The Master Detective: Being Some Further Investigations of Christopher Quarles

by Percy James Brebner

CHAPTER V

THE DIFFICULTY OF BROTHER PYTHAGORAS

Whether it was my statement that criminals had grown cleverer than they used to be which aroused Quarles's interest so effectually, or whether it was that success made him thirst for further fields to conquer, I do not know. I do know, however, that he grew restless if any considerable time elapsed without my having a clue worthy of his powers.

As it happened we had two or three cases close together which stretched his powers to the utmost, and the extremely subtle manner in which he solved them shows him at his best.

When I sent him a telegram from Fairtown, merely requesting him to join me there, I felt certain he would come by the first available train, and was at the station to meet him.

"Fine, invigorating air this, Wigan," he remarked. "Is there really a case for us to deal with, or did you merely telegraph for the purpose of giving me a holiday?"

"The case is for you rather than for me. I am still—"

"Still waiting for something to turn up in the Beverley affair?" he asked.

"Were I answering a layman, or even a rival detective, I should look very wise and talk indefinitely of clues; to you I will admit a blank ten days, not a forward step in any direction whatever."

"So you send for me."

"Upon a different matter altogether," I returned.

I had come to Fairtown ten days ago on the lookout for a man named Beverley. His friends were anxious about him, and said they believed he was suffering from a loss of memory; the police had reason to suspect that he was implicated in some company-promoting frauds, and thought the family only wanted to find him to get him out of the country. His people were certainly not aware that I was looking for him in Fairtown, and I need not go into the reasons which made me expect to run my quarry to earth in this particular spot; they were sound ones, or I should not have spent ten days on the job.

To describe Fairtown would be superfluous. Every one knows this popular seaside resort. This year, I believe for the first time, a large tent had been erected behind the sea-baths building, which was occupied each week by a different company of entertainers. In my second week a troupe of pierrots was there, the "Classical P's," they were called, and hearing from some one in the hotel that they were quite out of the ordinary, I went on the Thursday evening. At the opening of the performance the leader of the troupe announced that Brother Pythagoras, after the performance on the previous evening, had been obliged to go to town, and unfortunately had not yet returned, so they would be without his services that night. There was some disappointment; he had a charming tenor voice, my neighbor told me. The full troupe numbered six, described on the program as Brothers Pluto, Pompey, and Pythagoras, and Sisters Psyche, Pomona, and Penelope; that night, of course, they were only five, but the entertainment was excellent.

Sister Pomona was altogether an exceptional pianist, her interpretation of items by Schumann and Mendelssohn being little short of a revelation. She was pretty, too, and her scarlet dress with its white pompons, and her pierrot's hat to match, suited her to perfection.

I was amongst the last left in the tent after the performance, partly owing to the position of my seat, partly, at least so Zena would have it later, and I did not contradict her, because I was lingering in the hope of getting another glimpse of Pomona. As I moved toward the exit there came a short scream, a terrified scream it seemed to me, from behind the stage. I turned back and waited, and in a minute or two Brother Pluto came from behind the curtains.

"Are you a doctor?" he asked.

"No, but—"

"I am a doctor," said a voice behind me.

I was not invited, but I followed the doctor. The space available for the artistes was very small. There was little more than passageway between the tent wall and the stage built up some three feet from the ground, and we had to step over the various paraphernalia which was necessary for the performance. What had happened was this. A projecting piece of woodwork had caught Pomona's dress as she passed, tearing off one of the white pompons, which had rolled underneath the platform. She saw it, as she supposed, lying in a dark corner, and stooped to reach it. What she had caught sight of, and what she caught hold of, was a man's hand, a cold hand. Brothers Pluto and Pompey were beside her a moment afterwards, and had dragged a body from under the stage. It was Brother Pythagoras, the performer who was supposed to have gone to London on the previous night. He was dressed in his pierrot costume, but had been dead some hours, the doctor said, death being due to a blow on the head, from a stick, probably.

I told the story to Quarles as we walked to the hotel.

"Does the doctor suggest an accident?" he asked.

"No."

"How long, in his opinion, had the man been dead?"

"Some hours."

"Twenty-four?"

"I particularly asked that question," I answered. "He thought death had taken place that day."

"It may be an interesting case," said Quarles doubtfully. "I suppose I can see the body."

"I have arranged that."

"Who are these brothers and sisters?"

"Pluto and Psyche are husband and wife, a Mr. and Mrs. Watson. She is a Colonial, and he has been in the Colonies for a year or two. It is their second season of entertaining in this country. Pompey, whose name is Smith, and Penelope, otherwise Miss Travers, have been with them from the first. Pomona, otherwise Miss Day, only joined them this season, and is evidently a lady. The dead man, Henley by name, joined them after the season had commenced, taking the place of a man who fell ill. He has been very reticent about himself."

"According to Watson, I suppose?" said Quarles.

"They were all agreed upon that point," I answered.

"On what points were they not agreed?" Quarles asked quickly.

"Well, although they all spoke in the warmest terms of their comrade, it struck me they were not all so fond of him as they made out."

"What makes you think that?"

"The way they looked at the dead man. Naturally, I was watching them rather keenly as the doctor made his examination."

"That is rather an interesting idea, Wigan, and has possibilities in it; still, a murdered man is not a pleasant sight, and the artistic temperament must be taken into consideration."

We went to the mortuary that afternoon. The dead man was still in the pierrot's dress—I had arranged this should be so, wishing to afford the professor every facility in his investigation. He was more interested in the dress than in the man, examining it very carefully with his lens. The stockings and shoes came in for close inspection, also the comical pierrot's hat, which he fitted to the dead man's head for a moment.

"Had he his hat on when he was pulled from under the platform?" he asked.

"No. It was found after the doctor's examination, close to where the body had been."

"Who found it?"

"Watson—Brother Pluto."

"Who first thought of looking for it?" Quarles asked.

"I think Watson just stooped down and saw it. He would naturally think of it, since it was part of the dress."

The professor nodded, as if the explanation satisfied him. Then he looked at the head, neck, and hands.

"He was a singer, you say?"

"Yes—a tenor."

"What instrument did he play?"

"I don't know."

"Ah, a sad end. Henley, you say his name was—I see there is 'H' marked in pencil in his hat."

"He called himself Henley," I answered; "it may not have been his real name. As I said, his companions know very little about him."

"So his friends, if he has any, cannot be advised of the tragedy. This company of mummers is alone in its mourning for him. I should like to examine this hat more closely, Wigan. Can I take it away with me?"

I arranged for him to do so, and we went back to the hotel.

"Do you find it an interesting case, Professor?" I asked.

"It certainly presents some difficulties which are interesting. The clue may lie in Henley's unknown past, and that might be a difficulty not to be overcome; or we may find the clue in jealousy."

"You surely are not thinking that—"

"Oh, I have not got so far as suspecting Watson or any of his companions," said Quarles, "but certain facts force us to keep an open mind, Wigan. To begin with, there was apparently no struggle before death. The blow was not so severe that a comparatively weak arm might not have delivered it, a woman's, for the sake of argument. We may, therefore, deduct two theories at once. He probably had no suspicion or fear of the person in whose company he was, and I think the doctor will endorse our statement if we affirm that he was not in a healthy condition. Personally, I should credit Henley with a fairly rapid past, which may account for his companions not looking upon the body with any particular kindness, as you noticed."

"You seem to have built more on that idea of mine than I intended," I said.

"I have built nothing at all on it," he answered. "I argue entirely from the appearance of the dead man. Another point. I looked for some sign that the dress had been put on after the man was dead. The signs all point to an opposite conclusion."

"The dress puzzles me," I said.

"Of course, if the doctor were not so certain that death had occurred during the day, we might place the murder at some time on the previous night, after the performance, when Henley would naturally be in his pierrot's dress, but why should he put it on during the day. There was no rehearsal, I suppose?"

"Nothing was said about it; besides, Henley was supposed to be in town."

"Yes, I know. That is one of our difficulties. I take it that neither Watson nor any of his company have offered any explanation of the tragedy?"

"I believe not. I saw the local inspector this morning, and he said nothing further had transpired, nor had any clue been found amongst the dead man's effects. Of course, if his companions had any guilty knowledge they would have made some explanation."

"Why?"

"To mislead us."

"My dear Wigan, there are times when you jump as far to a conclusion as a woman."

"I am arguing from a somewhat ripe experience," I retorted somewhat hotly.

"Strengthened by an interest in Sister Pomona, eh? Something of the old-fashioned school lingers about you, which is picturesque but always a handicap in these days. The methods of crime have changed just as the methods of other enterprises have changed. Your bungling villain has no chance nowadays; to succeed a criminal must be an artist, a scientist even, and he does not fall into the error of accusing himself by excusing himself. And since increased knowledge tends to simplify those explanations with which we have sought to explain away difficulties in the past, I think we shall be wise to apply modern methods to any difficulty with which we are confronted."

Naturally, I argued the point, endeavoring to justify myself, and in the process we nearly quarreled.

That night we went to the entertainment. It was an exceedingly full house, showing the commercial wisdom of the proprietors of the sea-baths in not canceling the engagement. The verve and go in the performance astonished me. One would not have supposed that a tragedy had happened in this little company of players. I felt that they ought to be horribly conscious of the ghastly thing which had been found under that platform only a few hours since. I said something of the kind to Quarles.

"Don't forget the artistic temperament," he answered.

"Surely it would be the very temperament to be influenced," I said.

"Presently we shall find out, perhaps," he whispered as Sister Pomona went to the piano.

It was Chopin she played to-night, and Quarles, who had been more interested in her than in the rest of the company, immediately lost himself in the music. He applauded as vociferously as any one in the audience, and after the performance would talk of nothing but music. It pleased him to become learned on harmony and counterpoint; at least, I suppose it was learned; I could not understand him.

I had suggested that he should make the acquaintance of the pierrots as soon as the curtain was down, but this he would not do.

"To-morrow will be time enough; besides, I want to see them with the paint off."

We called on them on the following morning. They had rooms in a quiet street in Fairtown. The landlady was accustomed to have strolling companies as lodgers, and evidently had the knack of making them comfortable. Quarles had a word or two with her before seeing her visitors, and learnt that they were the nicest and quietest people she had ever had. The poor gentleman who was dead was the quietest of the company.

"Perhaps he was in love," laughed Canaries.

"I shouldn't be surprised," the landlady answered.

"With whom?"

"He seemed to spend most of his time looking at Miss Day when he didn't think she would notice him. I don't wonder. She is well worth looking at."

"Admiration is not necessarily love," remarked the professor. "By the way, have you been to the mortuary to see the body?"

"Me!" exclaimed the landlady in horror. "No. I am not one of those who take a morbid pleasure in that kind of thing. Nothing would induce me to go."

"Very sensible of you," Quarles said.

We were then taken to the Watsons' sitting-room, and I explained the reason of our call, speaking of Quarles as a brother detective. He did not at once act up to his part. Mr. and Mrs. Watson were alone when we first entered, but the others joined us almost at once, and I fancy they were prepared for a visit from me; the local inspector may have said it was likely. Quarles began to talk of music, and judging by Miss Day's interest I concluded that he knew what he was talking about; in fact, all of them were immensely interested in the old man, and for at least half an hour the real reason of our being there was not mentioned.

"Bach, no, I am not an admirer of Bach," said the professor, in answer to a question from Miss Day. "Bad taste, no doubt, but I always think musical opinion is particularly difficult to follow. By the way, I suppose Mr. Henley played some instrument?"

The sudden question seemed to change the whole atmosphere. Watson, I fancy, had been ready to enter upon a defense of Shaw, and Miss Day to convert Quarles to Bach worship; in fact, I firmly believe that every one except myself had forgotten all about the dead man until that moment.

"Why do you ask!" Watson inquired after a pause.

"You are such a musical set, it would be strange if one of your company could not play any instrument at all. I am told he sang tenor songs, and was wondering whether that was all he could do."

"As a fact he played the banjo and the guitar," said Watson, "but he has not done so in Fairtown. The people here are high-class people, and we have to vary our performance to suit our audiences. At Brighton, where we go next week, Henley's banjo playing might have been the most popular item on the program."

"I can understand that. You know very little about Mr. Henley, I am told," and he waved his hand in my direction to show where he had got his information.

"Very little," Watson replied. "He told us he had no relations, and he received very few letters, which seemed to be from agents and business people. I did not question him very closely when he applied to me. I judged that he was down on his luck, but he fitted my requirements, and my wife was favorably impressed with him."

"And you have no reason to regret taking him into your company?"

"On the contrary, he proved a great acquisition, a far better man than the one whose place he took."

"That is not quite what I meant," said Quarles. "Companies of entertainers vary, not only in ability, but in individual tastes, in personnel. By engaging Mr. Henley you were obliged to admit him into your private circle, and I imagine—"

"That is what I meant by saying my wife approved of him," said Watson. "I wouldn't engage the finest tenor in the world unless he were a decent fellow. It wouldn't be fair to the rest of us."

Quarles nodded his appreciation of such an attitude.

"Of course, as long as he behaves decently I am satisfied," Watson went on. "I don't make my enquiries too particular. For instance, I shouldn't bar a man because he had got into trouble."

"Have you any reason to suppose that Henley had done so?" Quarles asked.
"That might account for his mysterious death."

"I have no such suspicion," Watson answered; "indeed, he was not that kind of man. It is my way—my clumsy way of explaining what I mean by decent. Many a decent man has seen the inside of a prison. By being there he pays his debt, and afterwards, in common justice, he should be free, really free, free from his fellow-man's contempt."

"You have started my husband on his pet hobby," laughed Mrs. Watson. "He always declares that our prisons hold some of the best men in the world."

"Some of the strongest and most potential," corrected her husband.

"I am inclined to agree with him," said Quarles.

"But I am taking up your time and not asking the one or two questions I came especially to ask. You dress for the performance in the tent, I suppose?"

"The men do. The ladies dress here and go down with cloaks over their costumes."

Quarles undid a small brown paper parcel—I had wondered what he had brought with him—and produced the pierrot's hat.

"That is Henley's, I suppose?"

Watson looked at it.

"Undoubtedly. There is an 'H' in it, you see. We all put our initial in like that so that we should know our own."

"Now, can you suggest why Henley was wearing his dress?" asked Quarles.

"That has puzzled us all," Watson answered. "I am inclined to think the doctor is wrong as regards the time he had been dead. The last we saw of Henley was when we left the tent that night. He was not coming back with us, he was going straight to the station. He was a long time changing, and I told him he would have to hurry to catch his train."

"Is there such a late train up?"

"Only during the summer."

"And none of you went down to the tent until the evening of the next day?"

They all replied in the negative.

"We are perhaps fortunate in being able to substantiate the denial," said Watson. "We all drove to Craybourne and spent the day there, starting soon after ten and not getting back until six."

"And in the ordinary way Henley would have gone with you?"

"Certainly. It was only just before the performance that evening that he announced his journey to town. He said it was a matter of business."

"One more question," said Quarles, "a delicate one, but you will forgive it because you are as desirous of clearing up this mystery as any one. Have you any reason to suppose poor Henley was in love?"

"I have no reason to think so," said Watson.

"Nor you, Miss Travers?" said Quarles, turning to Sister Penelope.

"He certainly was not in love with me."

"I ask the question just to clear the ground," said the professor after a short pause, and rising as he spoke. "The man whose place Henley took might have fallen in love with one of you young ladies, and if he thought Henley had supplanted him he might have taken a mad revenge. Such things do happen."

"There was nothing of that sort," said Mrs. Watson. "Russell, that was the other man, has gone on a voyage for his health. Only a week ago I had a picture postcard from him from a port in South America."

"That absolutely squashes the very germ of the theory," said the professor with a smile. "Sometime I hope to enjoy your charming entertainment again, and to hear you play, Miss Day. I hope it won't be Bach. Good-by."

As we walked back to the hotel I asked Quarles why he had not suggested that Henley might be in love with Miss Day instead of Miss Travers.

"My dear Wigan, you have yourself said she is undoubtedly a lady. Can you imagine her allowing a man like the dead man to have anything to do with her?"

"Circumstances have thrown them into each other's company," I answered.
"In such a small circle she could hardly avoid him."

"I am inclined to think the company will get on better without him," he answered.

To my astonishment the professor insisted on going back to town that afternoon. No, he was not giving up the case, but he wanted to be in Chelsea to think it out, and to see if Zena had got any foolish questions to ask. This was Saturday, and on Monday I received a telegram from him, requesting me to come to town. It was important. Of course I went, and the three of us adjourned to the empty room.

"I am sorry to bring you off the Beverley affair, Wigan, but I think we ought to settle this pierrot business."

"Then you have formed a theory?"

"Oh, yes, and it is for you to prove whether I am right or wrong. If my theory be correct, it is rather a simple case, although it appears complicated. We will accept the doctor's statement that the man had been murdered that day, and not on the previous night. He was done to death, therefore, during the morning probably, when for some reason he had visited the tent, and for some reason had put on his pierrot's dress. Watson is inclined to think that the doctor is wrong as regards time, but we may dismiss his opinion. The dead man's face had no make-up on it; had the murder been committed on the previous night before he had got out of his costume, the grease paint would have been still on him."

"I think that conclusion is open to argument," I said.

"I base the conclusion rather on the doctor's opinion than on the paint," said Quarles. "Now, it seems to follow that Henley's tale about being called to town was false, was apparently told for the purpose of getting out of the excursion with his comrades; and we may fairly assume that his visit to the tent was for some purpose which he did not want his companions to know anything about."

"Why did he put on the dress?" said Zena.

"That is her persistent question, Wigan, and she also asks another almost as persistently: Why, in spite of friendly words concerning Henley, should they look upon the dead body with such repugnance?"

"You make too much of that idea of mine, as I have said before," I objected.

"Let me put it another way," said Quarles. "How was it possible for them to show so little concern about a comrade they liked! They might screw themselves up to go through their performance and hide their sorrow from the public, but in private one would have expected to find them depressed. I hardly think they showed great sorrow while we were with them."

"They did not, certainly."

"May I say that Watson and Miss Day seemed the least concerned, and even venture a step further and guess that they were the two who seemed to you to look upon the dead man with repugnance?"

I admitted that this was the case, and it was then that Zena, having heard the whole story from her grandfather, accused me of lingering in the tent that night for the purpose of seeing Sister Pomona again.

"Now, two points as we go," said Quarles, interrupting our little side-spar. "Miss Day volunteered no statement when I talked of love. Could she have made an unqualified denial I think she would have done so. I did not ask her a direct question on purpose; I thought she would be more likely to answer an indirect one. Her silence, I fancy, was the answer. In view of what the landlady told us, I think we are safe in assuming that Henley admired her, and that she was aware of the fact. The second point is Watson's defense of the men who had been in prison, his hobby, as his wife called it. We will come back to both these points in a moment. Let us consider the dead man first. The face was evidently that of a fast liver, not that of a decent man such as Watson spoke of; the throat and neck were not of the kind one expects in a singer, but, of course, we must not argue too much from this; the hands showed breed, certainly, but they had never been used to twang the strings of a banjo or guitar."

"But Watson distinctly said—"

"And the hat with 'H' in it had never fitted the dead man," said Quarles. "Oh, I remember perfectly what Watson said, and, moreover, I believe I heard a good many of his thoughts which were not put into words—you can hear thoughts, you know, only it is with such delicacy that the very idea of hearing seems too heavy and materialistic to describe the sensation. Watson said the hat was Henley's, he also said that Henley played these instruments; but the pierrots all wore hats that fitted, well-made hats, and for this reason each of them marked his hat, and the skin at the finger tips of a banjo player always hardens. The dead man was certainly not Brother Pythagoras, and so far the deduction is simple."

I made no comment.

"Now it is obvious since these entertainers agreed that it was the body of their comrade, they are in a conspiracy to deceive. Why? More than one complicated reason might be found, but let us remain simple. They knew who the dead man was, and because of what they knew of him concluded that their comrade was responsible for his death. Have you any fault to find with that deduction, Wigan?"

"I don't think it follows," I said.

"If they did not know the dead man, if they had nothing to conceal, why did they allow it to be supposed that the dead man was Henley?" said Queries. "There would be no object. They were running a risk for nothing. As it was, their action protected Henley. No one was likely to question their identification. The dead man would be buried as Henley, and there would be an end of the matter."

"But the dead man might be identified by his friends," I said.

"Evidently they thought it worth while to run that risk, knowing perhaps that it was not a very great one. Apparently it was not, for up to now no one has made anxious inquiries for the dead man."

"But some of the people about the sea-baths and the tent attendants would know it was not Henley," said Zena.

"We have evidence that he was a very quiet, reticent man," said Quarles. "They probably hardly saw him in the daytime, and at night he would have a painted face, and the fact that he was wearing the dress would go a long way to convince any one who chanced to see him in the dim light at the back of the stage that night."

"And who do you suppose he was?" I asked.

"We will go back to Watson and Miss Day," said Quarles. "Miss Day was silent on the question of love, fearful, I take it, that her natural repugnance to the man might serve to betray the conspiracy. I believe the conspiracy was formed on the spur of the moment, just before Watson came from behind the curtains that evening and asked whether you were a doctor. I should say the dead man had pestered her, and that she was relieved by his death. I find some confirmation of this in Watson's attitude. He talks of some of the best men having been in prison, in such a way, in fact, that his wife hastens to laugh at his hobby, afraid that he will betray himself. Now he could hardly have been referring to the dead man; he declared himself that he was not thinking of Henley; I suggest that he was thinking of himself."

"And you accused me of jumping to a conclusion!" I exclaimed.

"I haven't finished yet," answered the professor. "Here is my complete theory. The dead man knew something of Watson's past, and was holding that knowledge over him, blackmailing him, in fact, and I think the company knew it. At the same time he pesters Miss Day with his attentions, which Henley, more than half in love with Miss Day himself, resents and determines to rid the troupe of a blackguard. He begins by pretending some friendship for his victim, and after giving out that he is going to town, suggests to the dead man that his absence may be an opportunity for the other to get into Miss Day's good graces. Why should he not dress up and take his place on the following evening? I have little doubt that Henley expected him to come to try on the dress that night after the performance, which would account for his being such a long time changing. The victim did not come; by the look of him in death I should say he had not been sober, which would account for his not coming. Next morning Henley goes to find him, takes him to the tent, not through the door, which would be fastened probably in some way, but surreptitiously, through some weak spot in the pegging down very likely."

"But why should he wait until the man had got into the pierrot's dress before murdering him?" said Zena.

"Because, my dear, he hoped the body would not be discovered until another troupe took possession of the tent. A dead pierrot would be discovered, and the troupe at Brighton would be communicated with. In the meanwhile Henley would have warned them, and the same tale would have been told, and the body been identified as Henley's. There would be no hue and cry after the murderer. Had it not been for Miss Day's pompon being torn off, I have no doubt this would have been the course of events. You will have to travel to Brighton, Wigan, and put one or two questions to our friend Watson."

"And who was the man?" I asked.

"Since no one seems to have missed him I should say he was a man not too anxious to have inquiries made about him, one careful to cover up his tracks, perhaps one not altogether unknown in criminal circles, a man of the type of your Beverley, for instance. By the way, have you ever seen Beverley?"

"No."

"How were you to know him, then?"

"By the man in whose company he would be."

"And you have good reasons for expecting to run him to earth at
Fairtown?"

"Excellent reasons," I answered.

"Wigan, get some one who knows Beverley to go and look at the dead pierrot. The result might be interesting."

It was. Quarles admitted that the idea was a leap in the dark, but he pointed out that the dead man was the type he imagined Beverley to be. The fact remains he was right. The dead man was Beverley. And, moreover, the professor's deduction was right throughout as far as we were able to verify it. Watson had been in prison, quite deservedly he admitted, but having paid the debt for his fall, he was facing the world bravely. Then came Beverley, who knew of the past, and Watson admitted that his death was a thing that he could not help rejoicing over. He had heard nothing from Henley, who had no doubt read of the discovery in the paper, and thought it wiser to obliterate himself altogether.