrest.”
It was then the inspector received his first check.
“Not quite so fast, my friend,” said the superintendent. “Do you mean that, in your
