Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

“And the blow was not delivered slantwise, but straight – absolutely straight, according to the evidence of witnesses who saw the dead body – therefore it must have been dealt from straight in front, and unless the murderer had sat in the car on the right side of Sir George, such a blow would have been impossible of delivery.”

“It might have been dealt from the seat opposite Sir George, though, Professor,” suggested Sanchez, coolly.

“No man could have got into that car and out again without being observed. Therefore the murder must have been committed by someone outside the car; that was my conclusion. Also, it was impossible that the blow could have been delivered by the chauffeur, or anybody sitting by his side. Therefore the weapon, that piece of steel, must have come in through the window in front on the left of the driver, which was open. I say ‘come in,’ by which I mean in some way projected in.”

“That seems quite reasonable; indeed, quite clever, Professor!”

“To be propelled with sufficient force, then, I calculated that there must have been some tremendous power behind it, some power greater than would be possible if it were thrown by hand. By the weight of it, one ounce including the cork loaded with shot – clever that, Sanchez! – I decided that the missile must have been, shall we say fired from a distance of not more and not less than ten feet, to admit of the terrific force necessary to drive such a light weapon into a man’s body. I know that there is no gun in the accepted sense of the word which could fire such a missile, nor is there any explosive which could be used for such a purpose, and memory at once took me back to my work at the Admiralty with you, Sanchez, when there was placed before us – you and me only, mind you, with the exception of the First Lord – a secret idea for the discharge of projectiles of any kind by means of-”

“By means of compressed air,” broke in Sanchez. “A wonderful idea, smokeless, noiseless, on an entirely different principle to the famous Maxim noiseless gun! And it was claimed by the inventor, now dead” – Golbourne nodded – “that it could be adapted for use by any sized gun. Well, I worked at the idea in my spare time, and at length I succeeded to my own satisfaction in producing a serviceable weapon.”

“And that’s it, I suppose,” said Golbourne, pointing to the article resembling a black walking-stick, which still lay on the floor by the inspector’s chair.

“Yes, that’s it.” Sanchez drew his chair a little closer to his desk in order to rest his elbow on it, watched all the time by the inspector. “Quite an interesting little scientific chat, Mr Policeman, isn’t it?” He smiled at Mirch. “I bear no grudge; at least, not much of a one, towards the professor, who will doubtless now proceed with his narrative.”

“I worked it all out,” went on Golbourne, “by the rules of trajectory, velocity, weight, impetus, impact, and the effect, if any, of the wind on the missile at the time of flight when it was fired. These calculations told me that the weapon was dispatched from a distance of ten feet and a height of eight.”

“Quite correct,” agreed Sanchez nodding. “And can you tell us how it was actually discharged?”

“Yes, I think so. I believe that you, Sanchez, were in a fruit van bearing your name. During that block in the traffic just close by Wellington Street, Strand, yesterday, the body of the van was about four feet, perhaps a little more, from the ground, and you were in a crouching position, with your walking-stick gun levelled over a box or two, or at any rate concealed in some way. That would bring the distance of the weapon from the ground to about eight feet. You had been awaiting an opportunity for two or three days to get in front of the judge’s car, and there bide your time until you should be within reasonable distance, and the chauffeur’s attention should be otherwise engaged. I take it, therefore, that you discharged your gun when the chauffeur’s head was turned from the car.”

“Yes, you’re right in practically every detail,” admitted Sanchez.

The two might have been discussing some subject of interesting mathematical concern, instead of a grim murder.

“I run an orange business at Covent Garden,” he went on. “And I had carefully thought out the means which you have disclosed, Professor, of killing Sir George Borgham. Now I come to think of it, I ought to have used another van, but I thought it safer to be in my own, as I so often drive to and from the market in it, and I thought, therefore, that no suspicion would attach to my being in it at any time, of course, with a driver who was used to having me with him, and whose back was naturally turned to me while I sat inside the van, and – well, the rest you know.”

“And why did you kill that good man?” at length asked the Inspector.

“Because he was a swine!” was the astounding answer. “Five years before the then Mr George Borgham returned to England to study for the Bar, he ran a rubber plantation in Brazil. My two brothers and I were peons then.”

Mirch looked a bit puzzled, so Sanchez explained.

“A peon is a low-bred South American, a day labourer, sometimes, working off a debt by bondage. My brothers and I were in bondage – oh, yes, almost slaves! – on George Borgham’s estate. He treated us more than brutally, he treated us vilely, and he killed my two brothers by his treatment of them. And there was a girl; she was of our class, too, and I loved her, and George Borgham took her from me – ah, you don’t know what rubber plantations were like then – when I was sick with fever, and my brothers were dead. But I never forgot the girl, and I never forgot George Borgham. After George Borgham returned to England I was befriended by kind and good people, was educated, highly educated, and eventually worked my way to a professorship in mathematics.”

Sanchez was speaking with his eyes fixed on the wall opposite, as if looking into the darkness of the dreadful past.

“As soon as I could I retired from my professorship and came to England. Here I embarked in business, the orange trade, and all the while I waited and watched Sir George. I meant to kill him in such a manner that no one should know how he came by his death. And you know, gentlemen, how the means and the opportunity came to me.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I had known,” murmured Golbourne, while Mirch fidgeted a little in his chair, and the clergyman put his hand to his face, for the situation was harrowing.

Suddenly, before Mirch could spring at him, Sanchez had pointed something at his forehead, and -

The three men turned sick as the body of Sebastian Sanchez, with the head a terrible bleeding mass, swayed and toppled to the floor.

The tale had to be told, and it was told exclusively to The Wire.

But when the members of the Murder Club met to dine a few days later, there was no feeling of triumph.

“A wonderful man was Sanchez, a wonderful man!” said Golbourne. “The pistol with which he blew his own head away was a marvellous adaptation of the rough idea which was originally set before the two of us. A clever idea originally, it required a genius, as Sanchez undoubtedly was, to bring it so such perfection. And by his will, found in his desk, he has left all particulars to the heirs of the original inventor.”

“Yes, he was a clever man,” said Brinsley. “Still, the law says ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ But hang it all,” the newspaper man gave a little thump to the table, “if Sir George Borgham did what Sanchez said he’d done, he deserved all he got, and more. I’ve cabled over to my South American correspondents to trace back his career, and I’ll print and publish every item of it. Professor, here’s your cheque for £500 from The Wire. ”