The QUEEN'S HALL MURDER

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 234, 3 October 1932, Page 15

The QUEEN'S HALL MURDER

By ADAM BROOME, Author of " Crowner's Quest," etc.

CHAPTER VIII. Mysterious Mr. Branksome. "You've got some smart fellows in Oxford." Chief Inspector Taunton did not attempt to conceal hi 3 appreciation of his provincial colleague's work. It was a chilly December evening, and he enjoyed the cosy lire in Cliief Constable Foster's private office. "It took us the deuce of a long time to lind it." Foster picked up from his table a dry, cracked piece of soap which lay in a saucer before him. Signor Parelli had been dead a couple of months—murdered —no one had any doubt about that now. But no arrest had been made in connection with the crime. "Of course, there are dozens of locksmiths in a place like this," continued Foster, "and they all had to be visited separately. Publicity would have done no good. You were so emphatic about the inquiries being made as secretly as possible." Taunton nodded agreement. "Quite so; no good putting the wind up anyone who might be concerned." "We've not got a big C.I.D. here," said Foster, "and I couldn't put all my men on the same job at once. Mind you, we were up against it right from the start. We had not the ghost of an idea of what the fellow who had the key made was like. Anyway, to cut a long story short, the day before yesterday Sergeant Braintree was questioning Trimlett, a fellow who keeps a small ironmongery and locksmith's business. But he explained that it wasn't very easy to remember all the key-cutting jobs individually that he'd done for some months back. And most of these jobs are over the counter transactions, cash sales —there's no record of the exact nature of the job—just the entry of the sum paid in the cash book. "Braintree quite agreed. It wasn't the first time he'd heard the same arguments during his quest. But he pointed out, as before, that this case concerned a certain make of safe. Surely the locksmith wouldn't have a vast amount of jobs of that particular kind? "But Trimlett didn't agree. He didn't bother much about the sort of key it happened to be. Key jobs, anyway, were usually brought in by people in a hurry —people inconvenienced by being unable to unlock a door or a box. Or if the key wanted was just a duplicate the customer just brought him the original to copy. If it was a question of making a new one to replace a broken or damaged one they'd bring the bits of the original. It wasn't very often that he got an impression in wax or plaster or so on to deal with, though it had happened.

"We knew quite well that if the theories on which we were working were correct, a mould of some sort must have been made in this case. It was out of the question, on the facts as we know them, that Pratt's key could have been off its ring'at the same time as Eowlandson's. The thief would have been taking far too great a risk. And as we know from Professor Pratt's own statement, lie had never missed it for long periods—it was never out of his possession for very long at a time —and even then when he was actually working in the laboratory. So that the mould or impression must have been hastily made in the laboratory itself. "Braintree pressed the man further. At last the locksmith seemed to see light. He did remember —it was some time ago, though—making a key for someone from an impression on a cake of ordinary soap—toilet soap he thought —primrose he thought it was. He admitted that he usually threw away or destroyed any moulds or impressions of keys as soon as the job was done and the customer satisfied, and there was not much hope that on this occasion he'd kept the soap. Well, he invited Braintree into his workshop, and they made a thorough search. They did find a piece of soap, and it was primrose—and it had got the impression of a key in it — and here it is. And I think we can say definitely that the impression is that of a key of the right type of safe, though the print is not good enough to bring out the maker's name clearly enough to read." There was a note of triumph in the chief constable's voice as he came to the end of his story. "You've helped a whole lot, Foster. It's the first really definite clue we've been able to follow up with any sort of concrete results." "But there's one more thing," Foster continued. "Trimlett was able to remember the appearance of the person who brought him the soap impression. He was a man—a young man—who looked and spoke as if he were probably an undergraduate—a student, anyway. We made inquiries then through the University and had an interview with Professor Pratt. And now" —he got up and went to the door—"I'll introduce you to Mr. Cedrie Branksome himself. "Philpott!" There was an answering cry from the passage beyond. Taunton sat up; this was a denouement he had not expected. It was a strange figure that made its appearance in the chief constable's office. "Come in, Mr. Branksome, and sit down," said Foster cheerfully. "There's nothing to be nervous about. Let me introduce you to Chief Inspector Taunton of Scotland Yard." Mr. Cedric Branksome had looked nervous when ho entered the room, and the chief constable's introduction did nothing to restore his equanimity. He was a tall, pale young man, with lank, dark hair and a pronounced stoop, and wore large horn-rimmed spectaclcs. His nose was thin, long, and rather red. He peered round him in a myopic way and his hands were trembling with fright. "Pleased to meet you," said Taunton. His voice was bluff but kindly. "Do sit down, Mr. Branksome," said Foster. Mr. Branksome accepted the invitation, but he gave the impression that he would not have been surprised had the chair seat exploded suddenly beneath him, or had a pair of handcuffs materialised in the air before him. "Well, I've heard what you've got to say, of course.' But I think Mr. Taunton would be glad to hear it from your own lips, if it's not giving you too much trouble." The wretched young man stared from one to the other of the two men, whom he obviously looked upon as his tormentors. "It was I who had the copy of Professor Pratt's key made. It was I who borrowed Mr. Rowlandson's own key of | the safe, and it was I who took the | poison from the laboratory."

The witness grew more and more nervous and terrified. He peered around through his huge spectacles, first at Taunton and then at Foster, as if trying to divine the effect of his opening on each. But they were men of experience. The only sort of emotion that they displayed was a polite interest. "I suppose I've done something very wrong —something I oughtn't to have done — something, well — that you'll think—very silly," he ended rather lamely. Taunton looked across at Foster. "Before we go any further with this matter there's a point we will have to discuss. Do you propose to charge Mr. Branksome with theft?" The unfortunate visitor sat up as if he had been shot. "Look here," said Foster quickly, "I don't want to alarm you. At present we'll consider that you've come here in the capacity of witness. But you are, as you see, laying yourself open to a charge of theft. And it is now my duty to warn you that everything you say will bo taken down in writing, and that it may, if necessary, be used against you." The chief constable had already made a few sketchy notes on a piece of paper torn from a pad before him. He now drew a sheet of foolscap from a stationery rack on the desk and prepared to write at greater length. To the officer's surprise Mr. Branksome showed signs of becoming more cheerful—more at his ease. His features widened into what the two men imagined to be an attempt at a 6mile. "Oh, I suppose that I can, ought, really, to be charged with theft. I'm no lawyer. I've never studied it. What I want to be is a doctor."

It struck Taunton and Foster that the young man was not likely to succeed in his profession if success depended on a good bedside manner. For anything less heartening and encouraging than Mr. Branksome's manner of speech could not well be imagined.

"Is a person who takes—steals if you like—something that belongs to someone else—not for himself but for someone else who wants it very much— for a good —a noble purpose—as guilty as if he had taken it for himself?"

Branksome's expression of bland'innocence as he jerked out these questions was almost too much for Taunton's selfcontrol. It was only with the greatest difficulty that he suppressed a laugh. Chief Constable Foster put down his pen and scratched his head. He looked across helplessly at Taunton. "What I mean," went on the student before his hearers had had time to recover from the shock his words had given them, "is, is it a crime to do something like this for somebody when their purpose is a good one—a humane one— something for the general good of a class of God's creatures?" Taunton gasped. The eccentric student turned round to look at the clock on the wall behind him. The chief inspector seized the opportunity to place his forefinger significantly to his temple and nod towards Foster. Taunton cleared his throat in preparation for giving as mild an account of the law relating to larceny as he could frame. Foster might be compelled at a later stage to charge the student, whether he wished to or not, and the Scotland Yard man was too anxious to get any possible information to run the risk of drying it up altogether at its source. Ho was relieved when Branksome, without waiting for a reply, went on with his statement. "I've got something that I want to show you—something that I think — that I know—will interest you." He produced a worn leather note-case and placed it on a table before him. He opened it in a clumsy, fumbling fashion, and revealed an odd assortment of papers. His glasses did not seem to aid him a great deal, for he groped and fumbled through the heap of scraps of paper and dogs-eared letters. ' At last, from the pile of rubbish he unearthed the thing he had been looking for. "Ah —I've found it!" Taunton and Foster no longer kept up their professional air of aloofness and studied lack of interest. They were both clearly as excited as Branksome himself. It was several weeks since the sensational death of Signor Parelli had occurred at the Queen's Hall, and despite the sensational events which had preceded and followed it, there had not been the vestige of a clue to the person or persons who had so cunningly manoeuvred the musician's murder. There seemed to be a complete lack of motive for the crime. Did the beginning of the trail lie here in Oxford ? Was Mr. Branksome, the eccentric student, going to reveal something which would lead them towards their goal ? He had admitted the theft of the poisons from the laboratory safe. Was it too much to hope that he was going to prove able to put them on the track of the real murderer? Neither of the officers suspected that Mr. Branksome was anything but a pawn in the game. The student at last held up a piece of paper—an ordinary double sheet of notcpaper, blue in colour, much rubbed and torn at the edges, and covered with small handwriting. He placed the dirty crumpled document on the table and carefully smoothed it out with his long lean fingers. "I don't know what you two gentlemen would have done had you, being in my position, holding my views, and having my opportunities, received a letter like this."

(To be continued daily.)