Invisible Weapons. John Rhode

the cloakroom, washing his hands. He’ll be out any minute now, for he’s been there quite a long time. Oh, and by the way, I almost forgot to tell you. Linton’s waiting in the consulting-room to see you. He’s got a message or something from the sergeant for you. You’ll have time to see him before lunch because I’ve asked cook to put it back a few minutes.’

      The door of the consulting-room opened and Dr Thornborough walked in. He was tall and slight and looked younger than his age, which was thirty-five. His normally cheerful expression was obscured by a slight frown as he greeted the constable. ‘Well, Linton, what’s the matter?’ he inquired brusquely.

      Linton started to explain the situation which had arisen regarding Alfie Prince. But before he had got very far, the doctor, whose attention was obviously elsewhere, interrupted him.

      ‘Alfie Prince? I saw him just now as I drove in at the gate. But look here. Excuse me a minute, there’s a good fellow. I must see …’ And he hurried out of the room, leaving the sentence unfinished.

      Linton heard him go to the door of the cloakroom and rattle the handle. ‘Uncle Bob!’ he called. And then a second or two later, ‘Uncle Bob! Unlock the door, will you? It’s only me, Cyril. I want a word with you.’

      Followed a pause in which every voice in the house seemed to be hushed: then Dr Thornborough battered on the door of the cloakroom with his fists. ‘Uncle Bob!’ he called once more.

      Silence, broken only by the doctor’s footsteps crossing the hall. He re-entered the consulting-room, frowning more deeply than before. ‘I don’t like it, Linton,’ he exclaimed abruptly. ‘My uncle, Mr Fransham, is in the cloakroom, and I can’t get him to answer me.’

      ‘He’s been in there a good ten minutes or more, sir,’ Linton replied.

      ‘Eh!’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘How the devil do you know that?’

      ‘While I was in here waiting for you, sir, I heard a gentleman go into the cloakroom and lock the door behind him.’

      ‘Oh, I see. Well, look here. Fransham’s heart is inclined to be dicky. And I’m a little bit afraid this hot weather may have upset him. I’d like to get the door open, but I don’t know how to manage it.’

      ‘Perhaps there’s a window that you could climb in by, sir?’ Linton suggested.

      Dr Thornborough shook his head impatiently. ‘No good!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve thought of that already. The window’s barred, and, if it wasn’t, it doesn’t open wide enough to let anybody through. Do you think you could manage to force the door?’

      Linton smiled. He was six foot two, broad in proportion and weighed seventeen stone. ‘I think I might be able to manage it, sir,’ he replied.

      ‘Come along then.’ They hurried across the hall and the doctor pointed to the door of the cloakroom. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Now let’s see what you can do.’

      ‘I shall have to break the lock, I’m afraid, sir,’ Linton replied warningly.

      ‘Oh, damn the lock! Fire away and open the door. That’s all I care about.’

      Linton applied his shoulder to the door and gave an apparently effortless heave. With a sound of rending wood the door flew open. Linton entered the cloakroom, Dr Thornborough close at his heels. Just inside the doorway they came to a sudden halt. Stretched on the ground in front of them was the body of an elderly man lying flat on his back.

      At that moment the deep boom of the luncheon gong rang like a knell through the house.

       CHAPTER II

      Before the reverberations of the gong had died away, Dr Thornborough was on his knees beside the fallen man with Linton standing close behind him. The doctor made a rapid examination.

      ‘It’s Uncle Bob, and he’s dead!’ he exclaimed without looking up. ‘For Heaven’s sake shut the door, Linton, and fix it somehow so that it won’t open. We don’t want the women crowding in here and seeing this.’

      Linton shut the door and managed to jam the broken lock. Then he returned to his station by the doctor’s side, uncertain what he should do. Even his inexperience could tell at a glance that Mr Fransham had not died of heart failure.

      The body stretched on the floor was that of a man nearing sixty, grey-headed and clean-shaven. His rugged features and protruding chin proclaimed him to have been a man of strong will. In the front of his head above the middle of his forehead the skin was broken and the bone beneath it fractured. Linton felt assured that Mr Fransham had died as the result of a blow from some blunt instrument. The blood from the wound had trickled down the dead man’s cheek and collected in a small pool on the rubber flooring.

      The cloakroom measured about fifteen feet by twelve. Its only entrance was by the door from the hall. The wall on the left of this entrance was provided with a series of hooks, upon which hung an array of masculine coats and hats. Against the opposite wall was a water-closet and, separated from this by a thin partition running half-way across the room, a lavatory basin. In the wall behind the basin was a window, glazed with frosted glass, and between this and the basin a wide window-ledge faced with vitrolite. Only a small panel of this window, less than a foot square, was made to open. It was now open inwards and secured by a rod and pin. The window looked out upon the carriage-way running beside the house from one of the drive gates to the garage. On the outside the window was protected by stout iron bars set about six inches apart. The carriage-way was about twelve feet wide, and it was bounded on its further side by an eight-foot brick wall.

      Dr Thornborough rose slowly to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed upon the dead man’s face. ‘This is pretty ghastly,’ he muttered, more to himself than to Linton. ‘Uncle Bob dead like this, and here of all places. I don’t begin to understand it.’ He looked up suddenly and faced the policeman. ‘What are we going to do about it, Linton?’ he asked helplessly.

      ‘It’s my duty to take particulars, sir,’ Linton replied rather stiffly. ‘To begin with, would you mind telling me this gentleman’s full name and address?’

      ‘His name is Robert Fransham,’ Dr Thornborough replied. ‘His age is fifty-eight and his address is 4 Cheveley Street, London, SW1. You’ve heard me call him Uncle Bob, but he’s not really my uncle, he’s my wife’s, and the devil of it is that his sister, my wife’s mother, is staying with us at this very moment.’

      ‘What in your opinion was the cause of death, sir?’

      ‘You can see that for yourself, I should think. A depressed fracture of the anterior portion of the skull, severe enough to cause immediate death.’

      ‘Can you suggest what could have caused such a fracture, sir?’

      ‘I can’t. That’s just the puzzle. The fracture was caused by the impact of some hard body, of course. And that body must have been of a definite shape. You know what a cube is, I suppose?’

      ‘I think so, sir. It’s the shape of dice or of lumps of sugar.’

      ‘That’s right. Well, the nature of this fracture suggests that Fransham was struck by the edge of a cube an inch and a half across. And if you can suggest how that happened, you’re cleverer than I am.’

      ‘Perhaps if we were to search the room, we should find the object, sir.’

      ‘You’re at liberty to search as much as you like. In fact, it seems to me that this business is up to you. Meanwhile, I’m faced with the particularly unpleasant task of breaking the news to my wife. She and her uncle were devoted to one another, and she’s going to take it pretty badly.’

      Dr Thornborough walked slowly out of the room and Linton secured the door behind him. He had no wish to be interrupted at this stage of the proceedings. He was first in the field and meant