Dorothy Fielding - Chief Inspector Pointer's Cases - 12 Golden Age Murder Mysteries

Pointer's eyes, deep hidden under his nearly closed lids, studied the young woman attentively. He did not often make a mistake, if the person left a clear impression on him, and Miss Mason left a very distinct one. He judged her to be both exceedingly honest, and exceedingly loyal. Most estimable qualities, as he was the first to admit, but not at all what he was in search of to-night. A few hours later Pointer was shown into the X-ray room by an orderly, and took an instant liking to his foxy face with the avaricious mouth.

"Come to my room the last thing to-night," Pointer muttered, and the man bowed with a knowing and obsequious smile, "Very good, sir."

Something in a glass for the patient, and something in his pocket for himself, was the usual outcome of this often heard remark. Once they were "cases" the thing was too risky, of course, but beforehand—why not let them have a cocktail?

So at eleven o'clock that night in slipped Mr. Keane. He saw in the light of the reading lamp a bulky something in bed, and closed the door with a gentle cough.

"I'm come, sir."

He turned with a gasp. The door was locked behind him, and Pointer faced him with a very masterful look.

"It's all right; don't be alarmed, man! I'm a private detective. I want some information on behalf of a wealthy, client who's prepared to pay for it."

"Well, this is a movie!" The man grinned. "To think those moans of yours were fakes! They'd make the fortune of a street beggar, wouldn't they! Nearly froze my blood, they did, and I've heard some in my time. But what's all this about?"

"It's about a man who was brought in here late last, Thursday night, May 1st, with some cuts on him." Pointer took out his notebook and also a five-pound note. "Know anything about such a man?"

"Is that a book-mark?" asked Keane, looking at it.

"It's a prize for a bright boy," Pointer assured him "Did any man come here that night?"

"I know that a chap came, but that's all that I do know."

"Can you get me a glimpse of him?"

"Nothing doing," the man said glumly. "Had your groans for nothing. No one is allowed near that room but her High Mightiness the Matron and her equally Grand Highness Nurse Mason. He's had an operation, by Sir Martin on Saturday, and seems to be doing well as Mr. Carlyle, that's the house doctor and assistant surgeon, only visits him night and morning. That enough for a fiver?"

Pointer shook his head and returned the note to his letter-case.

"Might run to ten shillings," he said musingly.

"And how do I know who you are? Looks a fishy job to me, if ever I saw one."

"I'm Merton, of Merton and Mertons, private detectives. There's my card; you can 'phone to my office and ask about me."

The head of the firm in question was an ex-inspector of the Yard, and Pointer had made his arrangements. Keane looked at the ten-shilling note.

"Hand it over then."

Pointer cocked his head on one side.

"Takes a bit of earning, does a ten-shilling note these hard times, my man. I might raise it to a pound if I could see into the room for a second."

"You might!" ironically repeated the other, "and what price my place? Nothing doing!"

"I might double that again if I could go over the clothes the young man wore when he came. I suppose he is a young man?"

The ten shillings changed hands.

"Can't say. How's that for honesty? I never saw him. The matron and Mr. Carlyle were waiting for the car, and got him on to the stretcher themselves. His mother helped them."

"Was that usual? The house-surgeon and the matron being on the lookout like that?"

"Not unusual, perhaps. But they've never made such a fuss before about not letting any one into the room afterwards. I happened to open the door by mistake, and that Mason snapped my nose off."

"Severe case, eh?"

"Not since the operation. There's been no call for ice bags, let alone the oxygen pump. But that stretcher was a sight! He must have all but cut an artery."

Then Keane went off for the clothes.

"Nothing doing," he said on his return "Blest if they haven't gone. To the cleaners and laundry, says the tag hanging in their place. But his shoes have gone, too! And a travelling rug, that I know came with him, isn't there. Fine and stained it was, too."

Pointer got the name of the laundry and cleaners generally patronised by the institution.

"When was the operation?"

"Tuesday morning."

The date was the first Tuesday after Rose's death. "Sister in charge of the theatre approachable?"

"I don't think!" Keane made a grimace which it took handsomer features than his to carry off successfully.

"Now, the man's mother, can you describe her?"

"Tall and slender. Veiled like one of those Eastern Harems."

"Came in a car?" Pointer asked

"She did. What's more, she drove it in. I was a bit late coming in, and I happened to slip in behind it."

"But if she was closely veiled, how did she drive?"

"Well, that's funny, now you speak of it, but I happened to be going out of the gate when she drove off—to post a letter, you know—I again happened to see her meet a big stout man around the first corner. She got out and stood talking for a minute Then he put his arms round her and kissed her, and after that he climbed into the driving seat and they drove off."

"Kissed her?" Something in his tone made Keane glance at him out of the corners of his eyes.

"You seem struck all of a heap. He kissed her as though he meant it, too. None of your hit or miss pecks."

"I thought you said she was veiled so tightly—"

"Well, what of it? He kissed one cheek, veil and all, and looked as though he would have been quite pleased to kiss the other, but she stepped on into the car."

"Did she seem to mind being kissed? Move away, I mean, or that?"

"Not a bit. She sort of half-leant her head on his shoulder, like as though she were dead tired, you know, before she bucked up and got into the car."

Pointer spread his photographs on the table.

"Can you recognise him?"

"That's him." The man picked up one of Colonel Scarlett. "That's him, right enough."

"Could you swear to him?"

"Till all's blue."

"Good. Now I want something with the patient's finger-prints on it. A tumbler, how would that do? Could you manage to get me the one he uses?"

Keane shook his head.

"No more than you could sneak the King's sceptre. He's guarded night and day."

"Guarded?"

"Well, what do you think? Of course, Sir Martin is always careful, but over this case! I tell you that chap hasn't been left alone for a half-second. He's of tremendous importance to somebody."

Pointer thought a moment

"What is Sir Martin's general fee for head operations?"

"Plain sailing ones, fifty pounds; dicky ones, a hundred. Not going to be done for the fun of the thing, are you?"

Pointer was thinking of a cheque to "Self" that the colonel had drawn on Friday as soon as the banks were open. It had been for two hundred pounds, and he had asked for it all in Bradburys.

Pointer dismissed the orderly and walked the floor, knee-deep in the detached facts of the case. They still refused to shape into that neat circle which alone means the true theory of a crime. Yet they were so numerous that he felt sure that the essential ones were here to hand, buried though they might be beneath accidentals. They could not all be tangents by rights.

As he picked them up one by one, and examined and tested each afresh, he found that there was one fact told him, and accepted by him, which, if broken, would let all the rest link in one behind the other.

Next morning he was as keen to be off as any belated burglar. The house-surgeon explained that there could be nothing organic the matter. Pointer refused the proffered arrangement with a home for nerve cases, and shambled into a taxi again, but this time with Keane's address safely in his letter-case.