During a frozen silence Dr Fell picked up the mouse, put it down, and glanced thoughtfully at his companions. `Driscoll was the hat-thief, you see,' he said.
15. The A fair of the Rubber Mouse
'Wait a minute!' protested Rampole. `They're coming over the plate too fast for me You mean… '
`Just what I say,' the doctor answered, testily. `Nobody could have doubted it from the first. I had proof of it here to-night; but I had to come here and get the proof before you would have believed me.
`Consider. Here's a crazy young fellow with a sense of humour and lots of intelligence. He wants to make a name for himself as a newspaperman. He can turn out a good, vivid news-story when he has, the facts; but he has so little news-sense that one managing editor swears he wouldn't scent a wedding if he walked through an inch of rice in front of a church.
`That's not only understandable, Hadley, but it's a further clue to his character. His long suit was imagination. The very imaginative people never make good straight reporters, they're looking for the picturesque, the bizarre, the ironic incident; and very often they completely neglect to bother about essential facts. Driscoll would have made a thundering good columnist, but as a reporter he was a failure. So he resolved to do what many a reporter has done before him: to create news, and the sort of news that would appeal to him.
'In every one of these important hat-thefts there was a sort of ironic symbolism, as though the stage had been arranged by an actor. Driscoll loved gestures, and he loved symbolism. A policeman's helmet is propped on a lamp-standard outside Scotland Yard; "Behold the power of the police!" says the Byronic Mr Driscoll, with the usual cynicism of very young people. A barrister's wig is put on a cab-horse, which was the nearest approach Driscoll could get towards underlining Mr Bumble's opinion that the law is an ass.'
Dr Fell paused to settle more comfortably. Hadley stared at him, and then the chief inspector nodded.
`Now I shouldn't go into this so thoroughly,' the doctor went on, `except that, it's a clue to the murder, as you'll see. He was preparing for another coup, a real and final coup, which couldn't help making — in his eyes — the whole of England sit up.' The doctor pawed among the papers he had taken from Hadley's brief-case. `Here's his notebook, with those notes which puzzled you so much. Before I read them to you again; let me remind you that Driscoll himself gave the whole show away. You recall that drunken evening with Mrs Bitton, which Mrs Larkin described for us, when Driscoll prophesied what was going to happen a week before it did begin to happen? He mentioned events which were shortly to occur, and which would make his name as a newspaperman. An artist, when comfortably filled with beer, can talk at length about the great picture he intends to paint, without exciting the least surprise. But when a newspaperman casually mentions what corking stories he is going to turn out about the murder which is to take place next week, there is likely to be considerable curiosity about his powers of foresight.
`But let's return to this big stroke Driscoll was planning, after having built up to it by degrees with lesser hats. First, you see, he carefully stole the crossbow bolt out of Bitton's house…'
`He did what?' shouted the chief inspector.
`Oh, yes; I must tell you about that,' Dr Fell said, frowning as though he were a trifle annoyed with himself: `It was Driscoll who stole it. By the way he rummaged on the floor at the side of his chair, and brought up the tool-basket. After fumbling inside it, he produced what he wanted… `by the way, here's the file he used to-sharpen it. It's rather an old file, so you can see the oblique lines in, the dirt-coating where lie sawed at the barbs of the head. And here are the straighter marks to show where he had started effacing the Souvenir de Carcassonne, before somebody stole the bolt from him to use for another purpose… Hadley took the file and turned it over. `Then I asked you, you know, why that engraving hadn't been entirely obliterated, provided the person who had sharpened the bolt was really the murderer. Let's suppose it had been the murderer. He started in to do it, so why in the name of madness didn't he go on? It was obvious that he didn't want the bolt traced, as it would have been and as it was. But he stopped after a neat job on just three letters. It was only when I realized what was up — an explanation provided by those abstruse notes in Driscoll's notebook that I realized it wasn't the murderer's doing at all. It was Driscoll's. He hadn't finished his job of effacing when along came the murderer: who didn't care where the bolt came from, or whose it was. But, actually this bolt was planned as a part of Driscoll's most daring venture.’
`But, good God, what venture?' demanded Hadley. `There's no way to associate it with the hats.'
`Oh yes, there is,' said Dr Fell. `Hadley, who is the man, above all you can think of, who ranks in the popular eye as England's leading jingo? Who is the man who still makes speeches in private life, as he used to do in public life, about thee might, of the sword, the longbow, the crossbow, and the stout hearts of old? Who is always agitating for bigger armaments? Who is for ever attacking the Prime Minister as a dangerous pacifist? Who, at any rate, is inevitably the person Driscoll would think of in that role?'
`You mean — Sir William Bitton….'
`I mean just that,' nodded the doctor. A grin creased up his chins. `And that insane nephew of his had conceived a design which satisfied all the demands of his sensation-loving soul…. He was going to steal Sir William Bitton's hat and nail it with a crossbow bolt to the door of Number 10 Downing Street.'
Hadley was more than shocked. He was genuinely outraged. For a moment he could only splutter; and Dr Fell contemplated him with amiable mockery.
`Look here.' The doctor opened Driscoll's notebook. `See how he's musing about, this scheme. He hasn't quite worked it out yet. All he has is the idea of fastening Sir William's hat with this warlike instrument in some public place. So he writes, inquiringly: "Best place? Tower? But, of course, that won't do; it's much too easy, and a crossbow bolt in the Tower would be as conspicuous as a small bit of coal at Newcastle. However, he's got to have his properties first, and writes, "Track down hat," which is obvious. Then he thinks about Trafalgar Square again, as he inevitably must. But that won't do, because he certainly can't drive his bolt into the stone of the Nelson monument. So he writes, "Unfortunate Trafalgar, can't transfix!" But it wasn't so unfortunate, for his burst of inspiration comes and you note the exclamation points to denote it. He's got it now. He notes down Number 10 home of the Prime Minister. The next, words you can easily see. Is the door made of wood? If it's steel-bound, or something of the sort, the scheme won't work; he doesn't know. He must find out. Is there a hedge, or anything that will screen him from observation while he does it? Are there guards about, as there are likely to be? He doesn't know this, either. It's a long chance, and a risky one; but he's jubilant about the possibility, and he means to find out.'
Dr Fell put down the notebook.
'Thus,' he said, 'I outline to you what I, like Driscoll, intend to call symbolically the Affair of the Rubber Mouse.
Let's see what came of it. You do see, don't you Hadley?' Again the chief inspector was pacing the room.
'I suppose I do,' he snapped. 'He waited for Sir William's car in Berkeley Street; let's see, that was Saturday night?' `Saturday night,' affirmed the doctor. 'He was still youthful and hopeful and all the rest of it. And, incidentally, here's another ingenious feature of the scheme. In most cases there wasn't an enormous amount of risk. He stole the hats of the dignified people who wouldn't make a row about it. They certainly wouldn't report the theft to the police, to begin with. And if he were in a tight spot, it's unlikely the victim would give serious chase. That's the cunning feature. A man like Sir William would run half-way across London in pursuit of a man who'd picked his pocket of half-a crown. It would be outraged justice. But he wouldn't run a step, for fear of looking a fool, after a man who stole a two guinea hat…. Well, reconstruct, Hadley.'