CHAPTER IX. The Cigar Band
The crowd that had assembled at the inquest at Marsh Quay loitered for a while discussing the one important topic. Newspaper men were busy with notebook and camera. The removal of the body of Reginald Templeton from the “Mariner’s Arms” to the mortuary at Frattenbury, pending the funeral the next day, was eagerly watched. Members of the jury, for the most part stolid agricultural labourers or boatmen, were closely questioned by friends or relatives, but, on the whole, recognising the importance of their office, were not communicative.
Mr. Proctor refused to say a word to anyone. He came out of the “Mariner’s Arms,” lighting a cigar as he did so, and walked straight over to his house opposite, blandly smiling at an irrepressible reporter who asked him to pose for his camera.
The coroner drove away with the Chief Constable in the latter’s car, austere and grave as usual. Anthony Crosby, the superintendent and Colson held a brief consultation in the inn parlour, where it was arranged that the lawyer should call at the police station the next morning for further discussion.
“What are you going to do, Colson?” asked the superintendent as he rose to go. “Are you coming back to Frattenbury?”
“I want to think a bit, sir. I may cycle in later on. But I’m fairly puzzled just now. There are two men we want to get hold of, anyhow—this artist chap who was staying here, and Moss, opposite.”
The superintendent nodded.
“We’re bound to do that,” he said. “I expect there’ll be reports when I get back to the station. Well, I’ll leave you now.”
Everyone else but the detective having left the inn, Mrs. Yates locked the front door and came into the bar parlour.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Colson?”
“Yes, please. I should like some strong tea. Then I want you to keep everyone away.”
“Trust me for that, sir. Not a soul comes into this house till six, when I’m bound to open. I want to have a little quiet myself, Mr. Colson. What with all these reporters and people asking questions I’m fairly bewildered. I hope there won’t be any more murders here as long as I keeps the ‘Mariner’s Arms,’ I do indeed.”
Seated at the table, drinking his tea, his notebook in front of him, Detective-Sergeant Colson deliberately and methodically reviewed the case, making his deductions as he did so, and writing them out concisely. And this was the result when he finally closed his pocket-book:
“Templeton’s object in coming to Marsh Quay. First, to see Moss. That requires investigation. Secondly, to see his cousin. We know all about that. Thirdly, an interview with some unknown person in Frattenbury, who must have been the last person who saw him before he was murdered. Why did not that person come forward to give evidence? But he might not have lived in Frattenbury itself——he might have spoken, loosely, of the neighbourhood. He might have arranged to see Moss again—or this artist chap—or even Proctor. They are all possible.
“Reason for appointment. He hinted that he was carrying something valuable. We know what that was. Diamonds. There were probably more than the one we found. Who has them now?
“Clues. Only four at present of any value—possibly only two. (1) The blotting-paper. Not easy to make out. If deciphered, it might lead to finding out with whom the appointment was made, or what it was about. But very uncertain. (2) The diamond. But that only appears to prove that he had others. (3) The walking-stick. Most important, this. It is pretty certain that the man who thinks he has recovered it is the criminal. If only I hadn’t muddled it! (4) The cigar band. I ought to have spotted that, and not have left it to that confounded parson to find. There may be something in it, certainly.
“Possible suspects. (1) Moss. Why did he leave in such a hurry? The fact of the murderer being on the spot last night, when he got that walking-stick, seems to rule Moss out. But not necessarily. He might easily have run down from London last night. There’s a lot to be inquired into here. (2) Grayson, the artist. Why did he leave in a hurry? He’s certainly got to be run to earth. (3) Proctor. Yes—Proctor puzzles me. Such a cool old chap! He would have known exactly where to land in that canoe—and, if so, he knew perfectly well that the boy would find it there in the morning. Also, he’s been in Switzerland. That stick again! And I thought he was never going to leave off examining that cigar band at the inquest. We must keep a sharp eye on Proctor. If he’s not simply a fool, he’s as wily as they make ’em.”
When he had closed his notebook and put it in his pocket, the detective lighted his pipe and sat, smoking thoughtfully, looking out of the window. He realised that the case was all the more difficult because the few clues that he held, and the slight facts he had to go upon, might equally apply to any one of the three persons he had enumerated as being suspicious. And if, as it seemed, his work was to eliminate two of these persons, he was anxious to make no mistake.
Colson was not the detective of fiction. He was simply a shrewd, careful man, keenly observant, with a police training. Had he been that brilliant genius which the writer of fiction is so fond of delineating, he would, after his manner, by this time have made some supernaturally clever deduction, which would have enabled him to spot the criminal at once, and to run him down unerringly, with the additional triumph attached to it that all his colleagues, and every other person concerned, had been absolutely wrong in their suspicions. He would, probably, have adopted extraordinary disguises, kept all his clues and methods to himself, and never have given a hint of them to his superior officers, and finally have achieved that superlative climax in which he would have exclaimed, “Alone I did it!”
But Colson was what, in spite of the writers of fiction, is a useful personage in tracing crime—Colson was a policeman, and he knew the value of those often-derided police methods. He, for example, could sit now, calmly smoking his pipe, secure in the knowledge that every police station in the district was on the look-out for Grayson, the artist, that in a very short time Moss would probably be found—also by police methods—and that a little police machinery, which the superintendent was already putting in hand as a result of their brief conference after the inquest, would prevent Proctor from slipping away from the neighbourhood unobserved—if he had any such idea in his mind.
As Colson looked out of the window, half lost in reflections, he noticed a man detach himself from the little group that still lingered near the scene of the tragedy, and go walking up the quay, hands in pockets. It was Tom Gale, the “crew and cook” of the schooner that was still moored at the quay head, waiting for his cargo.
An idea struck the detective.
“That chap was about all the time,” he argued, “it might be worth while having another chat with him.”
So he went out, strolled along the quay, and finally stepped aboard the schooner, where he found Tom Gale in his favourite attitude of leaning over the bulwarks.
“Well,” he said, as he went up to him, “you gave your evidence well to-day, my man. We like a witness who speaks out plainly, and you did it.”
Tom grinned approval of the compliment. Inwardly he was proud of being in any way mixed up with the case. He knew he could tell the story—with self-complimentary embellishments—for many weeks in divers bars, and that many invitations to “have one with me, mate,” would be the resulting homage.
“Ah,” he said, “I told ’em what I knew. I wish it had been more, sir.”
“So do we all. But what you told us of Templeton crossing the estuary—and seeing Moss—was important, you know.”
Tom Gale made a mental note of how he could truthfully say afterwards that if it hadn’t been for him the police would have missed the very essence of things—the detective himself had told him so—and then spoke.
“Ah,” he said, “I seen him plain enough. Just over yonder ’twas,” and he jerked his thumb in the direction of the opposite shore, “that ’ere little Jew fellow, Moss, he stood on the shore, just there. D’ye think ’twas him as did it, sir?” he asked with relish.
The detective shook his head mysteriously.
“Ah,” he said, “we mustn’t jump to conclusions hastily, you know. So you saw him plainly, did you?”
“Ah. T’other chap was only just a-askin’ on me who lived in that house and I was tellin’ on him, when there was Moss himself—I pointed ’im out.”
“What do you mean by ‘t’other chap’?” asked the detective sharply.
“Why, him as was standin’ just where you might be, sir, at the time—that young artist feller what was lodging at the ‘Mariner’s Arms.’ ”
“Oh!” said Colson, thoughtfully, “he was with you, was he?”
“O’ course he was, sir—now, ought I to ha’ told ’em that at the inquest? I never thought of it.”
“No, no,” said the other. “It didn’t matter at all. But, tell me. If this artist—Grayson is his name—was with you, did he recognise Mr. Templeton when he came back? Or speak to him?”
Tom Gale shook his head.
“No, sir; directly Mr. Templeton started coming across, this here artist chap went straight back to the inn—looked almost as if he didn’t want Mr. Templeton to see him.”
“Oh, did it?” said Colson. “Yes, I see.”
He filled his pipe and handed his pouch to the other man. Tom Gale put his hand in his pocket, ostensibly to get his pipe, and exclaimed:
“ ’Ullo. I’d forgotten this,” and drew forth a crumpled cigar.
He looked at it ruefully.
“Meant to ha’ smoked him yesterday, bein’ Sunday,” he said; “now he’s too far gone. I must chop him up and smoke him in my pipe. ’Tain’t often I gets hold of a cigar, guv’nor.”
Colson, who was looking at the cigar intently, asked him quietly:
“Where did you get it from?”
“That ’ere artist feller we was just a-talkin’ about gave ’im to me, sir, up yonder in the ‘Mariner’s Arms.’ A good ’un, I reckon, ain’t he?”
The detective took the cigar in his hand and smelt it. But, all the time, he was carefully examining the band.
“Yes, it’s good enough,” he said. “Pity you’ve spoilt it. Oh—so Grayson gave it to you, did he?”
“Yes, sir—Saturday afternoon, we was sittin’ in the bar parlour, me and him, and he gave ’im to me. He smoked two of ’em while I was there.”
“Well, look here,” said Colson, “have one of mine instead, to make up for it.” And he pulled out what he called his “diplomatic cigar case.” He rarely smoked anything but a pipe himself, but he always kept a few good cigars in his pocket. He knew their value—when he was in search of information.
“Take a couple,” he went on.
“Thankee, sir—don’t mind if I do.”
Tom Gale lighted one of them and smoked complacently. The detective talked volubly and then bid him good afternoon.
“Blowed if he ain’t took that cigar o’ mine with him,” murmured Tom Gale after he had gone. “Absent-minded like, I’ll ’low. It doan’t matter, though.”
Colson, who had quietly slipped the crushed cigar into his pocket, walked rapidly back to the inn. Arrived in the bar parlour, he laid the cigar on the table, took from his case the band which the Canon had handed in at the inquest, and carefully compared it with the other.
A smile lightened his face.
“That’s better!” he exclaimed. “Here’s something to go upon at last. The same brand, that’s what they are. It’s a good brand, but not specially exclusive as that idiot of a parson wanted to make out. Same brand as he smoked, he said. Very likely, but the clergy ain’t got the monopoly of the cigar trade. Anyhow, this looks convincing. This young Grayson smoked these cigars, and someone who was aboard the yacht smoked one of ’em there. It’s good enough to go upon. Mrs. Yates!”
He opened the door as he spoke. The landlady bustled in.
“I’m going back to Frattenbury now. And I shan’t be staying the night here.”
“Sorry to lose you, Mr. Colson.”
“Can’t be helped, Mrs. Yates. I don’t think there’s anything to keep me here for the present. Oh—tell me. This young lodger of yours smoked cigars, didn’t he?”
“He did, sir—as I knows. He was always dropping the ash about—on my bedroom carpet too.”
“Do your carpets good, if you rub the ash in.”
“Lor’, sir! And the mess he made in the grate, too.”
The detective looked at the grate sharply. On the top of the coals, that were laid there ready to be lighted, was a sprinkling of cigar ash and a couple of red and gold bands. He picked them out.
“These came off his cigars, I suppose?”
“They must have, Mr. Colson. It’s few folks ever smokes them things here. Pipes and ’baccy is what they mostly uses.”
“Quite so. Well, I’ll run up and pack my bag while you get my bill ready.”
He rode quickly into Frattenbury, in a very cheerful mood, and reported to the superintendent. That functionary was delighted.
“Good!” he exclaimed. “You’ve done well, Colson. We must have this Grayson at any price. Thompson has just been in to report that he stayed at Selham on Sunday and Sunday night—at the ‘Wheatsheaf.’ ”
“Did he?” exclaimed Colson. “That makes matters clearer than ever. He was on the spot on Sunday night, eh?”
“He was seen riding into Frattenbury a couple of hours ago,” went on the superintendent. “We’ll soon have him. He can’t get away by train—we’ve seen to that. By the way, Colson, the post has just brought in a letter from the London police about Moss. You’d better see it.”
He handed a typewritten paper to the detective, who read:
Isaac Moss. In reference to your inquiries concerning this man, I beg to report as follows. He rents a small office at 13a, Hatton Garden. Deals in jewels, mostly diamonds, and is well known. Private residence, “Fairview,” No. 53, Compton Avenue, Brondesbury. Nothing known against him. Possesses passport, as he is frequently in Amsterdam. Boats being watched as precaution.
“I sent Tyler up yesterday,” went on the superintendent. “He’s probably on his track by this time.”
Late that night a message came through from Tyler:
Tracked our man, and have him under observation.
Colson smoked the pipe of peace at his own fireside that night. His wife listened attentively as he told her all that he had done that day.
“Looks promising, doesn’t it?”
She thought for a minute or two before she replied:
“I hope so—for your sake. But there are still difficulties. I want to know why the little bag with the one diamond was put back in Mr. Templeton’s waistcoat pocket—if the rest were stolen. And you say yourself that the cigar band was not a very extraordinary one. Be careful, dear, won’t you? I want you to come out of this well, you know——”
Colson smiled grimly.
“All right, old girl,” he said, “I’ll be careful. I know what you mean. We don’t want to get anyone sent up for trial till we’re quite certain. It’s too big a risk—and I’m not taking any risks in this job.”