walls were lined with books, even between the window spaces, in neat sectional cases. Everything was scrupulously neat.. On a side-table, with a straight chair drawn up before it, was a dinner tray covered by a white cloth; a silver bowl of roses, still unwithered, stood beyond it.
Donovan's eyes moved back, only skirting the desk. A leather chair had been drawn up facing the desk, as though X had been sitting there for a chat. There was a standing ash tray, without ashes or stubs, beside it. A metal filing cabinet stood against the desk; a small table bearing a covered typewriter; and another standing ash tray. Over the desk hung a single powerful electric bulb in a plain shade, which, with the exception of a bridge lamp in one corner, appeared to be the only means of illumination. On the large clean desk blotter was a wire basket containing several bundles of manuscript to which were clipped blue typewritten sheets; a tray of pens and colored pencils, an inkpot, a box of clips holding down several sheets of stamps, and a large silver-mounted photograph of a girl. Finally, almost in a line with the chairs of Depping and X, there stood on the edge of the table a holder containing a half-burned candle.
Yes… when the lights went out. Hugh saw another candle on the edge of the mantelpiece. On one side of this mantelpiece was a curtained door, and on the other a sideboard wedged eater-cornered in the angle of two walls of books. But his eyes always kept coming back to the bullet hole in the dead man's head; to the quiet orderliness of the murder, and to the glimmer of a painted card he could see just under the fingers of the dead man's left hand.
The first to move was Dr. Fell. He lumbered through the door, his stick bumping heavily on the carpet against stillness. Wheezing, he bent to peer at the body, and the black ribbon on his glasses brushed the candlestick. Then, still bent forward, he looked slowly round the room. Something seemed to bother him. He went to the windows, looked at the floor under them, and felt the curtains of each one. He was bothered still more.
'Why,' he said, suddenly, 'why are all the windows open?'
CHAPTER VI
The Wrong Visitor
Storer, who had been waiting patiently with his nose inclined, frowned at this beginning. He said: 'I beg your pardon, sir?'
'Were these windows open when you found the body this morning?'
'Yes, sir' replied Storer, after inspecting each one.
The doctor removed his shovel hat; and, on the sudden realization, everybody else did the same; though the doctor's action had been prompted less out of veneration for the dead than to mop his moist forehead with a gaudy bandana. And, as though that action had broken a sort of spell, everybody moved into the room.
'H'm, yes. The floor over here is half an inch deep in water, and all the curtains are soaked… About this storm last night: What time did it commence?'
'About eleven o'clock, sir.'
Dr. Fell seemed to be talking to himself. 'Then why didn't Depping close his windows? Why leave all five of them open, with a thunderstorm blowing in? It's wrong; it's illogical; it's… What were you saying?'
Storer's eyes had grown sharp with a memory; his cheeks puffed slightly, and for a moment he looked less disillusioned.
'Go on, man,' said Dr. Fell testily. 'The storm begins at eleven. Depping is alone then. His visitor arrives shortly afterwards — the visitor goes upstairs, and is entertained — and all this time the storm is coming full blast through five open windows. That's wrong somewhere… What were you thinking of?'
'Something Achille said, sir.' The valet looked at Depping, and seemed puzzled. 'I forgot it, and so did Achille, when the other police officer was speaking to us. That's Achille Georges — the cook, you know…'
'Well?'
Storer stood on his dignity, and would not be hurried. 'After the storm had begun, and that American went upstairs to see Mr. Depping, you see, sir. I sent Achille out to see what had gone wrong with the electric wires. They put the lights out, you see —'
'We know all that.'
'Yes, sir. While Achille was out in the rain, he saw Mr. Depping and the American up here going about and raising all the windows. He said they seemed to be waving the curtains too.'
Dr. Fell blinked at him. 'Raising all the windows? Waving the curtains? — Didn't that seem at least a trifle odd?'
Again the valet contemplated the follies of the world and was not surprised. 'Mr. Depping, sir' he answered stolidly, 'was a man of moods.'
The doctor said, 'Bah!' And the bishop of Mappleham, who had recovered himself by this time, moved into first place with stately serenity.
'We can go into all that presently,' he suggested. 'Ah, might I inquire — Inspector Murch went over this room, I presume, for fingerprints? We shall not be disturbing anything if we investigate?'
'No, sir. There were no fingerprints,' said Storer in a rather approving manner. He regarded the body as though he appreciated a workmanlike job, and then stared out of the windows.
'First,' observed the bishop, 'a look round…' He approached the desk, his son following, moved round it, and inspected the dead man's face. Death had been instantaneous. There was even a rather complacent expression on Depping's face, which was smirking out towards the windows with its cheek against the blotter. It was a long, dry, nondescript countenance, which might have borne any expression in life. The eyes were half open, the forehead bony, the mouth furrowed; and a rimless pince-nez still clung to his high-bridged nose.
From under his fingers the bishop drew the card. It was of white glazed cardboard, neatly cut out from a sheet such as you buy at any stationer's. Eight tiny broadswords drawn in India ink, their hilts painted black and their blades gray with water color, were arranged in a sort of asterisk along a blue painted line which was evidently meant to represent water. 'If,' said the bishop, as though offhand to his son, 'Dr. Fell really has some notion as to what this means…'
Dr. Fell did not reply. He was lifting the white cloth over the dishes on the side table. After fingering the card impatiently, the bishop circled the desk, peering, and opened the right-hand drawer. From it he took out a thirty- eight calibre Smith & Wesson revolver with an ivory handle. He sniffed at the barrel, and then broke it open as though he had been handling firearms all his life. Then he replaced it, and closed the drawer with a bang. He seemed more at a loss than Hugh had ever seen him.
Two shots,' he said, 'and no other bullet found here…'
'No, sir' said the valet complacently. 'The police officer and Mr. Morgan allowed me to stay here while they made their examination, sir. They even conceived an idea that it might have gone out one of the windows, and they sighted lines from all parts of the room to see if they could find its direction. But Mr. Morgan, sir-Mr. Morgan pointed out it would be most unusual if a bullet went out there without touching any of the bars. They are not more than half an inch apart, any of them. He said it would be freakish, sir,' amplified Storer, testing the word with a little tilt of his nose, and finding it good; 'freakish. If you'll excuse me.'
'A very clever young man,' said the other coldly. 'But what we want are facts. Let us proceed to the facts.' He stood heavy and sharp-jawed against his light, flapping his hands behind him, and his hypnotic eye fixed the valet. 'How long have you been with Mr. Depping?'
'Five years, sir. Ever since he came to live here.' 'How did he come to employ you?' 'Through a London agency, sir. This is not,' replied Storer with a touch of austerity, 'my part of the country'
'Do you know anything of his past life — before he employed you?'
'No, sir. I assured the police officer of that this morning.'
He went over his story in a patient fashion. Mr. Depping had been a man of moods; touchy, irritated by trifles, apt to go into a rage with the cook if his meals were not shaded exactly to his fastidious palate, fond of quoting Brillat-Savarin. Very learned, no doubt, but not a gentleman. Storer appeared to base his sad deductions to this effect on the statements that (a) Mr. Depping tended to call the servants by their first names when he was drunk, and to mention his business affairs, (b) he used American expressions, and (c) he was freely and often — said Storer — vulgarly generous with his money. At one time (while devoted to his whisky drinking) he had said that the
