Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

There was Mr. Henderson. He came Monday. Who was Mr. Henderson? Oh, just a friend of the family. Then a lady came to tea — Mrs. Edwards. Then on Tuesday there were some relations from America. A man called on Wednesday about the new car. He came from Thompson’s garage. And the vicar called on Wednesday, too. Oh, and Mr. Henderson again.

Then on Thursday. No one come on Thursday. Oh, yes, Mr. Henderson come again in the evening. And on Friday the man from the garage came again, with Mr. Thompson himself, this time, and the American relations came to tea, and Mr. Price, the solicitor, and Mr. Battersby. Who was Mr. Battersby? He was Mr. Sherman’s partner. He come again on Saturday with his wife, for a game of tennis.

“Did Mr. Sherman play tennis?” asked the detective.

“No, he never played,” replied the maid. “Golf was his game. But Mrs. Sherman played tennis.”

“Was there no fourth player on Saturday, then?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Henderson. That’s all I can remember, sir.”

“You have remembered very well,” said Crook approvingly. “Now see if you can remember something else. Can you recall whether any of these visitors wore a brown suit?”

The girl thought. Once she even closed her eyes, as though to visualize some elusive visitor. Watching her, Crook was satisfied that her methods were very thorough, and that her reply would be conclusive. While the inspector fidgeted, he waited patiently. At last the maid spoke.

“Well, that’s funny, sir,” she said. “You’d think there’d be plenty wearing brown suits. But, as far as I remember, sir, none of them was wearing brown. All blues or grays—” she stopped suddenly, as a figure crossed the lawn. “Well, how silly of me! Except Mr. Henderson, of course.”

“Is that Mr. Henderson?” inquired Crook quickly.

“Yes, sir. He generally wore a brown suit.”

“But he’s not wearing one now.”

“No, sir.”

There were police officials who, jealous of Detective Crook’s successes, declared that he was apt to be slow; but behind all his leisurely questions his brain was always acting fast, and when he had made up his mind no man could be quicker.

“Doesn’t Mr. Henderson use the front door?” he demanded sharply.

“He generally comes round the garden,” answered the maid, a little surprised.

“A special privilege, eh? Where does he live?” The maid gave his address. It was half a mile distant. “Has he been here before to-day?”

“Yes, sir. Soon after breakfast.”

“Whom did he ask for?”

The maid hesitated for a second, then responded a little uneasily:

“No, one, sir. He came through the garden then, too. He came to see Mrs. Sherman, I expect.”

“There wasn’t anybody else,” added the inspector grimly, and explained that the study was not the only room that opened on to the garden. A breakfast room, on the lawn level, also had French windows.

“Mrs. Sherman uses this breakfast room?” asked Crook, turning again to the maid.

“Yes, sir,” faltered the maid. “I think she’s there now.”

“Probably he’s come to express his sympathy, and to ask if he can do anything for her,” commented the inspector a little dryly. “Friend of the family — quite natural, eh?”

“One more question,” said Crook. “Did Mr. Henderson enter this room this morning, or make any attempt to?”

“He didn’t enter this room — I can tell you that,” returned the inspector. “And, if he’d tried it wouldn’t have been any use. I’d given my orders.”

Crook nodded, and walked to the door.

“I’ll be back in an hour or two,” he said. “Meanwhile don’t do anything that’s not strictly necessary until I return. And you,” he added, to the maid, “will say nothing about our conversation for the moment. I can rely on that?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the maid in a low voice. “But... oh, I do hope I’ve not said more than I ought to.”

Impressed by her tone, Crook looked at her a little more closely.

“What makes you think you may have?” he asked. The girl did not reply. “You’ve only answered my questions — and answered them well. You haven’t incriminated anybody.”

And then the maid momentarily lost control of herself.

“It couldn’t be him — it couldn’t be him!” she exclaimed. “He’s much too—”

She stopped, as though appalled by her words.

“Who?” asked Crook.

But the maid had recovered herself.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she answered rather stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Crook did not press the point, but he cogitated over the maid’s little outburst as he left the house.

“She’s afraid for Mr. Henderson,” he reflected, “and she cannot conceive him to be guilty. Now, is she afraid for him merely on account of my questions? Or does she think his relations with Mrs. Sherman might prejudice him? That may be so.

“But, on Mr. Henderson’s side, is the faith of a maid who appears to have more than the usual share of sanity. I’ll remember that, Mr. Henderson.”

III

Twenty minutes later, the door of Mr. Henderson’s flat was opened to Detective Crook by that interesting gentleman’s butler. The visitor asked for Mr. Henderson, and affected mild surprise and disappointment on learning that he was out.