Murder in the Bookshop. Carolyn Wells

Balfour’s shoulder? That’s a duster I keep to flirt around now and then. And I keep it in this desk drawer, which, as you see, is now empty. So you’re looking for a chap who knows this place familiarly.’

      Sewell stopped suddenly, for he realized this could be made to apply to Keith Ramsay, who sat staring at him but saying no word.

      ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Detective Burnet. ‘You been here before, Mr Ramsay?’

      ‘Many times,’ said Keith, speaking indifferently.

      ‘I have a couple of dozen friends who come here ten times as often as Mr Ramsay,’ Sewell declared, ‘and they all know where I keep that dust-cloth. That’s no clue. But I’ll give you a pointer. A new development in finger-printing allows prints to be secured from fabrics—a trick only lately used. Save that duster, Inspector, you may bring in your man with its help. And you needn’t look toward Mr Ramsay; I wouldn’t have mentioned it if it were possible to imagine him implicated.’

      The Examiner rose from his stooping posture and said, succinctly: ‘Stabbed straight through the heart with that skewer. A strong, hard blow. Died practically instantly. Stabbed by a man who used his right hand. Took the blow without resistance, so probably unconscious at the moment.’

      ‘Was he chloroformed, too?’ asked Burnet.

      ‘I think not. More likely knocked out by a blow. Here’s a lump on his jaw made by a blow that would have smashed an ox.’

      ‘How long’s he been dead?’ Manton asked.

      ‘Dunno. Not long. Half an hour more or less.’

      ‘The blow on his jaw didn’t kill him?’

      ‘No. Guess I’ll be gettin’ on, now. You can send the body to the morgue. Any notion who killed him?’

      ‘No,’ said John Sewell, before anyone else could speak.

      ‘I have,’ said Keith Ramsay, slowly. ‘It comes back to me now that a man came in at the back door—it must have been the back door, because I heard a slight creak—and I heard a noise like someone falling, and when I looked round, I saw a man with a black satin mask on coming toward me, and as I looked past him, toward Mr Balfour, I saw he was crumpled up on the floor.’

      Detective Burnet regarded the speaker with unconcealed derision.

      ‘Just made that up?’ he inquired, sarcastically. ‘An important fact like that, and you forgot it in your first account!’

      ‘Exactly,’ returned Keith; ‘and you’d forget things, too, if you were given a knock-out dose of chloroform.’

      ‘Tell me a little more about the man in the iron mask,’ said Manton as the Medical Examiner went away.

      ‘It wasn’t iron,’ said Keith, seriously. ‘But it was black satin. Not just a piece of stuff with eyeholes cut in it, but a regular, well-made mask, like you’d buy for a party.’

      ‘You looked at it very carefully, Mr Ramsay,’ and Manton shook his head a little.

      ‘Not consciously. For a few seconds I saw the man coming toward me and, as I stared, the mental picture of that mask fixed itself in my brain permanently. I think I should know it if I saw it again. It was stitched round the edges and had a sort of ruffle that covered his mouth and chin.’

      Burnet looked at him with mock admiration.

      ‘You certainly succeeded in getting a mental photograph of the thing, didn’t you?’

      ‘Couldn’t help it,’ Keith said, carelessly. ‘You see, when the lights went out it was dark, but always, in a few seconds, one’s eyes adjust themselves to the change and you sort of see things dimly. I did, anyway. I heard Mr Balfour fall and then I discerned this figure coming toward me. I could see a large white handkerchief, or cloth, in his hand, but my attention was caught by that mask and I stared at it. I could see his eyes glittering through the eyeholes and then, in a moment, the sickening whiff of chloroform came to me and though I struggled for a few seconds, I lost consciousness. When I came to the lights were on and Mr Balfour lay on the floor with that skewer sticking in his heart. The man was not here.’

      ‘How long were you under the influence of the anaesthetic?’ asked Manton, looking at him curiously.

      ‘I’ve no idea,’ returned Ramsay; ‘how could I have? One doesn’t time one’s actions in such circumstances.’

      ‘Yet you seem to have a pretty clear idea of what went on.’

      ‘Not at all. When I regained consciousness, which came slowly, I saw Mr Balfour dead—’

      ‘How did you know he was dead?’ interrupted Burnet.

      Keith Ramsay looked at him, calmly. He did not seem to resent the Captain’s questions, but he seemed to think him ignorant or impertinent.

      ‘It doesn’t require a very vivid imagination to assume a man is dead when he lies motionless, in a distorted position, with a dagger in his heart.’

      ‘What did you do?’ asked Manton.

      ‘I started to cross the room, to go to him, but I found myself wobbly and had to wait a few moments to get steady enough to walk.’

      ‘And then you walked?’

      ‘I did. My brain cleared more rapidly than my muscles coordinated, and when I found myself at Mr Balfour’s side I sat down in that chair and thought out what to do.’

      ‘And you decided to call Headquarters?’

      ‘I did. That is the duty of any citizen who discovers a crime. I was, of course, aware that you would at once conclude that I was the criminal. That is for you to prove, if you can. I did not kill Mr Balfour, I would have no reason for doing so. He was a splendid man. I admired and respected him. I used my best efforts to be a satisfactory librarian to him and he said I was one. I have learned much about rare books, both from him and from Mr Sewell, and I am deeply interested in collecting them.’

      ‘Yes, yes, Mr Ramsay,’ the Inspector said, ‘but let us get to the facts of what happened here this evening. At what time did you and Mr Balfour come here?’

      ‘I think soon after ten o’clock. Mr Balfour said we would start at ten, but we were delayed a little.’

      ‘I’m not quite clear about the details of your visit. If Mr Sewell was not here when you arrived, how did you get in?’

      John Sewell looked at Ramsay. He had every confidence in the young man, but he very much wanted to hear the answer to that question.

      The witness hesitated. Implicit as Sewell’s confidence was, he had to admit to himself that Keith Ramsay looked like a man with something to conceal.

      Detective Burnet spoke.

      ‘I’ll tell how you got in, Mr Ramsay; you forced an entrance through that back window.’

      He pointed to a window in the rear wall next the door.

      It was closed now, but the detective had examined it. He went on: ‘You shoved back the catch with a jack-knife or something like that, pushed up the window, climbed in—’

      ‘And then opened the door to Mr Balfour,’ said Keith, calmly. ‘Yes, Inspector, that was the way of it. I think, Mr Sewell, if I tell you it was all right, you will believe me.’

      ‘Well, yes,’ Sewell returned, ‘but it seemed a little odd at first.’

      ‘Seems odd to me yet,’ declared Burnet. ‘Why the breaking and entering act, Mr Ramsay?’

      ‘I can give you no answer to that except the truth. Mr Balfour was exceedingly anxious to come here tonight. He wanted to find two certain books that are missing from his library, and he thought they might be down here—by—by accident.’

      John Sewell showed amazement in every line of his countenance.

      ‘What’s