it was necessary to stand or sit jammed up against the wall in a most unconvincing attitude.
“That’s impossible,” said Sir Charles aloud. He stood considering the wall, the stain and the prim little gas fire.
“If he were burning papers, now,” he said thoughtfully. “But one doesn’t burn papers in a gas fire - ”
Suddenly he drew in his breath.
A minute later Mr. Satterthwaite was realising Sir Charles’s profession to the full.
Charles Cartwright had become Ellis the butler. He sat writing at the writing-table. He looked furtive, every now and then he raised his eyes, shooting them shiftily from side to side. Suddenly he seemed to hear something - Mr. Satterthwaite could even guess what that something was - footsteps along the passage. The man had a guilty conscience. He attached a certain meaning to those footsteps. He sprang up, the paper on which he had been writing in one hand, his pen in the other. He darted across the room to the fireplace, his head half-turned, still alert - listening - afraid. He tried to shove the papers under the gas fire - in order to use both hands he cast down the pen impatiently. Sir Charles’s pencil, the “pen” of the drama, fell accurately on the ink-stain ...
“Bravo,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, applauding generously.
So good had the performance been that he was left with the impression that so and only so could Ellis have acted.
“You see?” said Sir Charles, resuming his own personality and speaking with modest elation. “If the fellow heard the police or what he thought was the police coming and had to hide what he was writing - well, where could he hide it? Not in a drawer or under the mattress - if the police searched the room, that would be found at once. He hadn’t time to take up a floorboard. No, behind the gas fire was the only chance.”
“The next thing to do,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “is to see whether there is anything hidden behind the gas fire.”
“Exactly. Of course, it may have been a false alarm, and he may have got the things out again later. But we’ll hope for the best.”
Removing his coat and turning up his shirtsleeves, Sir Charles lay down on the floor and applied his eye to the crack under the gas fire.
“There’s something under there,” he reported. “Something white. How can we get it out? We want something like a woman’s hatpins.”
“Women don’t have hatpins any more,” said Mr. Satterthwaite sadly. “Perhaps a penknife.”
But a penknife proved unavailing.
In the end Mr. Satterthwaite went out and borrowed a knitting needle from Beatrice. Though extremely curious to know what he wanted it for, her sense of decorum was too great to permit her to ask.
The knitting needle did the trick. Sir Charles extracted half a dozen sheets of crumpled writing-paper, hastily crushed together and pushed in.
With growing excitement he and Mr. Satterthwaite smoothed them out. They were clearly several different drafts of a letter - written in a small, neat clerkly handwriting.
This is to say (began the first) that the writer of this does not wish to cause unpleasantness, and may possibly have been mistaken in what he thought he saw tonight, but -
Here the writer had clearly been dissatisfied, and had broken off to start afresh.
John Ellis, butler, presents his compliments, and would be glad of a short interview touching the tragedy tonight before going to the police with certain information in his possession -
Still dissatisfied, the man had tried again.
John Ellis, butler, has certain facts concerning the death of the doctor in his possession. He has not yet given these facts to the police -
In the next one the use of the third person had been abandoned.
I am badly in need of money. A thousand pounds would make all the difference to me. There are certain things I could tell the police, but do not want to make trouble -
The last one was even more unreserved.
I know how the
“That’s impossible,” said Sir Charles aloud. He stood considering the wall, the stain and the prim little gas fire.
“If he were burning papers, now,” he said thoughtfully. “But one doesn’t burn papers in a gas fire - ”
Suddenly he drew in his breath.
A minute later Mr. Satterthwaite was realising Sir Charles’s profession to the full.
Charles Cartwright had become Ellis the butler. He sat writing at the writing-table. He looked furtive, every now and then he raised his eyes, shooting them shiftily from side to side. Suddenly he seemed to hear something - Mr. Satterthwaite could even guess what that something was - footsteps along the passage. The man had a guilty conscience. He attached a certain meaning to those footsteps. He sprang up, the paper on which he had been writing in one hand, his pen in the other. He darted across the room to the fireplace, his head half-turned, still alert - listening - afraid. He tried to shove the papers under the gas fire - in order to use both hands he cast down the pen impatiently. Sir Charles’s pencil, the “pen” of the drama, fell accurately on the ink-stain ...
“Bravo,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, applauding generously.
So good had the performance been that he was left with the impression that so and only so could Ellis have acted.
“You see?” said Sir Charles, resuming his own personality and speaking with modest elation. “If the fellow heard the police or what he thought was the police coming and had to hide what he was writing - well, where could he hide it? Not in a drawer or under the mattress - if the police searched the room, that would be found at once. He hadn’t time to take up a floorboard. No, behind the gas fire was the only chance.”
“The next thing to do,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “is to see whether there is anything hidden behind the gas fire.”
“Exactly. Of course, it may have been a false alarm, and he may have got the things out again later. But we’ll hope for the best.”
Removing his coat and turning up his shirtsleeves, Sir Charles lay down on the floor and applied his eye to the crack under the gas fire.
“There’s something under there,” he reported. “Something white. How can we get it out? We want something like a woman’s hatpins.”
“Women don’t have hatpins any more,” said Mr. Satterthwaite sadly. “Perhaps a penknife.”
But a penknife proved unavailing.
In the end Mr. Satterthwaite went out and borrowed a knitting needle from Beatrice. Though extremely curious to know what he wanted it for, her sense of decorum was too great to permit her to ask.
The knitting needle did the trick. Sir Charles extracted half a dozen sheets of crumpled writing-paper, hastily crushed together and pushed in.
With growing excitement he and Mr. Satterthwaite smoothed them out. They were clearly several different drafts of a letter - written in a small, neat clerkly handwriting.
This is to say (began the first) that the writer of this does not wish to cause unpleasantness, and may possibly have been mistaken in what he thought he saw tonight, but -
Here the writer had clearly been dissatisfied, and had broken off to start afresh.
John Ellis, butler, presents his compliments, and would be glad of a short interview touching the tragedy tonight before going to the police with certain information in his possession -
Still dissatisfied, the man had tried again.
John Ellis, butler, has certain facts concerning the death of the doctor in his possession. He has not yet given these facts to the police -
In the next one the use of the third person had been abandoned.
I am badly in need of money. A thousand pounds would make all the difference to me. There are certain things I could tell the police, but do not want to make trouble -
The last one was even more unreserved.
I know how the
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