Five Red Herrings (35 page)

At this point, Constable Ross cleared his throat in so pointed a manner that everyone turned to look at him.

‘I perceive from your manner, Ross,’ said his lordship, ‘that to you also the word bicycle has not been devoid of significance. With the permission of these other gentlemen, I should greatly like to hear your version of the matter.’

The constable looked at the Chief Constable for his approval, and receiving a nod, embarked upon his theory.

‘The thing that’s in my mind,’ said he, ‘is this man Waters. Here’s a man wi’ a verra unsatisfactory alibi, which is no capable o’ proof. We have not yet established communication wi’ this man Drewitt an’ his sailing-yacht—’

‘Just a moment, Ross,’ broke in the Chief Constable. ‘We got a wire in from him this morning from Arisaig. We just missed him at Oban. He wires, “Waters joined us at Doon 8.30 Tuesday morning. Left yacht Gourock Saturday. Writing.” He has also, I understand, made a confirmatory statement to the police.’

‘Aye,’ said Ross, not in the least disconcerted, ‘ay, imph’m. But we dinna ken what kind o’ a man is this Drewitt. He’ll be for backing up Waters ony gait, tae my thinkin’. He may swear till he’s black in the face Waters went aboard at the Doon, but the fact remains that naebody saw him to speak to, an’ the bicycle has clean disappeared. In my opinion, yon bicycle is doon in the deep waters betune Arran an’ Stranraer, an’ ye’ll never see it mair till it rises oot o’ the sea tae bear witness at the great Day of Judgment. Unless,’ he added, with some sacrifice of picturesqueness, ‘ye sairch for’t wi’ deep-sea tackle.’

‘What’s your idea, then, Ross?’

‘Well, Sir Maxwell, ’tis this, an’ ’tis awfu’ clear an’ simple tae my thinkin’. Here’s Campbell, fou’ as a puggie an’ looking for trouble. He has a row wi’ Waters an’ says it’ll no end there. He’s aff away to Gatehouse, an’ he meets Gowan an’ gets the better o’ him. “That’s fine,” thinks he, “it’s my night the night.” He’s away home an’ he gets drinkin’ again, and he thinks to himsel’, “What for wad I no drag that bastard Waters” (beggin’ your pardon) “oot o’ his bed an’ finish wi’ him now?” He gets his car oot again an’ starts away. Ferguson will be asleep an’ no hearin’ him. He admits himsel’ he didna hear Strachan gae, an’ what for wad he ha’ heard Campbell? He drives ower tae Kirkcudbright an’ chucks stones at Waters’ window. Waters looks oot, sees him an’ thinks, “We’ll no have a row in the street.” He lets him in an’ they talk a bit, an’ yin or t’ither o’ them says, “We’ll away up tae the stoojo an’ fight it oot.” They do so, an’ Campbell’s killt.

‘Waters is in an awfu’ pickle and doesna ken what tae do. He’s comin’ oot o’ the stoojo in a distracted condition when he meets his friend Drewitt, that’s visitin’ there wi’ his hired car. “Drewitt,” says he, “I’m in awfu’ trouble. I’ve killt a man,” he says, “an’ I dinna ken what tae do. It was a fair fight,” he says, “but they’ll bring it in murder an’ I’ll be hangit.” Then they puts their heids tegither an’ makes a plan. Drewitt’s away tae Mrs. McLeod’s for tae impairsonate Waters. An’ ye’ll mind,’ added Constable Ross, forcibly, ‘that Mrs. McLeod never set eyes on her lodger fra’ the time he went oot a little after midnicht. She heard him come upstairs, she heard him ca’ oot when she brought up the water, an’ when she came in fra’ the back o’ the hoose, he’d eaten his breakfast and away.’

‘Drewitt would be takin’ an awfu’ risk,’ said Macpherson.

‘Ay, but murderers maun tak’ risks,’ said Ross. ‘In the meantime, Waters is away wi’ Campbell’s car an’ his bicycle at the same time that Drewitt entered the hoose. Then he does a’ the same things as we’ve suggested for the other suspects. He’s away wi’ the body at 7.30. I’m thinkin’ he’ll ha’ ta’en the auld road through Gatehouse Station an’ he’ll maybe have had engine trouble in that lonely place, or burst a tyre an’ had tae change the wheel. The road’s wicked wi’ the ruts and the stones thereabouts. Ony gait, he passes the New Galloway turnin’ at 9.35 an’ arrives at the Minnoch at 10. He pents his picture, throws the body into the burn and makes off on his bicycle. He has plenty o’ time, for he’ll no be able tae carry oot the rest o’ his plan before nightfall. He hides up in the hills, an’ it’s here he’ll be cursin’ himsel’, for he’ll ha’ forgot tae bring wi’ him the sandwiches that was found in Campbell’s satchel. Ay, he’ll be fine an’ empty before night. When ’tis safe for him tae move, he rides his bicycle tae the appointed meetin’-place wi’ Drewitt.

‘Drewitt will ha’ been workin’ up the coast, like he said. It will ha’ been Drewitt as was seed tae go aboard at the Doon, an’ after that, the course o’ the yacht will agree wi’ Waters’ statement. In the night, she’ll make across fra’ Lady Bay tae Finnart Bay, an’ pick up Waters that’s ridden doon by the high road fra’ Pinwherry. They take the bicycle on board an’ return tae lie up in Lady Bay. After that they hae only tae carry oot their original sailing plan, an’ land Waters at Gourock on Saturday mornin’, after sinkin’ the bicycle some place where it’ll no be easy found. Man! it’s as plain as the nose on your face.’

‘But—’ said the Chief Constable.

‘But—’ said the Inspector.

‘But—’ said the Sergeant.

‘But—’ said Constable Duncan.

‘Imph’m,’ said the Fiscal. ‘All these theories are very interesting, gentlemen, but they are all conjectural. I congratulate you all extremely upon your ingenuity and hard work, but to say which theory is the most probable is a harder choice than that between Portia’s caskets. It appears to me that all are worth being followed up, and that the next step is to prosecute inquiries which may tend to confirm either one or the other of them. The movements of all cars upon the roads in the district must be checked with the greatest possible care. The man Drewitt must be interviewed and closely questioned, and the persons living about Finnart Bay and Lady Bay must be asked whether they observed anything of the movements of the yacht. At least we can feel certain that one among the five theories presented to us must be the true one, and that is something. Do you not think so, Lord Peter?’

‘Yes, Wimsey,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘You told the Inspector the other day that you had solved the problem. Are you in a position to give a casting vote? Which of our suspects is the murderer?’

THE MURDERER

‘This,’ said Lord Peter Wimsey, ‘is the proudest moment of my life. At last I really feel like Sherlock Holmes. A Chief Constable, a Police Inspector, a Police Sergeant and two constables have appealed to me to decide between their theories, and with my chest puffed like a pouter-pigeon, I can lean back in my chair and say, “Gentlemen, you are all wrong.”’

‘Damn it,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘we can’t all be wrong.’

‘You remind me,’ said Wimsey, ‘of the steward who said to the Channel passenger, “You can’t be sick here.” You can all be wrong and you are.’

‘But we’ve suspected everybody,’ said Sir Maxwell. ‘See here, Wimsey, you’re not going to turn round now and say that the crime was committed by Mrs. Green or the milkman, or somebody we’ve never heard of? That would be in the very worst tradition of the lowest style of detective fiction. Besides, you said yourself that the murderer was an artist, and you even picked out those six artists yourself. Are you going back on that now?’

‘No,’ said Wimsey, ‘I wouldn’t do anything quite so mean as that. I’ll qualify my original statement. You are all wrong, but one of you is less wrong than the rest. Still none of you has got the right murderer, and none of you has got the whole of the method right, though some of you have got bits of it.’

‘Don’t be portentous and tiresome, Wimsey,’ said Sir Maxwell. ‘There is a serious side to this matter. If you possess any information that we do not, you ought to let us have it. In fact, you ought to have let us have it at once, instead of wasting our time like this.’

‘I did let you have it at once,’ said Wimsey. ‘I let you have it on the day of the crime, only you keep on forgetting it. And I haven’t really been holding anything up my sleeve. I had to wait till all the suspects were roped in before I could be certain of my theory, because at any moment something might have turned up to unsettle it. And I haven’t actually proved it now, though I’ll undertake to do it any time you like.’

‘Come, come,’ said the Fiscal, ‘please tell us what it is you’re wanting to prove, and you shall be given every opportunity.’

‘Right-ho! I will be good. Now we’ll have to go back to the discovery of the body. The crucial point of the whole problem was there, and I pointed it out to you, Dalziel, and that was the thing that made us sure from the start that Campbell’s death was murder and no accident.

‘You remember how we found the body. It was lying in the burn, cold and stiff, and on the easel up above there was a picture, half-finished, together with a palette, a satchel and a painting-knife. We went through all the belongings of the dead man, and I said to you, “There’s something missing, and if we can’t find it, it means murder,” You remember that, Dalziel?’

‘I mind it fine, Lord Peter.’

‘In Campbell’s satchel we found nine tubes of oil colour — vermilion, ultramarine, two chrome yellows, viridian, cobalt, crimson lake, rose madder and lemon yellow. But there was no flake white. Now, as I explained to you at the time, it is absolutely impossible for a painter in oils to make a picture without using flake white. It is the fundamental medium which he uses to mix with his other colours to produce various shades of light and shadow. Even a man like Campbell, who used a great deal of pure colour, would as soon think of setting out to paint without flake white as you would to set out to catch trout without a cast. And in any case, the proof that Campbell had been using flake white that morning was proved by the picture itself, which contained huge masses of white cloud, wet and fresh and just laid on.

‘A glance at the palette confirmed this. It had seven blobs of colour on it, in this order: White, cobalt, viridian, vermilion, ultramarine, chrome yellow and rose madder.

‘Well, you know how we searched for that missing tube of colour. We turned out Campbell’s pockets, we scoured every inch of the ground and we lifted — or rather, you lifted, because I’d made tracks like a sensible man — every stone in that confounded stream, right down to the bridge. I told you the tube would probably be a big one, but that it might, of course, be nearly empty and therefore rather light. If it had been anywhere about, I think we may take it that you would have found it.’

‘Ay,’ said Dalziel, ‘ye may confidently assume that, my lord.’

‘Very well, then. There was, of course, the faint possibility that, after Campbell’s death, someone had come up and removed the tube, but we felt that to be too fantastic for consideration. Why should anybody steal just that one thing and nothing else? And then, there was the condition of the body, which suggested that death had occurred a good deal earlier than the amount of work on the picture would lead one to suppose. And by the way, doctor, I may as well relieve your mind and say at once that, in spite of Duncan’s able and ingenious special pleading, your estimate of the time of death was perfectly sound.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘Yes. Well, the question was, what had happened to the flake white? Taking all the appearances into consideration, I formed the opinion that (a) Campbell had been murdered, (b) the murderer had painted the picture, (c) he had for some reason taken the flake white away with him.

‘Now, why should he take it away? It would be the silliest possible thing for him to do, since its absence would instantly arouse suspicion. He must have taken it by mistake, and that meant that he must have automatically put it in the place where he was accustomed to put tubes of colour while painting. He hadn’t put it in any of the ordinary places — on the ground, or in a box, or in the satchel or on the tray attached to the easel. He must have bestowed it about his person somewhere, and a pocket was the likeliest place. So that from that moment I felt we ought to look about for a painter with the untidy habit of dropping paints into his pockets.’

‘You didn’t mention that,’ said Dalziel, reproachfully.

‘No, because I was afraid — forgive me — that if I had, you might possibly go and make inquiries about it, and if once the murderer had his attention drawn to this unfortunate habit of his, there would be an end of the habit and the inquiry. Besides, several painters might have the same habit. Or I might be entirely mistaken about the whole thing — it was a slender clue, and I might be straining it too far. I thought my best plan was to snoop about the studios and watch people at work and find out what their habits were. That was obviously a job which I, as a private person, could do better than any official. But I gave you the pointer, Dalziel, and you put it into your report. Anybody could have come to the same conclusion as I did. Why didn’t anybody?’

‘Never mind why we didn’t, Wimsey,’ said Sir Maxwell. ‘Go on with your story.’

‘The next thing,’ said Wimsey, ‘was — why all this elaborate fake with the picture? Why should a murderer hang round the place of the crime painting pictures? Obviously, to disguise the fact that Campbell had been killed at — well, whatever time he was killed. Say the previous night. That meant that the murderer hadn’t got a good alibi for the previous night or whenever it was. But if he wanted to make it look as though Campbell had been killed that morning, it meant that he must be preparing himself a cast-iron alibi for that particular morning. So I decided that I knew four things about the murderer already: (1) he was an artist, or he couldn’t have painted the picture, (2) he had a habit of putting paints in his pocket, (3) he had a weak alibi for the actual time of death, (4) he would have a good alibi for Tuesday morning.

38

‘Then came the discovery of the tar-marks on the car. That suggested that the alibi had somehow been worked out with the aid of a bicycle. But I couldn’t get farther than that, because I didn’t know when Campbell was killed, or when he was supposed to have started out for the Minnoch, or how long the picture would take to paint, or any details of that kind. But what I did know was that Campbell had been a quarrelsome kind of devil, and that at least six artists in the district had been going about shouting for his blood.