Mercer pulled himself together. “All right, Denton. I know Dr. Czissar. Go on.”
Denton drew another breath. “Well sir, he oozed up to me after the inquest and asked me what I thought about the verdict.”
Mercer smiled drily. “I’d forget Dr. Czissar’s little fancies if I were you, Denton. You must remember that he’s a refugee. His experiences have probably unhinged him a little. Understandable, of course.”
“You mean he’s dotty, sir?” Denton considered the proposition. “Well, he does look it a bit. But, begging your pardon, sir, he wasn’t so dotty about that case. If it hadn’t been for him... It’s sort of worried me, him going on about Wilder being innocent.” He hesitated. “He says he’s coming in to see you this afternoon, sir,” he concluded.
“Oh, does he!”
“Yes, sir. About five, after the Museum reading-room closes. He says he’s working on that book of his. He wants to talk to you about the case.” Denton looked anxious. “If you’d let me know what he says, I’d be grateful. It’s sort of got me, this case.”
“All right, Denton. I’ll let you know.”
He was staring at his untasted second cup of tea when Dr. Czissar was announced.
Dr. Czissar came into the room, clapped his umbrella to his side, clicked his heels, bowed and said: “Dr. Jan Czissar. Late Prague police. At your service.”
Mercer watched this all-too familiar performance with unconcealed dislike. “Sit down, doctor,” he said shortly. “Inspector Denton tells me that you wish to make a suggestion about the Mortons Hind case.”
Dr. Czissar sat down carefully and leaned forward. “Thank you, assistant commissioner,” he said earnestly. “It is so good of you to receive me again.”
Mercer cleared his throat. “To me, the case seems perfectly straightforward. Our expert, Blundell...”
“Ah!” Dr. Czissar’s eyes gleamed. “That is the word. Expert. The witness whom the lawyers always attack, eh? It was so in Prague.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sergeant Blundell was asked whether a shot fired from a rifle held to the shoulder of a man in the field to the left of the road at a bird in the tree on the right of the road could hit a passing cyclist and make a wound such as that found in Mr. Gregory. He very properly answered that it could.”
“Well?”
Dr. Czissar smiled faintly. “Sergeant Blundell had taken measurements and made calculations. They were accurate. But he did not actually fire at any bird in that tree himself. His observations were therefore incomplete. His answer was legally correct. Mr. Gregory could have been so killed. But he was not so killed. And for a simple reason. For Wilder to have fired the shot at that particular angle, the bird would have had to be on a branch about eighteen feet from the ground. The lowest branch on that tree is about ten feet above that!”
Mercer sat up. “Are you sure, doctor?”
“I could not make a mistake about such a thing,” said Dr. Czissar with dignity.
“No, no, of course not. Excuse me a moment, doctor.” Mercer picked up the telephone. “I want Inspector Denton and Sergeant Blundell to see me immediately.”
There was an embarrassed silence until they came. Then Dr. Czissar was asked to repeat his statement.
Mercer looked at Blundell. “Well?”
Blundell reddened. “It’s possible, sir. I can’t say that I looked at the thing from that standpoint.”
Denton said: “That makes it murder, eh, doctor?”
Dr. Czissar frowned. “That,” he said stiffly, “is for the assistant commissioner to decide.” He turned courteously to Mercer. “If you will permit me, assistant commissioner, to make a further suggestion?”
Mercer nodded wearily. “Go ahead, doctor.”
A thin smile stretched the doctor’s full lips. He settled his glasses on his nose. Then he cleared his throat, swallowed hard and leaned forward. “Attention, please,” he said sharply.
He had their attention.
“To you, Assistant Commissioner Mercer,” began Dr. Czissar, “I would say that no blame in this matter belongs to Inspector Denton or Sergeant Blundell. They were obviously expected by the local police to prove a case of manslaughter against Wilder and they contrived to do so. The case was spoiled for them before they arrived.
“At the inquest,” resumed Dr. Czissar, “Mr. Wretford, so sad at losing his good chauffeur, said that Gregory had been in his employ for three years, and that he was sober, steady and of excellent character. And the poor man had no friends or relations living. Such a pity and so unusual. I decided to investigate a little. I went to the garage at Penborough and talked to a mechanic there. I found that Mr. Wretford had made a little mistake about his chauffeur. Gregory was not very sober. Also he bet a great deal. The mechanic was able to tell me that he dealt with a bookmaker in Penborough. To this bookmaker I went next.”
Dr. Czissar looked suddenly embarrassed. “I’m afraid,” he said apologetically, “that I have been guilty of an offense. You see, I wished for information from this bookmaker. I said that I was from the police without saying that it was the Prague police. I hope you will consider that the information I obtained will excuse me. I found that Gregory had, in the last year, lost £237 to this bookmaker.”
Mercer jumped. “What!”
“Two hundred and thirty-seven pounds, assistant commissioner. In addition, he had asked for no credit. He had received his winnings and paid his losses in pound notes. The previous year, Gregory had lost slightly less. The year before that, less still. But in those three years quite a lot of money had passed through his hands. His wages could not have been sufficient to absorb such losses.”
“He earned two pounds a week and his keep, according to Wretford,” Denton put in.
Dr. Czissar smiled gently. “The bookmaker had concluded that the bets were really made by Mr. Wretford, who did not wish to have it known that he made bets. It seems that such reticences are not unusual. But Gregory was murdered. That was unusual. The bookmaker’s conclusion did not satisfy me. I made other inquiries. Among other things, I found that eight years ago, just before Mr. Wretford retired, a clerk in his office was convicted of stealing £15,000 in bearer bonds and £300 in cash. I found a full report of the case in the newspaper files. The prosecution showed that he had got into debt through betting and that he had been systematically stealing small sums over a long period. The prosecution argued that, having gained confidence from the fact that his petty thefts went undiscovered, he had stolen the bonds. There was one curious feature about the affair. The bonds were not found and the prisoner refused to say anything about them except that he had stolen them. His sentence was five years in prison. His name was Selton.”
“I remember the case,” said Denton eagerly. “Gregory Selton — that was the name.”
“Precisely!” said Dr. Czissar. “Gregory. A young man who, until his death, was too fond of betting. He must have changed his name when he came out of prison. He was chauffeur for Mr. Wretford, the man he robbed of £15,000!”
Mercer shrugged. “Generous gesture on Wretford’s part. It doesn’t explain why Gregory was shot or who shot him.”
Dr. Czissar smiled. “Nor why Mr. Wretford lied at the inquest?”
“What are you getting at?”