The Brooklyn murders

by G. D. H. Cole

Inspector Blaikie, when he left the Byron Club, was quite convinced that Walter Brooklyn was the murderer. Not merely one of the murderers, but the murderer of both men. The evidence against Prinsep he was more than ever inclined to discount in face of the impression which Walter Brooklyn had made upon him. Not only the man’s manner, but even more his physique, had convinced the inspector of his guilt. Here at least was a man who combined great physical strength with an obviously ungovernable temper—just the combination of qualities which seemed most clearly to fit the case. After all, he had never believed much in finger-prints. They showed, no doubt, that Prinsep had actually held in his hand the weapon with which the murder was committed; but did that prove that he had done the deed? He might conceivably have taken hold of the club for some quite different purpose. The prints were not conclusive evidence—on that point he permitted himself to differ from his superior, who had seemed to think that they were. They needed explaining, certainly; but there were other possible explanations. Moreover, if Prinsep had been careless enough to leave his finger-prints all over the club, was it not curious that not a trace of them had been left on the dead man’s clothing, though he had obviously been dragged by the collar from the statue into the little antique temple so as to be out of the way. A starched collar was about the likeliest possible place for clear impressions of fingers. But there was not the trace of a finger-mark on it. The man who dragged the body to the temple steps had certainly worn gloves.

Then a very curious point struck the inspector. All the finger-prints had been partly obliterated, as if some one had handled the club subsequently. But, in the morning he had been careful that no one should do so, and he was fairly certain that no one had. Then another significant point occurred to him. No other finger-prints had been found on the club. Then, if some one else had handled it subsequently, that some one else had worn gloves. But, in the garden that morning, not one of those present had been wearing gloves. The obliterating marks had been made before the discovery, and therefore also presumably before the crime. The inspector almost felt that he could reconstruct the scene. John Prinsep had held the club; but later, Walter Brooklyn, wearing gloves, had handled it. As usual, the evidence of the finger-prints, true as far as it went, was misleading. Only the partial obliteration of the marks had given the key to the truth. The new explanation, moreover, fitted in exactly with his observation of the absence of finger-prints on George Brooklyn’s crumpled collar.

It was true, of course, the inspector reflected, that all this was only hypothesis. He could not prove absolutely that the obliterations had been made by a pair of gloved hands holding the club with murderous purpose, and still less could he prove that the gloved hands were Walter Brooklyn’s. His conjecture was not evidence in a court of law; but it served to confirm him in his own opinion. He could now, with good hope, go in search of further evidence.

What, then, ought his next step to be? His talk with Walter Brooklyn had opened up certain fresh lines of inquiry. He must see Woodman again, and find out what had been the business on which Brooklyn had twice visited him on the Tuesday. And he had better see this Miss Lang of the Piccadilly Theatre, in case she could throw any light on the case. And he must try to trace Walter Brooklyn’s stick. He felt sure that Brooklyn had told him a lie about this, and that he had really left it in Prinsep’s room in the evening. But it was his business to make every inquiry, and to test Brooklyn’s story by every possible means.

By this time—for it was now nine o’clock—Woodman would certainly have left his office. The inspector felt that he had done a good day’s work, and could with a good conscience leave further activity for the morrow. He went home, and straight to bed, in his tiny bachelor flat in Judd Street.

When Inspector Blaikie woke the following morning he at once began to turn the case over in his mind. It was now Thursday, and the inquests had been fixed for Friday. It would be necessary that day to decide on the procedure to be followed. Ought the police to produce the evidence which they had gathered, or would it be better to make the proceedings as purely formal as possible, and to reserve all disclosures for the trial which would surely follow? The Inspector’s instinct was against any premature showing of his hand; but he would have to discuss the matter with Superintendent Wilson, with whom the final decision would rest. That could stand over until he had seen Woodman and the unknown Miss Lang. He would arrange to see the superintendent in the afternoon.

The inspector went out and breakfasted in one of those huge “Tyger” restaurants which cater for the servantless flat-dwellers of London. Then he went to Scotland Yard, arranged to see the superintendent after lunch, and ’phoned through to Woodman arranging an eleven o’clock appointment at his office. Next he got on the phone to the Piccadilly Theatre, and discovered that Miss Lang was expected there at about midday. He left a message stating that he would call to see her. She lived, as he knew, at Hammersmith, and was not on the telephone. He also rang through to the sergeant on duty at Liskeard House, who reported that there were no fresh developments.

At eleven o’clock punctually, the inspector entered Carter Woodman’s outer office. The old clerk, seated there at his desk, looked up at him suspiciously from a heap of papers. Rather brusquely, the inspector announced that he had come to see Woodman by appointment. The man went to tell his master, and Carter Woodman promptly appeared at the door of the inner room to bid his visitor welcome. Coming towards the inspector, he gripped him firmly by the hand. “Well, my lad, how goes it?” he said. “Have you found the scoundrels? You must come in and tell me all about it.”

The inspector felt himself almost carried bodily into the inner room, and seated breathless in a chair, while Carter Woodman took up a commanding position on the hearthrug. “Quite right to come to me,” he said. “You must treat me as if I were Sir Vernon—as his man of business I regard myself as in charge of his affairs. Now let me know exactly what you have done so far, and I’ll see if I can help you. But, first, have you any fresh clue as to the identity of the murderers?”

Inspector Blaikie reflected, as Woodman was speaking, that powerful physique seemed to run in the Brooklyn family. Woodman was only a distant relative; yet he had many of the physical characteristics which the inspector had noticed in Walter Brooklyn. But there the resemblance seemed to end. Woodman’s bluff and hearty manner, which seemed to have big reserves of strength and self-control behind it, was in marked contrast to Walter Brooklyn’s passionate and excitable temperament. Woodman belonged to a very definite type—the successful city man who combined keen business acumen and a sharp eye for a bargain with a hail-fellow-well-met manner and an ability to make himself instantly at home in almost any society.