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from THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE, vol LII, #2
TORONTO, DECEMBER, 1918

IT went hard with me not to remind Gregory that I had discouraged the taking up of the case in the first place. It wasn't our sort of case at all. I had said "If we don't look out, Gregory, people will begin to call us private detectives". Then we had both laughed and I had given in, as I usually do when my senior partner insists.

   Gregory does not like me to call him "my senior partner" because our standing in the firm of Gregory and Hubbard is supposed to be equal, but I believe that when any two men are associated one of them naturally takes the lead, and Gregory happens to be that one. I don't mind. My position as chief of staff is quite as necessary as his. Indeed, the whole idea of our partnership has been that two heads are better than one, especially when the heads are utterly different. No one person, save a superman perhaps, can combine minute and painstaking observation with that instinctive, almost inspirational, selection of the essential which is the essence of all really useful detective work. A partnership is necessary, and it seems that my head combines beautifully, however useless it may be on its own. Gregory is quick and far-seeing, a born reasoner and a fine logician. I am a looker-on who sees most of the game. From boyhood I have been conscious of a power of a minute observation which has helped me in some ways and hindered me in others. As a newspaper man, for instance, I always saw too much. I never seemed to learn what not to see. The news editor wore out his vocabulary and his blue pencil in vain; and then one day an unexpurgated report slipped through, and I slipped out of newspaperdom for good and all!

   It was just at this time that Gregory, too, suffered a reverse of fortune which gave him a fellow feeling for other misfits and resulted in our embarking upon our present partnership for the study of those problems which society for its own sake dare not leave unsolved.

   So far it has worked well. Several nice little problems have been handled by us in a satisfactory manner. We do not often do ordinary police work; our province rather is to prevent these guardians of the law from being troubled with delicate matters which do not clamour for the official spotlight. We do not call ourselves detectives. We are, in fact, by way of being somewhat highbrow; affecting an exclusive air and writing ourselves "Criminologists" — a fine sounding word better suited to the ear of that society which we still continue, at intervals, to adorn.

   But this case was different. It was a police case, very much so, a murder in fact. Not at all in our best style. I had not wanted to take it up, and now that I had returned from a preliminary investigation with a book full of notes and a head quite empty of ideas I felt cross and discouraged and very much like saying, "I told you so".

   "The kind of thing we should not attempt," I said. "Murder — ugh, there is nothing logical about murder. Murder is an accident of the emotion. Anyone may commit a murder any time."

   "You think so?" asked Gregory placidly. "Well, that leaves us with a wide field in which to operate anyway. And as for taking the case, we simply had to oblige Chief Ridley. So now let us get to work. Where are your notes?"

   With praiseworthy restraint I produced my papers, and a my notes were still in shorthand, I began to translate freely for Gregory's benefit:

   "The affair isn't over romantic," I grumbled. "The person whose taking-off we are to investigate is, or rather was the most ordinary person. She was a Mrs. Agatha Simmons, living quietly at No. 3 Richly Road. A widow, age about fifty-five; character, respectable; habit, retiring; hobby, cats; lived alone; means of livelihood, an annuity bought by herself about six years ago, i.e., just before coming to live in Richly Road; no known relatives; previous history unknown; previous address unknown; is remembered to have said that she came here, direct from London, but was not in the habit of receiving any English mail; had a current account in the bank; paid for everything by cheque, and never kept money in the house. The alarm was given by her milkman. Deceased was in the habit of getting milk twice a day, presumably for the cats; she kept ten cats; had no maid and always answered the milkman's knock herself, or, if absent, left the ticket outside the door. Last night when the milkman called at half-past five he found the side door open, a very unusual thing, and no one answered his repeated knocks nor the cry of 'Milk'. Being in a hurry, for it was raining hard and beginning to sleet, he entered the kitchen and looked around for some place to set the milk out of reach of the cats. In crossing the room to the cupboard, he observed that the door into the sitting-room was open and, glancing in, saw Mrs. Simmons sitting in her chair beside the table. The lights were not lit but he could see her by the light of the fire in the open grate of the stove. He called 'Milk!' again, but "had a feeling" at once that there was something wrong and went in. He got the start of his life when he saw her face dropped his milkbottle and fled for the nearest policeman. He didn't touch her or disturb anything. When he and the policeman returned they examined her sufficiently to see that life was extinct. She had been shot. The milkman stayed in the room while the officer searched the house. No sign of anyone in the house; nothing upset; no trace of any struggle; no sign of any weapon; apparently nothing missing! The dead woman was leaning back in her big rocking-chair; her eyes half-open, staring straight in front of her. Her hand were tightly clenched and in them was some white article, and they did not know what it was.

   "Policeman Saunders's story corroborates this, but adds nothing new except that he couldn't hear himself think for the noises 'them blasted cats' were making. They were shut up in a room off the kitchen, which appears to have been used as a sort of cattery. They were probably hungry and smelled the spilt milk, anyway, they got on our policeman's nerves and he had no further investigations, but rang up headquarters from the nearest telephone. There was no telephone in the house. Ridley came down at once and brought Dr. Jones with him.

   "Doctor's evidence shows that deceased had been dead only a short time, not more than half an hour. Shot had been fired at close range and passed directly through the heart. Death had been instantaneous. Expression of fear and horror on face quite marked. It is Dr. Jones's opinion that deceased had known that murder was intended, but had been unable through fear to give any alarm.

   "So much for the oneside evidence. Now for what Ridley and I noticed for ourselves. The most striking thing seemed to be the apparent fact that the woman had died sitting in her accustomed chair, facing her murderer, yet there had been no alarm (that anyone heard), and certainly no struggle. The expression on the face seemed to me almost more of surprise than fear or horror.

   Another strange thing was the nature of the article clasped in the dead woman's hand. It was a baby's hand-made flannelette night-slip. I inspected this very carefully and came to the following conclusions: The slip was old, but had been carefully kept; the material was of the cheapest; the hand-work on it was beautiful; it was a very small slip, seemed almost too small for a baby —"

   "How do you know that?" interrupted Gregory.

   "I don't. It's just an impression. We'll have to get a woman's opinion."

   "Right."

   Then I continued reading the note:

   "The slip had been washed and ironed, evidently with great care. But it showed no signs of wear. That cheap stuff would show wear quickly. Another odd thing: on the table stood a small tin tea-caddy; the top was off and some of the contents had spilled or been spilled upon the tablecloth. But the contents were not tea. The caddy was half-full of twenty-five-cent pieces, each carefully done up separately in tissue-paper and each labelled with a date. The dates were irregular and ranged back through the past four years. Sometimes there would be three or four very close together. Sometimes there were quite long intervals between. (I have a list of the dates here). The latest date was only a few days old. There was no other mark of any kind on the coins. The paper in which the coins were wrapped was ordinary white tissue. There was nothing else upon the table, save the afternoon mail consisting of two or three tradesmen's accounts. She always paid by cheque. But on the floor was an envelope with the end torn open and the contents gone. The envelope was not a business one, nor was the writing that of a tradesman. Here is the envelope — see for yourself. It looks like the writing of an educated woman — the envelope is good style and quality. From the date, it was delivered with the other afternoon letters, but its contents have disappeared. Not a trace of them."

   "Anything else?"

   "One thing more. I was coming out I searched the front yard — it's very small — and found this — it's a slip of paper, apparently the address torn off the top of a letter. The address is 'No. 3 Richly Road', and the writing is that of Mrs. Simmons. Probability is she dropped it herself and that it has nothing to do with the case."

   "I don't know. Why should she tear her own address off a letter and drop it in her front yard? But no use theorizing yet. Is that all?"

   "Not another thing. There wasn't so much as a pin out of place. No sign of any weapon. The only finger-prints were those of the dead woman herself on the chair-arm and on the table. The carpet yielded nothing. There was no trace of ash in the fire. The fire, by the way, must have been built up shortly before the murder. The kettle had been set on top, presumably in preparation for a cup of tea. But our search was not exhaustive. Ridley had O'Toole with him, and I think O'Toole is about the best searcher that ever happened. We left him to go over everything microscopically, and he will report any find to us. He is quite safe to be trusted with the routine. But I fancy he won't find much. Everything looked so undisturbed and normal. It was as if someone had called in for a chat and a cup of tea and decided on murder instead. There are only three things which bear the slightest emphasis — A-chew! Great Scott, I've got a cold! — and the three things are: the dated coins, the baby's slip and the look on the woman's face. If you can make anything out of them, you're welcome. I can't."

   "That's the proper state of mind," grinned Gregory. "When discouraged, remember that you're not the whole show. To my mind those three things look distinctly promising, and you're wrong about there being nothing else. There is a very interesting something else which will be this-half-of-the-firm's contribution. But I shan't tell you what it is until your case is all in. What outside evidence did you get!"

   "Surprisingly little. The house is a corner one, unfortunately, and the room in which the shot was fired does not face another house, but faces a strip of lawn and the side street. The woman who lives in the next-door house on Richly Road thinks that she heard a noise about five o'clock when she went into the kitchen to brisk up the fire for supper, but she thought it was a bursting auto tire and did not even look out of the window. None of the other neighbours saw or heard anything. They are busy people and know very little about the tenant of No. 3. She never made herself popular in the neighbourhood, and the houses being rented, the occupants change quite often. No one has anything very definite to say for or against Mrs. Simmons, but on the whole I think I detected trace of vague dislike of her. One woman said she had disagreeable eyes, and that her cats gave her the creeps. She kept herself to herself, they say, but seemed to have some fashionable friends, for smartly dressed ladies have been seen to visit her at different times. In fact, nearly all her few visitors appear to have been prosperous people. But they have never been known make very lengthy stays, nor to return. It is the opinion of Richly Road that Mrs. Simmons had been some sort of upper servant who former employers continue to take an interest in her."

   "Not very likely. Former employers do not display such touching loyalty, as a rule — and certainly not in quantities. If her visitors had been the same people coming at intervals there might be something in it, but I gather that all these prosperous people were different?"

   "Yes. I questioned rather closely upon that point."

   "Besides, if her former home was in England —"

   "She gave out that she came from. England, but Richly Road doesn't believe it."

   "Does Richly Road give any reason for its disbelief?"

   "None whatever. But every woman I questioned said that although Mrs. Simmons spoke 'kind of English' she didn't believe that the deceased had ever been in England m her life."

   "That's odd. Strange how these popular beliefs form themselves without a trace of evidence, and stranger still how often they turn out to be correct. It is just possible that the lady was not fond of her past and therefore removed it across the ocean for safe keeping. Had she no regular visitors at all?"

   "There is only one person who seems to have been at all intimate at No. 3. She, too, is by way of being rather a mystery. Richly Road thinks that she is not a friend exactly but perhaps dependent on Mrs. Simmons. The description I got is that of a little wisp of a woman, age from thirty-five to forty-five. No one knows much about her, even her outside appearance seems to have left everyone unimpressed. Perhaps this is because she is very deaf and almost impossible to talk to. No one ever cared to find out where she came from or where she went. All I can discover is that she came on a west-bound car down Carroll Street, alighting at the corner of Carroll and Richly Road, which is three blocks down from No. 3. Ridley at once sent out a man to interview the car conductors on the western lines but not one of them has any memory of her. She was an indefinite sort of person and she did not come to see Mrs. Simmons often. So it would have been miraculous if they had remembered her."

   "Nothing to go on there, then. But if she were a friend of the murdered roman the accounts in the papers may bring her forward. Did no one see anyone enter the house on the day of the murder?"

   "None of the women. But Ridley set Macrae to round up the children. He has a light hand with kiddies and is a good man all round. Ridley left orders for him to bring whatever he found right here — shouldn't be surprised if he were in the outer office now. I thought I heard the door close."

   "Let's have him in at once, then," said Gregory, ringing the bell, which was sign to Miss Emisley, our stenographer, that we were ready for visitors.

   Macrae for I was right in my guess, it was he whom Miss Emisley admitted, is a big red-cheeked Scot with broad shoulders and, when he is excited, an accent almost as broad. But long chaffing in the service has rendered his ordinary conversation quite intelligible. To-day his cheeks were redder than usual, and he led a little girl by the hand. This was evidently a 'find' and Macrae was uplifted.

   "Mak' yer boo to the gentlemen, Jessie," said Macrae with the air of a fond father presenting his offspring.

   The child giggled. She was an intelligent looking little thing of about seven, with bright eyes and an utter lack of shyness peculiar to those who have long known the world.

   "Here's a bit lassie who has something to tell," declared her conductor triumphantly. "Noo, Jessie, if ye tell your tale nicely you'll be getting a bit sweetie and a ride home forby."

   Jessie was quite willing and responded instantly. "It was a lady I saw," she said, "a lady that went into old mother — I mean into Mrs. Simmons's house."

   "When did you see the lady?" prompted Macrae proudly.

   "Yesterday afternoon when I was home from school and I was playing down the street with my dolly in a little cart. I saw a pretty lady in a blue dress go into Mrs. Simmon's."

   "You're tellin' it fine," encouraged Macrae. "Are you sure, noo, that the leddy went into Mrs. Simmons? Which house would Mrs. Simmons be living in?"

   "The corner house," answered the child instantly.

   "And did old Mrs. Simmons come and let her in at the door?"

   The child shook her head vigorously. "No, the lady didn't knock at the door. She just opened it and went right in."

   "Kind of as if she was an old friend like," suggested Macrae cleverly. The child looked doubtful. "She didn't know the number," she said, after a moment's thought, "for she was looking at all the numbers as she went along and she stopped at Mrs. Simmons's gate while she looked at a piece of paper that she had in a shiny purse."

   "The address, forby!" declared Macrae. "You're a clever lassie and you'll get your sweetie. And when she went in after making sure that the hoose was right, was that all that you saw of her?"

   "No. She came out again. She came running out and she ran down past me round the corner and she was saying 'Oh! Oh!' just like that" — the 'clever lassie' gave a good imitation of someone gasping in fear or pain.

   Gregory grinned.

   "Where did she go?"

   "I dunno. Mother called me in to get my face washed for tea."

   "Quite right too. My mother does the same by me. And what did you think when you saw the leddy run out so quick?"

   The child's eyes widened.

   "I thought old Mother — Mrs. Simmons was a witch —–"

   "And you went in and told your mother all about it?" interrupted Gregory.

   But apparently Jessie had not done that. Why, was not apparent. Probably her mother in the stress of tea-getting was not interested in witches.

   "Well," said Gregory, "can you tell us how long the lady was in the house?"

   Jessie couldn't tell us this either. Even Macrae could make nothing of her. "Was it a long time, think ye?" he asked ingratiatingly.

   Jessie thought not.

   "Wad it be a short time then?"

   Jessie thought not so very short. Then I had a bright idea.

   "What were you doing while she was in?" I asked casually.

   "I walked my dolly down to the corner and back."

   "Great head!" said Macrae without a trace of accent. "That would take from five to seven minutes, or thereabouts. Noo, Jessie, what else did you notice? Are you sure the leddy's dress was blue?"

   The child was quite sure of this.

   "Did she have a parcel?"

   Jessie had not seen a parcel, but the lady had a blue handbag and a shiny purse that she took the piece of paper out of. Had the lady spoken to her or smiled at her? No, the lady had not noticed her at all. She was a young lady. Her hair was black and she was pretty. Would she know her again? Jessie was very vague upon this point, but thought she might. She didn't know just what time her mother had called her in, but it was just beginning to rain — a drop had fallen on her doll.

   When Macrae and his charge had departed, Gregory ran his hand through his hair.

   "I wish to goodness we could know the exact time when that woman next door heard what she thought was a bursting tire," he said. "It would help a lot. I have little doubt in my own mind that it was the shot she heard. You are sure you did your best with her?"

   "Yes. I'll read you my notes, exactly as they were taken in question and answer. Here they are:

   "You thought you heard a tire burst? What time was that?"

   "I don't know."

   "About what time was it?"

   "About time to brisk up the fire for supper."

   "What time do you have supper?"

   "As near six as possible."

   "About what time do you brisk up the kitchen fire!"

   "It depends on what we have for tea."

   "What did you have for tea on Monday night?"

   "Stew of the Sunday joint."

   "How long does stew take to cook?"

   "It depends how the meat is —–"

   "Now, Mrs. Moore, please try to tell me what I want to know. Try to remember just what you did that afternoon and at that time?"

   "I didn't look at the clock, except at half-past four. At that time I put the stew on the edge of the stove and went back into the sitting-room to sew. I was sewing at the machine all afternoon. After a little while, I don't know what time it was, but it must have been about five, maybe five or five or ten minutes to five, or five or ten minute after (I really can't say) I went to brisk up the fire and I heard the noise like an auto tire bursting."

   "Had it begun to rain then?"

   "I don't know. It was getting very dark. The storm had been coming up for some time and I had pulled down the blind in the sitting-room and turned on the light to see to sew. All I know is that it was raining quite hard when I got through what I had to do in the kitchen and went back to my work. It must have been about half-past five then."

   "That's positively the nearest she could get to it." I told Gregory, "I believe she did the best she could."

   "Then all we know is that the shot was fired b"etween ten minutes to five and ten after. The rain began about five minutes after five. When the girl in blue came out of the house the first drops were just about to fall, according to Jessie's evidence. So the girl in blue was in the house during part of that twenty minutes. But that proves very little. Twenty minutes is a big latitude —–"

   "But why did she go in without knocking and come out running?"

   "And why did she continue to run so swiftly and so blindly that she ran into a young man and nearly knocked him off his feet —–"

   "Whatever are you talking about?" I asked in pure amazement.

   Gregory grinned (he has an annoying grin) and handed me a small newspaper clipping which he took from his pocket with the greatest care. "Look at that," he said. "My contribution to the knowledge of the firm."

   The clipping was from the personnl column of my old paper The Argus and read as follows:

   "If the lady who stumbled against an awkward young man on Stanley Street last evening will phone S. 1702 or call at 17 Wilson Arcade he will be pleased to return her lost property."

   "What's the answer?" I asked thoroughly puzzled.

   "Perhaps nothing and perhaps a great deal. Can't you see! I clipped that out of the personal column this morning. I always clip out unusual personals. It's a useful habit. Besides the name 'Stanley Street' struck me. Do you know where Stanley Street runs?"

   "Why — by Jove, yes, it is the street which crosses Richly Road at the corner next to No. 3. It' the —"

   "It's the street that the girl in blue ran down when she came out of the Simmons house. Now I ask you — isit likely that there would be two young ladies running madly down Stanley Street and bunting into polite young men with such force that property of value is dropped during the impact? What do you think?"

   I sprang up and reached for my coat.

   "I think we can't get to 17 Wilson Arcade too soon," I said. I had quite forgotten that I did not favour the taking up of this case. "Of course there is nothing romantic about this murder," began Gregory slyly, "but —–"

   "Oh have a heart!" I adjured him, and we set out together with old scores forgotten.