Waiting for Orders (12 page)

There was, in Denton’s opinion, only one curious thing about the case. That thing was the draft of an unfinished letter lying on the desk in the study. It was written in pencil, and much corrected, as if the writer had been choosing his words very carefully. It began:

‘As I told you yesterday, I was serious when I said that unless the money was repaid to me by today I would place the matter in the hands of my legal advisers. You have seen fit to ignore my offer. Accordingly, I have approached my solicitor. Need I say that, if I could afford to overlook the whole unpleasant matter, I would do so eagerly? In asking for the return of the money, I …’ There the letter stopped.

Mercer considered it. ‘Looks pretty straightforward to me,’ he said at last. ‘According to Grieve, he’d been in the habit of lending people money. It looks as though, having found himself hard pressed, he was trying to get a little of it back. What does his banking account show?’

Denton referred to his notes. ‘Well, Sir, he’d certainly got rid of some money. He’d bought one or two parcels of doubtful shares, and lost a bit that way. Six months ago he drew out five hundred in cash. Maybe that was this loan he was trying to get back. Funny idea, though, paying it out in cash. I couldn’t find any note of who had it, either. By the look of his place, I should say he was the sort who lights his pipe with important papers. But I thought that letter was a bit curious, Sir. Why should he get up in the middle of writing a letter and shoot himself?’

Mercer pursed his lips. ‘Ever heard of impulse, Denton? That’s how half the suicides happen. “Suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed,” is the formula. Any life insurance?’

‘Not that we can trace, Sir. There’s a cousin in Flint who inherits. Executors are Grieve and the solicitor.’

‘Grieve’s important. What sort of witness will he make?’

‘Good, Sir. He looks and talks like an archbishop.’

‘All right, Denton. I’ll leave it to you.’

And to Denton it was left - for the moment. It was not until the day before the inquest was due to be held that Dr Czissar sent his card into Mercer’s office.

For once, Mercer’s excuse that he was too busy to see Dr Czissar was genuine. He was due at a conference with the Commissioner and it was to Denton that he handed over the job of dealing with the refugee Czech detective.

Again and again during the subsequent conference he wished that he had asked the Doctor to wait, and interviewed him himself. Since the first occasion on which Dr Czissar had entered New Scotland Yard armed with a letter of introduction from an influential Home Office politician, he had visited Mercer four times. And on every occasion he had brought disaster with him: disaster in the shape of irrefutable proof that he, Dr Czissar, could be right about a case when Assistant-Commissioner Mercer was hopelessly wrong.

When at last he returned to his office, Denton was waiting for him, and the expression of exasperated resignation on Denton’s face told him all he wanted to know about Dr Czissar’s visit. The worst had happened again. The only thing he could do now was to put as stony a face as possible on the impending humiliation. He set his teeth.

‘Ah, Denton!’ He bustled over to his desk. ‘Have you got rid of Dr Czissar?’

Denton squared his shoulders. ‘No, Sir,’ he said woodenly. ‘He’s waiting downstairs to see you.’

‘But I told you to see him.’

‘I have seen him, Sir. But when I heard what he had to say I thought I’d better keep him here until you were free. It is about this Spenser business, Sir. I’m afraid I’ve tripped up badly. It’s murder.’

Mercer sat down carefully. ‘You mean, I suppose, that it’s Dr Czissar’s
opinion
it was murder?’

‘No question of opinion, I’m afraid, Sir. A clear case. He got hold of some of the evidence from that journalist friend of his who lends him his Press pass. I’ve given him the rest. He saw through the whole thing at once. If I’d have had any gumption I’d have seen through it too. He’s darn clever.’

Mercer choked down the words that rose to his lips. ‘All right,’ he said; ‘you’d better bring Dr Czissar up.’

Dr Czissar entered the room exactly as he had entered it many times before – thousands of times, it seemed to Mercer. Inside the door, he clicked his heels, clapped his umbrella to his side as if it were a rifle, bowed, and announced loudly: ‘Dr Jan Czissar. Late Prague police. At your service!’

To Mercer it was as familiar as the strains of a detested melody. He said formally: ‘How do you do, Doctor? I hear that you have something to tell us about the Spenser case.’

Dr Czissar’s pale face relaxed. His tall, plump body drooped into its accustomed position beneath the long, drab raincoat. His brown, cow-like eyes beamed through the thick pebble spectacles. ‘You are busy,’ he said apologetically. ‘It is a small matter.’

‘I understand you think that Mr Felton Spenser was murdered.’

The cow-like eyes enlarged. ‘Oh, yes. That is what I think, Assistant-Commissioner Mercer. I was a little uncertain as to whether I should come to you about it. The facts on which I base the conclusion I learned from a journalist who tells me things that will interest me for the book I am writing. It is a work of medical jurisprudence. But until Inspector Denton told me that my information was accurate, I was doubtful. You see, it is most important to be accurate in these matters. I was told that the body had been found in a state of cadaveric spasm, and that the revolver was on the floor beside the sofa. The spasm was described to me. I was also told that the finger-prints on the revolver were smeared and indefinite. From the information at my disposal, I had no doubt that Mr Spenser was murdered.’

‘And may I ask why, Doctor?’

Dr Czissar cleared his throat and swallowed hard. ‘Cadaveric spasm,’ he declaimed, as if he were addressing a group of
students, ‘is a sudden tightening of the muscles of the body at the moment of death, which produces a rigidity which remains until it is succeeded by the lesser rigidity of
rigor mortis.
The limbs of the dead person will thus remain in the positions in which they were immediately before death for some time. Cadaveric spasm occurs most frequently when the cause of death is accompanied by some violent disturbance of the nervous system. In many cases of suicide by shooting through the head, the weapon is held so tightly by the cadaveric spasm in the dead hand that great force is required to remove it.’

Mercer gave a twisted smile. ‘And although there was a cadaveric spasm, the revolver was found on the floor. Is that your point? I’m afraid, Doctor, that we can’t accept that as proof of murder. A cadaveric spasm may relax after quite a short time. The fact that the hand had not actually retained the weapon is not proof that it did not fire it. So –’

‘Precisely,’ interrupted Dr Czissar. ‘But that was
not
my point, Assistant-Commissioner. According to the medical report, about which the Inspector has been good enough to tell me, the body was in a state of unrelaxed cadaveric spasm when it was examined an hour after it was discovered. The fingers of both hands were slightly crooked, and both hands were drawn backwards almost at right angles to the forearms. But let us think’ – he drove one lank finger into his right temple – ‘let us think about the effect of a cadaveric spasm. It locks the muscles in the position assumed immediately before death. Very well, then. Mr Spenser’s right hand immediately before his death was drawn backwards almost at right-angles to the forearm. Also, the fingers of that hand were slightly crooked. It is not possible, Assistant-Commissioner Mercer, to hold a revolver to the head and pull the trigger with the hand in that position.’

Mercer looked sharply at Denton. ‘You saw the body before it was moved. Do you agree with this?’

I’m afraid I do, Sir,’ said Denton dejectedly. ‘I ought to have spotted it for myself, but I’m afraid I don’t know much about how spasms work.’

‘It is not expected that you should, Inspector,’ said Dr Czissar kindly. ‘These things must be learned. But there is, I think, another conclusion to be drawn from the position of the hands. There is no doubt that Mr Spenser was in the act of rising
from the sofa when he was shot. His hands bent in that way could only have been used to raise himself so that he could stand up. The peculiar position of the body thus becomes quite clear.’

‘Everything, in fact, becomes quite clear,’ snarled Mercer, ‘except the identity of the murderer.’

The cow-like eyes gleamed. ‘That also is clear, Assistant-Commissioner. As soon as Inspector Denton informed me of the evidence available, I was able to see what had happened.’

Mercer contained himself with an effort. ‘And what
did
happen?’

A thin smile stretched the doctor’s full lips. He straightened his back, cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and said sharply, ‘Attention, please!’

Of all Dr Czissar’s mannerisms, it was the one that irritated Mercer most. He sat back in his chair. ‘Well, Doctor?’

‘In the first place,’ said Dr Czissar, ‘we have to consider the fact that, on the evidence of the dressmaker, no one left the house after Mr Spenser was killed. Therefore, when the police arrived the murderer was still there. Inspector Denton tells me also that the entire house, including the empty flat on the second floor, was searched by the police. Therefore, the murderer was one of the three persons in the house at the time – the dressmaker, Mrs Lobb, her husband, who returned home before the shot was heard, and Mr Grieve. But which?

‘Mr Lobb states that, on hearing the shot, he ran to the door of his flat and looked up the stairs, where he saw Mr Grieve appear at the door of his flat. They then went up together to the scene of the crime. If both these men are innocent and telling the truth, then there is an absurdity: for if neither of them shot Mr Spenser, then Mrs Lobb shot him, although she was downstairs at the time of the shot. It is not possible. Nor is it possible for either of the men to have shot him, unless they are both lying. Another absurdity. We are faced with the conclusion that someone has been ingenious.

‘How was the murder committed?’ Dr Czissar’s cow-like eyes sought piteously for understanding. ‘How? There is only one clue in our possession. It is that a microscopic examination of the revolver-barrel showed Inspector Denton that at some time a silencer had been fitted to it. Yet no silencer is found in Mr
Spenser’s flat. We should not expect to find it, for the revolver probably belongs to the murderer. Perhaps the murderer has the silencer? I think so. For only then can we explain the fact that when a shot is heard, none of the suspects is in Mr Spenser’s room.’

‘But,’ snapped Mercer, ‘if a silencer had been fitted, the shot would not have been heard. It
was
heard.’

Dr Czissar smiled. ‘Therefore, we must conclude that two shots were fired, one to kill, the other to be heard.’

‘But only one shot had been fired from the revolver that killed Spenser.’

‘Oh, yes, Assistant-Commissioner, that is true. But the murder was, I believe, committed with two revolvers. I believe that Mr Grieve went to Mr Spenser’s flat, armed with the revolver you found, at about six o’clock, or perhaps earlier. There was a silencer fitted to the revolver, and when the opportunity came, he shot Mr Spenser through the head. He them removed the silencer, smudged the finger-prints on the revolver and left it by Mr Spenser on the floor. He then returned to his own flat and hid the silencer. The next thing he did was to wait until Mr Lobb returned home, take a second revolver, go up into the empty flat, and fire a second, but blank, shot.

‘Mr Lobb – he will be the most valuable witness for the prosecution – says in his evidence that, on hearing the shot, he ran to his door and saw Mr Grieve coming out of his flat. It sounds very quick of him, but I think it must have taken Mr Lobb longer than he thinks. He would, perhaps, look at his wife, ask her what the noise was, and
then
go to his door. Yet even a few seconds would be time for Mr Grieve to fire the shot, descend one short flight of stairs, and pretend to be coming out of his door.’

‘I gathered that you had Grieve in mind,’ said Mercer, ‘but may I remind you that this is all supposition? Where is the proof? What was Grieve’s motive?’

‘The proof,’ said Dr Czissar comfortably, ‘you will find in Mr Grieve’s flat – the silencer, the second revolver, and perhaps pin-fire ammunition. He will not have got rid of these things for fear of being seen doing so. Also, I suggest that Mr Lobb, the dressmaker’s husband, be asked to sit in his room and listen to
two shots: one fired in Mr Spenser’s room from the revolver that killed Mr Spenser, the other, a blank shot, fired in the empty flat. You will find, I think, that he will swear that it was the second shot he heard. The two noises will be quite different.

‘For the motive, I suggest that you consider Mr Grieve’s financial arrangements. Some months ago, Mr Spenser drew five hundred pounds in cash from his bank. There is no doubt, I think, that Mr Grieve had it. While we were waiting for you, Assistant-Commissioner, I suggested to the Inspector that some information about Mr Grieve’s income would be helpful. Mr Grieve, we find, earns a little money writing for a weekly journal. He is also an undischarged bankrupt. He would therefore prefer to receive so large a sum in notes instead of by cheque. Also, we have only his word that Mr Spenser lent money freely. I have no doubt that Mr Grieve obtained the money to invest on Mr Spenser’s behalf, and that he took it for himself. Perhaps you will find some of it in his flat. Mr Spenser had discovered the theft, and threatened to expose him. The letter he was writing was to Mr Grieve. But Mr Grieve did not wait to receive it. He decided to kill Mr Spenser. The fact that he had this old revolver and silencer no doubt suggested the method, But, like all other clever criminals, he is stupid. He makes a statement about his dead friend. “A man without enemies,” he says. So strange to comment on the fact, one thinks. So few of us have enemies. But when we see that Mr Grieve wishes it to be thought that his friend suicided himself, we understand.’

Dr Czissar sighed and stood up. ‘So kind of you to receive me, Assistant-Commissioner Mercer. Good afternoon.’