Phase
IV
The Charge
When they talked about the case afterwards, Reggie and Lomas used to agree that it was a piece of pure art. “Crime unstained by any vulgar greed or sentiment; sheer crime; iniquity neat. An impressive thing, Lomas, old dear.”
“So it is,” Lomas nodded. “One meets cases of the kind, but never quite of so pure a style. Upon my soul, Fortune, it has a sort of grandeur—the intensity of purpose, the contempt for ordinary values, the absolute uselessness of it. And it was damned clever.”
Reggie chose a cigar. “Great work,” he sighed. “All the marks of the real great man, if it wasn’t diabolical. He was a great man, but for the hate in him. Just like the devil.”
“You’re so moral,” Lomas protested. “Don’t you feel the beauty of it?”
“Of course I’m moral. I’m sane. Oh, so sane, Lomas, old thing. That’s why I beat the wily criminal. And the devil, God help him.”
“Yes, you’re as sane as a boy,” Lomas nodded.
But all that was afterwards.
Everything that was done in the case is not (though you may have feared so) written here. We take it in the critical, significant scenes, and the next of them arrived some days after the discovery of the corpse.
Lomas was in his room with Superintendent Bell, when Kimball came to them. He was brisker than ever. “Anything new, is there? Have you hit on anything? I came round at once, you see, when I got your note. Delighted to get it. Much better to have all the details cleared up. Well, what is it?”
“I’m afraid I’ve nothing for you myself,” said Lomas. “The fact is, Fortune thought you might be able to give him some information on one or two points.”
“I? God bless me, you know all that I know. Where is he, then, if he wants me?”
And Reggie came. “Have you been waitin’?” he said, with his airiest manner. “So sorry. Things are really rollin’ up, you know. New facts by every post. Well, well.” He dropped into a chair and blinked at the party. “What are we all doin’ here? Oh, ah! I remember.” He smiled and nodded at Kimball. “It was that fellow I wanted to ask you about.”
Kimball, as was natural, did not relish this sort of thing. “I understood you had something important on hand. I’ve no time to waste.”
“Why, it’s so jolly hard to understand what’s important and what isn’t, don’t you know? But it all comes out in the end.”
“You think so, do you? This is the coal affair?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Reggie answered thoughtfully. “No, I wouldn’t say that. After all, the Coal Ramp isn’t the only pebble on the beach.”
“Then why the devil do you bother me?” Kimball cried.
Reggie sat up suddenly. “Because this is something you must know.” He rearranged his coat and slid down into the chair again, and drawled out what he had to say. “Some time the end of last year—point of fact—last December—bein’ quite precise, from fifth to twenty-ninth—in one of the nursin’-homes in Queen Anne Street—speakin’ strictly, No. 1003—there was a man bein’ operated on by Sir Jenkin Totteridge for an affection of the middle ear. This chap was called Mason. You went to see him several times. Who was Mason?”
Kimball stared at him with singular intensity. Then he swung half round in his chair with one of his characteristic jerky movements, and pulled out his snuffbox. He took a pinch. “You’ve found a mare’s nest,” he said, with a laugh, and took another pinch.
As he spoke, Reggie sprang up with some vehemence, bumping into his arm. “Sorry—sorry. A mare’s nest, you say? Now what exactly do you mean by that?”
Kimball stood up too. “I mean you’re wasting my time,” he said.
“That isn’t what I should call an explanation,” Reggie murmured. “For instance, do you mean you didn’t go to see Mason?”
“Don’t let’s have any more of this damned trifling,” Kimball cried. “Certainly I went to see Mason.”
“Good! Who is he?”
“Jack Mason is a fellow I knew in my early days. I went up and he didn’t. I’ve seen little of him this ten years. When he had that operation, poor chap, he wrote to me, and I went to see him for the sake of old times. And what the devil has it to do with Scotland Yard?”
“Mason is the man who was found at the Montmorency House flats with his face smashed in.”
“God bless my soul! Mason! Poor chap, poor chap! But what are you talking about? The papers said that was a man called Rand.”
“Mason, otherwise Rand. Rand, otherwise Mason. Who was Mason, and why did somebody kill him?”
Kimball made one of his jerky gestures. “Killed, was he? I thought he fell out of the window.”
“He was murdered.”
“Good God! Old Jack Mason! It’s beyond me. I haven’t a notion. You know this upsets me a good deal. I’ve seen little of him for a long time. I can hardly believe he’s gone. But why the devil did he call himself Rand?”
“What was he?” said Reggie sharply.
“God bless me, I couldn’t tell you,” Kimball laughed. “He was always very close. An agent in a small way, when I knew him—colonial produce, and so forth. I fancy he went in for building land. Comfortably off always, but he never got on. Very reserved fellow. Loved to be mysterious. No. I suppose it isn’t surprising he used two names.”
“Why was he murdered?” said Reggie.
“I can’t help you.”
“That’s all you can say?”
“Yes. Afraid so. Yes. Let me know as soon as you have anything more. Good morning, good morning.” He bustled out.
“A bit hurried, as you might say,” said Superintendent Bell.
Reggie picked up a paper-knife and fell on his knees. He rose with some fragments of white powder on the blade. “I suppose you saw me jog his arm,” he said. “And that’s cocaine.” He tumbled Lomas’s paperclips out of their box and put the stuff in. “Do you remember the first time we had him here, he took snuff? I thought he was rather odd about it and after it, and I went over to the window where he stood to see if I could find any of the stuff he used. But he’d been careful. He is careful, is Kimball.”
“He is damned careful,” Lomas agreed, and began to write on a scribbling-pad, looking at each word critically.
There was a pause. “Beg your pardon, sir,” said Superintendent Bell. “You talked about the murder being a madman’s job. Do you mean Mr. Kimball, being a dope fiend, is not responsible for his actions?”
“O Lord, no. Kimball’s not a dope fiend. He uses the stuff same like we use whisky. He’s not a slave to it yet. Say he’s a heavy drinker. It’s just beginnin’ to interfere with his efficiency. That’s why he left the box behind in the bathroom; that’s why he’s a little jerky. But he’s pretty adequate still.”
“You talked about mad. You were emphatic, as you might say,” Bell insisted. “What might you have in your mind, sir? Mr. Kimball’s generally reckoned uncommon practical.”
“He isn’t ordinary mad,” said Reggie. “He don’t think he’s Julius Caesar or a poached egg. He don’t go out without his trousers. He don’t see red and go it blind. But there is something queer in him. I doubt if they’re physical, these perversions. Call it a disease of the soul.”
“Ah, well, his soul,” said Bell gravely. “I judge he’s not a Christian man.”
“I wish I did know his creed,” said Reggie, with equal gravity. “It would be very instructive.”
Lomas tapped his pencil impatiently. “We’re not evangelists, we’re policemen,” he said. “And what do we do next?”
“Take out a warrant and arrest Kimball,” said Reggie carelessly.
Bell and Lomas looked at each other and then at him. “I don’t see my way,” said Lomas.
“The corpse can be identified as Mason. I’ll swear to the operation. Totteridge will swear it’s the man he operated on as Mason. Kimball admits several visits to Mason. In the room from which the corpse was thrown was a gold snuffbox containing cocaine. Shortman’s will swear that box is their make and exactly similar to a box sold to Kimball. And Kimball takes cocaine. It’s a good prima facie case.”
“Yes. Did you ever see a jury that would hang a man on it?”
“We do have to be so careful,” Bell murmured.
Reggie laughed. “And Kimball’s a Cabinet Minister.”
“Damn it. Fortune, be fair!” Lomas cried. “If I had a sound case against a man, he would stand his trial whoever he was. I don’t wink at a fellow who’s got a pull. You know that. But there’s a reason in all things. I can’t charge a Cabinet Minister with murder on evidence like this. What is it after all?” He picked up his scribbling-pad and read: “ ‘Three circumstances—Kimball knew the murdered man; a snuffbox like Kimball’s was found on the scene of the murder; that snuffbox held cocaine, and cocaine is what Kimball uses.’ Circumstantial evidence at its weakest. Neither judge nor jury would look at it. There’s no motive, there’s no explanation of the method of the crime. My dear chap, suppose you were on the other side, you’d tear it to ribbons in five minutes.”
“On the other side?” Reggie repeated slowly. “I’m not an advocate, Lomas. I’m always on the same side. I’m for justice. I’m for the man who’s been wronged.”
Lomas stared at him. “Yes. Quite—quite. But we generally take all that for granted, don’t we? My dear chap, you mustn’t mind my saying so, but you do preach a good deal over this case.”
“I had noticed the same thing myself,” said Superintendent Bell, and they both looked curiously at Reggie.
“Why am I so moral? Because the thing’s so damned immoral,” said Reggie vehemently. “What’s most crime? Human. Human greed, human lust, human hostility. But this is diabolical. Sheer evil for evil’s sake. Lomas, I’ll swear, when we have it all out, we’ll find that it still looks unreasonable, futile, pure passion for wrong.”
“Meaning Mr. Kimball mad. You do come back to that, sir,” Bell said.
“Not legally mad. Probably not medically mad. I mean he has the devil in him.”
“Really, my dear Fortune, you do surprise me,” Lomas said. “I perceive that in all things you are too superstitious. The right honourable gentleman hath a devil! It isn’t done, you know. This is the twentieth century. And you’re a scientific man. Consider your reputation—and mine, if you don’t mind. What the devil are we to do? Try exorcism?”
“You won’t charge Kimball?” Lomas signified an impatient negative. “Very well. You say you don’t let a man off because he’s in the Government. Suppose you had a prima facie case like this against a nobody. Suppose I brought you as good grounds for arresting Sandford. Wouldn’t you have him in the dock? On your conscience now!”
Again Bell and Lomas consulted each other’s faces. “I wonder why you drag in Sandford?” said Lomas slowly.
“He’s in it all right. I asked you a question.”
“Well, if you insist. One might charge a man on a prima facie case, to hear his defence.”
Reggie struck his hand on the table. “There it is! A man who is nobody—he can stand trial. Not a Cabinet Minister. Oh dear, no!”
“My dear fellow, the world is what it is. You know very well that if I wanted to charge Kimball on this evidence it would be turned down. I couldn’t force the issue without a stronger case. Do have some sense of the practical.”
Reggie smiled. “I’m not blaming you. I only want to rub it in.”
“Thanks very much. We are to suspect Kimball, I suppose.”
“Like the devil, and watch him.”
“I see. Yes, I think we shall be quite justified in watching Mr. Kimball. But, my dear fellow, you are rather odd this morning. If you want Kimball watched, why the devil do you handle him so violently? You know, you almost accused him of the murder. Anything more likely to put him on his guard I can’t imagine.”
“Yes, yes. I think I made him jump,” said Reggie, with satisfaction. “Quite intentional, Lomas, old thing. He’s on his guard all right. But he don’t know how little we know. I meant to put him in a funk. I want to see what a funk will make him do.”
Lomas looked at him steadily. “For a very moral man,” he said, “you have a good deal of the devil about you.”
“I think I ought to say, Mr. Fortune,” said Bell, “we’ve all been in a hurry to judge Mr. Kimball. I said things myself. And I do say he’s not a Christian man—an unbeliever, I’m afraid. But I had ought to say too, he lives a very clean life. Always has. Temperate, very quiet style, a thorough good master, generous to his employees, and always ready to come down handsome for a good cause.”
“Who is Kimball, Bell?” said Reggie quietly.
“Sir?” Bell stared. “He’s always been known, sir. Started in Liverpool on the Cotton Exchange. Went into rubber. Came to London. That’s his career. All quite open and straight.”
“And we don’t know a damned thing about him.”
“Well, really, Fortune, you’re rather exacting. You’re after his soul, I suppose,” said Lomas, with something like a sneer.
“Who is Kimball?” Reggie insisted. “There’s two unknown quantities. Who is Kimball? Who is Sandford?”
“I’m afraid you want the Day of Judgment, my dear fellow,” said Lomas. “ ‘Unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known’—that sort of thing. Well, we can’t ring up the Recording Angel from here. It’s a trunk call.”
“I know you’re worldly. But you might know your world. Look about, Lomas, old thing. I’ve been looking about.” He took out a newspaper cutting.
Lomas read: “ ‘Sandford. Anyone who can give any information about Mrs. Ellen Edith Sandford, resident Llanfairfechan from 1882–1900, formerly of Lancashire, is urgently begged to communicate with XYZ.’ ” He looked up. “Of Lancashire? That’s a guess?”
Reggie nodded. “North Wales is mostly Lancashire people.”
“Well, there’s no harm in it. Do you want us to advertise for Kimball’s wet nurse?”
“And his sisters and his cousins and his aunts. Yes. All in good time. But watch him first. Watch them both.” He nodded, and sauntered out.
Lomas lit a cigarette and pushed the box to Bell. Both men smoked a minute in silence. Then Lomas said, “That’s a damned clever fellow. Bell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve often thought he was too clever by half. But, damme, I don’t remember thinking he was uncanny before.”
“I have noticed it,” said Bell diffidently, “in a manner of speaking. Of course he does know a lot, does Mr. Fortune, a rare lot of stuff. But that’s natural, as were. What upsets you is the sort of way he feels men. It’s as if he had senses you haven’t got. Very strange the way he knows men.”