The inspector tried a little to jog his memory, but with no result. Moorman either did not remember, or he would not tell. To ask the young clerk in the vestibule seemed too dangerous; for to do so would almost certainly be to put Woodman on his guard. The inspector could only report to the superintendent that he had failed to trace the stick.
“Look here, Blaikie,” said Superintendent Wilson, “this will never do. We know perfectly well who committed these murders, and we’re as far off bringing it home to him as ever.”
The inspector could only reply that he had done his best.
“Yes; and I’m not blaming you,” his superior rejoined. “But it won’t do. I see I shall have to take a hand in the game myself. We must find out about that walking-stick, and there’s another point I’ve reasoned out today. Where’s the weapon with which Prinsep was killed?”
“Why, you’ve got the club.”
“Yes, yes; but you don’t tell me that the murderer carried that immense unwieldy thing up two flights of stairs, when he might easily have been seen. No, Prinsep wasn’t killed with that club. George Brooklyn was; but it was some other weapon that killed Prinsep.”
“There’s the knife,” suggested the inspector. “But you have that too.”
“Really, inspector, you are unusually thickheaded this morning. The man wasn’t killed with a knife. He was killed with a blow on the back of the head, delivered with some heavy blunt instrument. Isn’t that what the doctors said?”
“Quite. If it wasn’t the club, I suppose the murderer carried the weapon away.”
“I suppose he may have done, as you did not find it. You are sure there was no object in the room that might have been used as a weapon.”
“None at all, I think. The stick belonging to Walter Brooklyn could not have made the wound, I am told—nor any of the other sticks for that matter. It looked much more like a case of sandbagging, now I think of it in this light.”
“Well, inspector, I’m not satisfied, and I feel sure you will not object if I do a bit of investigation on my own.”
“Are you taking the case out of my hands, sir?”
“No, no. I want you to carry on, and especially to find out what these young people—Miss Cowper and Ellery—are doing. There are only two or three points on which I want to satisfy myself personally.”
“Very well, sir,” said the inspector; and he left feeling—and looking—more than a little aggrieved.
Superintendent Wilson, in his rare personal appearances in the work of detection, had one great advantage, he was not known by sight, even to most of the habitual criminal class. He had, therefore, on this occasion at least, no need to disguise himself. He merely went to Carter Woodman’s office as a prospective client, who had been strongly recommended to him. He wanted both to have a look at Woodman himself and to see whether anything more could be got out of Moorman on the question of the stick.
Woodman was engaged with a client when he arrived, and he had a favourable chance of making friends with the old clerk before he was shown into the inner office. He used his opportunity for that alone, making no attempt to lead the conversation towards the business on which he had come. In a very few minutes he was shown into Woodman’s private office.
Looking his man up and down, he noted, as the inspector had noted before him, the powerful physique, the straining vitality, the false geniality of Woodman’s manner. But he could see also that the man was seriously worried. There was, for all his appearance of heartiness, a harried look about him, and he seemed preoccupied as, with an excellent assumption of business incapacity, his visitor began to unfold a long story about a lease and a mortgage which he wished to negotiate. Woodman listened with growing impatience, as the superintendent meant that he should. At length he interrupted, saying that the details could be dealt with later. His visitor was most apologetic—never had a head for business, but positively must get the matter dealt with that day. He lived away in the country—Mr. Amos Porter of Sunderling in Sussex was his description for the nonce—and he would not be in town again for weeks. Woodman finally suggested that, as there was other work he must do, Mr. Porter should settle the details with his clerk—an excellent man of business, who would be able to tell him all he wanted. Mr. Porter, after a perfunctory attempt to go on with his explanation to the principal, agreed; and he was soon back in the other office with Moorman.
Mr. Porter had left his hat, coat, and stick in the outer office when he went in to see Woodman, laying the stick on a chair and covering it with his coat. His business with Moorman was soon done, and he crossed the room to get his things. By a curious accident, while he was struggling into his coat, he dropped his stick at Moorman’s feet. Moorman picked it up, but as he was passing it back to its owner, he started violently and almost dropped it.
“A queer old stick, is it not?” said Mr. Porter. “I value it highly for its associations.”
Moorman peered at him, oddly. “I beg pardon, sir, but isn’t that the stick a gentleman I know used to carry?”
“No, no. I’ve had this stick for years. I bought it in—let me see, where did I buy it? Never mind. I had no idea there was another like it. That is most interesting. May I ask who uses such a stick?”
“The gentleman’s name is Brooklyn—Mr. Walter Brooklyn. He had one very like yours.”
“God bless my soul! Not the fellow whose name has been in all the papers? Dear me, what was
