Mr Brudenell. The scenario was obvious: Mr James Brudenell, sitting at his typewriter, takes a gun from the drawer and shoots himself on an impulse. That was what we were meant to think, and I may say I found it a thoroughly unlikely scenario. Brudenell as a possible suicide I could accept, but not on an impulse: I doubt whether he did anything without fussy preliminaries. He was the sort who would write a letter to the Coroner, and worry about the correct form of address.
The body had fallen clear of the typewriter, and I walked carefully over and looked at the sheet of paper still sticking out of the machine. It was headed typing paper, with the Whitehaven Mansions address at the top, and what was being written was a letter:
Dear John,
I must tell you, with great regret, that I can nolonger continue giving way to the monstrous financial demands you
There was no address for the recipient. Presumably, therefore, an intimate, if not a friend. I continued cautiously circling the room. On the far side of the desk the bullet had singed a track, finally lodging in the floor under the bookshelves. I stood considering the desk and shook my head, dissatisfied. It didn’t add up, I felt sure. Or rather, what it added up to was a strong smell of fish. Someone had been too clever by half.
‘They’re on their way,’ said Joplin, coming back into the flat.
‘Good,’ I shouted. ‘Come through, Garry. Have a look here. It’s obvious what the set-up is, as we’re meant to understand it. Brudenell is typing. Reply to a blackmail demand. He takes the gun from the drawer, and shoots himself. The bullet singes the edge of the desk, and lodges — over here, right? Into the floor. Now, before the other boys arrive, look around. Anything else you notice in this room that I haven’t spotted?’
As I said before, Joplin has marvellous, sharp little eyes. He stalked cautiously round the room, darting them about. He shook his head over the letter in the typewriter, noticed the bullet mark, and then finally came to rest by a good-sized side table in the opposite corner of the room. It was empty, and had a large easy chair beside it. I followed his eyes.
‘Yes, I see,’ I said. ‘Good lad.’
Most of the furniture in the room was covered by a light film of dust. I guessed that Brudenell employed a char a couple of days a week, and no doubt tut-tutted impotently at the inefficiency of her operations, and regretted the time when chars could be made to work their fingers to the bone for a pittance. This round table, however, had that film of dust only on the very edges: there was a large, square area in the centre that washardly dusty at all. We stood looking at it.
‘Now what,’ I pondered aloud, ‘was lying there, and lying there until recently? A newspaper? One doesn’t lay a newspaper down on a table to read it. A book? The area’s much too big — unless it was something like an atlas. An atlas . . .’
I suddenly remembered Bill Tredgold’s list of places, and wondered if by some chance or process of reasoning Brudenell had come by the same knowledge, or was conjecturing along the same lines. I would have gone to the bookshelves, but I wanted to leave the room to the fingerprint men, and there were other things to do first. As I was thinking, they all arrived — the technicians of death, and a posse of regular men from the Yard. McPhail, the Princess’s erstwhile and dour security man, had been put on the case, which was a sensible enough decision. Capable, if hardly exciting. He looked round the room as if it sunk him into a profound gloom, and then started getting on with the job in the careful, efficient way I knew so well.
I left him to it: I thought that the less the present protector of the Princess had to do with the investigation the better, at least as far as the newspapers were concerned. But I had a word with him before I went, and pointed out the dustless shape on the table. I wanted it measured and
The body had fallen clear of the typewriter, and I walked carefully over and looked at the sheet of paper still sticking out of the machine. It was headed typing paper, with the Whitehaven Mansions address at the top, and what was being written was a letter:
Dear John,
I must tell you, with great regret, that I can nolonger continue giving way to the monstrous financial demands you
There was no address for the recipient. Presumably, therefore, an intimate, if not a friend. I continued cautiously circling the room. On the far side of the desk the bullet had singed a track, finally lodging in the floor under the bookshelves. I stood considering the desk and shook my head, dissatisfied. It didn’t add up, I felt sure. Or rather, what it added up to was a strong smell of fish. Someone had been too clever by half.
‘They’re on their way,’ said Joplin, coming back into the flat.
‘Good,’ I shouted. ‘Come through, Garry. Have a look here. It’s obvious what the set-up is, as we’re meant to understand it. Brudenell is typing. Reply to a blackmail demand. He takes the gun from the drawer, and shoots himself. The bullet singes the edge of the desk, and lodges — over here, right? Into the floor. Now, before the other boys arrive, look around. Anything else you notice in this room that I haven’t spotted?’
As I said before, Joplin has marvellous, sharp little eyes. He stalked cautiously round the room, darting them about. He shook his head over the letter in the typewriter, noticed the bullet mark, and then finally came to rest by a good-sized side table in the opposite corner of the room. It was empty, and had a large easy chair beside it. I followed his eyes.
‘Yes, I see,’ I said. ‘Good lad.’
Most of the furniture in the room was covered by a light film of dust. I guessed that Brudenell employed a char a couple of days a week, and no doubt tut-tutted impotently at the inefficiency of her operations, and regretted the time when chars could be made to work their fingers to the bone for a pittance. This round table, however, had that film of dust only on the very edges: there was a large, square area in the centre that washardly dusty at all. We stood looking at it.
‘Now what,’ I pondered aloud, ‘was lying there, and lying there until recently? A newspaper? One doesn’t lay a newspaper down on a table to read it. A book? The area’s much too big — unless it was something like an atlas. An atlas . . .’
I suddenly remembered Bill Tredgold’s list of places, and wondered if by some chance or process of reasoning Brudenell had come by the same knowledge, or was conjecturing along the same lines. I would have gone to the bookshelves, but I wanted to leave the room to the fingerprint men, and there were other things to do first. As I was thinking, they all arrived — the technicians of death, and a posse of regular men from the Yard. McPhail, the Princess’s erstwhile and dour security man, had been put on the case, which was a sensible enough decision. Capable, if hardly exciting. He looked round the room as if it sunk him into a profound gloom, and then started getting on with the job in the careful, efficient way I knew so well.
I left him to it: I thought that the less the present protector of the Princess had to do with the investigation the better, at least as far as the newspapers were concerned. But I had a word with him before I went, and pointed out the dustless shape on the table. I wanted it measured and
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