The Bartenstein Case/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
THE SPANISH SWORD-STICK
When Chief Detective-Inspector Dwayne, hurriedly sent off from Scotland Yard on the summons of the local police, arrived at Mr. Bartenstein's residence in a taxi-cab, whose driver had not paid particular heed to speed regulations, he found himself met by a police-inspector and a divisional-surgeon who both looked exceedingly grave.
"Well?" said Dwayne as he sprang from the cab.
"It's a case of murder without a doubt," said the police-inspector.
"Certainly," said the divisional-surgeon.
"Everything is just as we found it," continued the police-inspector. "Nothing had been touched when we came, and I locked up the rooms until your arrival. Come upstairs."
The late Mr. Bartenstein's palatial residence that morning was in a state of confusion. In the beautiful hall, ornamented with rare examples of the sculptor's art, the June sunlight shone through tinted windows on a group of frightened domestics who, notwithstanding the butler and housekeeper's admonitions, could not be kept back from an endeavour to hear the news. At the foot of the great staircase a couple of policemen kept guard; another couple mounted guard at the door leading to the dead man's private rooms. These two stood aside as the three approached. The police-inspector drew a key from his pocket. He opened the door, admitted himself, Inspector Dwayne, and the divisional-surgeon, and relocked the door. They found themselves in a sort of sitting-room, richly but plainly furnished with an old cabinet or two, a few Chippendale chairs, a square table on which writing materials were spread out, two cases of finely bound books, and a deep lounge placed in front of the fire-place. A clock and a couple of ornaments stood on the mantelpiece; one picture hung on each of the four walls.
"I've noticed this set of rooms particularly," said the police-inspector. "This is the first of three. He's in the last."
Inspector Dwayne, who was also noting everything in his own quick, observant way, walked into the next room. This was evidently the apartment of a private secretary. Handsomely furnished as it was, it had all the appurtenances of a business room—telephones, speaking-tubes, tapes. The solid, square desk in the middle was covered with documents neatly arranged and tied up. And here, instead of pictures, were maps, chiefly of South Africa, mounted and framed after a definite pattern, and hung on the walls at a convenient level for the eye.
"It's in here," said the police-inspector, turn- ing the handle of the last door, "and, as I said, everything's just as we found it."
Inspector Dwayne walked into a room of considerable dimensions, brilliantly illuminated by electric light. He took a rapid glance around it as he entered. Low bookcases filled with volumes in magnificent bindings ran round the walls; above them were rare pictures. Deep, luxurious chairs were everywhere—a great lounge stood between the two high windows, and before it was set out a table on which lay a supper-tray, nothing on which, Inspector Dwayne was quick to observe, had been disturbed. In the centre of the room was a vast desk covered with books and papers. And behind it, between it and the massive fireplace, Marcus Bartenstein lay dead. "You'll observe, Inspector," said the divisional-surgeon as they bent over the quiet figure, "that he's been stabbed through the heart, from behind. Until you came I refrained from making anything but a superficial examination, but we shall find that to be the fact. He had evidently been seated at this desk when the blow was dealt by his unseen assailant and, in the start which would follow, he had overbalanced, as you see from the upset chair, and fallen, rolling over on to his face."
"How long," asked Inspector Dwayne, "how long do you suppose he had been dead, doctor, when you saw him?"
"It was exactly twenty-five past seven when I got here," answered the divisional-surgeon, "and I should say he had been dead about seven hours. Certainly not less than that."
Inspector Dwayne straightened himself and glanced round the room again.
"Dr. Vernon's coming along from the Yard," he said. "You'd better make a thorough examination of the body on his arrival. Meanwhile, who found it?"
"His valet, a man named Chester," answered the police-inspector. "Found him a minute or two after seven, and immediately telephoned for us. Chester was the last man to see him alive too," he added.
"Where is Chester?" asked Inspector Dwayne.
"He's all right," replied the police-inspector. "I told one of my men to keep an eye on him until we had time to ask him for further particulars."
Inspector Dwayne made no remark upon this—he began to look round the room more systematically. So far as he could see, there was no sign of any struggle; everything was in order. He assured himself, by a closer inspection, that the supper-tray had not been touched; there were two or three sorts of sandwiches in covered dishes on it and a small bowl of soup; neither soup nor sandwiches had been tasted. A decanter of whisky flanked a syphon of soda-water, and close by stood two tumblers; the tumblers were quite clean, and nothing had been drawn from the syphon or taken from the decanter, both of which were full. Inspector Dwayne deduced from that that the dead man had been struck down between the time of his entrance into the room and the time when he would, in the ordinary course of things, have had recourse to the supper-tray—in other words, that he had been murdered by someone concealed in the room when he had entered.
Inspector Dwayne continued to saunter round. In one corner of the room, on the right of the fire-place, he saw a heavy curtain which hung from a solid brass rod fixed in the angle of the wall. Drawing this aside, he found himself confronted by an arch which slightly projected into the room itself. In this arch was set an oak door, heavily studded with square-headed nails. Inspector Dwayne tried the handle and found the door locked. He saw at a glance that the murderer could easily have hidden behind the curtain.
And as he turned away he saw something else. In the angle of the projecting fire-place and the wall stood a collection of curious walking-sticks and canes, each more or less remarkable for its make, or its head, or its carving. One of these had fallen down. Inspector Dwayne picked it up. And he suddenly saw that he was holding a sword-stick which was not quite closed. The gleam of the steel shone under the electric light for a good half-inch at the jointing.
Inspector Dwayne made a sign to the others, and in their presence drew the blade from its sheath. It was of extraordinary fineness, tapering to an almost needle-like point. And it was stained with blood.
At that moment a loud knocking at the door of the outer room was heard. The police-inspector went to answer it, and presently returned with Dr. Vernon. Inspector Dwayne presently showed him the sword-stick, and all four men examined it more closely. It was made of a dark cane, and its head was ornamented with a very heavy solid silver setting in the form of a globe, on the surface of which was an almost illegible inscription which Dr. Vernon unhesitatingly pronounced to be in Spanish, enclosing an equally illegible figure somewhat resembling an angel. All gazed at the blood-stains on the blade.
"That," said the divisional-surgeon, "is exactly the weapon to have caused the wound from what I have deduced so far. But we shall know more after a proper examination."
The doctors and the officials now made arrangements for the removal and examination of the body, and when these were complete, and the dead man taken to another apartment, Inspector Dwayne, who had placed the sword-stick in a place of safety, went in search of the valet Chester, whom he asked to accompany him to the scene of the murder. Chester, who had evidently suffered a terrible shock by the discovery of his master's body, displayed considerable uneasiness at going into the study.
"I understand that you found Mr. Bartenstein's dead body?" said Inspector Dwayne.
"I did, sir," replied Chester.
"Just as the police saw it when they first came?" said the Inspector.
"Nothing, sir, was touched; the butler and I immediately closed and locked the door," said the valet.
"And you were the last person to see your master alive?"
"Except the villain who killed him, sir!" said Chester.
"Did he come home alone last night?"
"He came home alone, sir, but he didn't come up here alone," replied the valet. "Just before he returned a gentleman drove up here in a taxi-cab and asked to see my master, who had not returned. While we were talking at the door—all the rest of the household being gone to bed, sir—my master came up in his motor-brougham. A few words passed between him and the gentleman, and then Mr. Bartenstein, after asking me if his usual supper-tray was up here, told me that I could go to bed, as he would let the gentleman out. Then they went upstairs together—and I never saw my master again until I found him lying dead this morning," concluded Chester with some emotion.
"Can you describe the gentleman?" asked the Inspector.
"Yes, sir—a tall, handsome young man, very soldierly in appearance, with a very bronzed face and reddish-brown moustache, sir. Wearing evening dress, sir, and had a black overcoat of dull cloth on. Struck me as an officer, sir," said the valet.
"Did you hear his name?" asked Inspector Dwayne.
Chester shook his head sorrowfully.
"I did, sir—leastways, I heard my master speak it, but I was hanging up his coat at the moment, and I didn't quite catch it, and I've forgotten it," he said. "All I'm certain of is that it ended in 'dale'—Littledale or something like that."
"Had you ever seen this gentleman before?"
"Never, sir, and I'm sure he'd never been here before. All of us have been with Mr. Bartenstein since he came back from South Africa five years ago, and none of us ever recollect such a gentleman calling," answered the valet.
"You see that curtain? There's a door behind it," said the Inspector. "What does the door lead to?"
"To a turret-stair, sir, built out at the corner of the house," said Chester. "My master had it made so that he could go straight down from this room to the garden. You'll find the key on his private bunch, sir."
Inspector Dwayne produced the sword-stick.
"Have you ever seen this before?" he said.
Chester looked at the sword-stick narrowly and shook his head.
"No, sir, never. But then," he said with a glance at the sticks and canes in the corner, "my master had a regular mania for buying things of that sort—there's more of 'em about the house—and he'd often bring a new one home and stick it down anywhere. No, sir, I've not noticed that before."
"All right, that's all, thank you," said Inspector Dwayne, and put up his note-book.
A handsome man, in evening dress, looking like a soldier, and having a name ending, the valet thought, with "dale". Not a great clue, said Inspector Dwayne to himself as he went back to headquarters later on, but he had known of much slighter ones that came to fruition.
And then London woke to the knowledge of its latest mystery, and all the town throbbed with excitement, and the newspapers sold like hot cakes on a cold day. And towards evening a tall young man with a gold-red moustache and steel-blue eyes walked into Inspector Dwayne's room and pulled himself up before that gentleman's desk.
"I am Lieutenant Lauderdale," he said, laying down a card. "As I was probably the last person to see Mr. Bartenstein alive, I have come to see if I can be of service to you."