I’d like to pack a bag and return to the friends I’ve been visiting. I couldn’t possibly stay in this house

Dixon Hawke and his assistant, Tommy Burke, had been away from home working on a case, and were on their way back to London shortly after 5pm one Thursday evening. Driving along a quiet, residential thoroughfare Tommy Burke suddenly leaned forward. “Guv!” he exclaimed. “Did you see that?” Dixon Hawke certainly had seen it and stopped the car promptly. A man coming towards them on the sidewalk had tottered on his feet for a few steps and then collapsed in a heap on the ground.

The two detectives sprang from their car and hurried up to him. The man looked around 65, was well-dressed, well-groomed, and had an air of professional affluence. His eyes were closed, and he breathed irregularly as the private investigator bent over him.

After a minute or two, Hawke looked up. “I think he’s only fainted, Tommy. Doesn’t seem much wrong with him.” The detective was searching in the man’s pockets. “Ah, here’s a letter. Seems his name is Norton, and he lives at number 14 Kingsley Avenue, which is this very road.”

The detective broke off as the man opened his eyes slowly, gazed about him bewilderedly, and tried to sit up. “Wh-where – what.

He began to scramble to his feet. “I... I’m all right, thanks,” said Norton. “It was good of you to trouble. Heart trouble, you know. I live right here.” He indicated a gate a few feet away. “Well, we’ll just see you safely inside,” suggested Hawke. “And maybe you ought to get in touch with your doctor.”

“If you’d care to come in for a drink? Sorry my wife’s out; she visits friends regularly every Thursday for the afternoon and evening, but–.

“No – no, thank you,” replied Hawke. They walked up a gravelled drive to a two-storey house in well-kept grounds. Whatever Norton’s job, he had apparently been very successful in it. Now he put his key into the lock of the front door.

The next instant he gave a sharp cry and dropped to the ground, jerking convulsively, then lying ominously still. Once more Hawke was kneeling beside him, but this time he looked up, amazed.

“The man’s dead!” he said. Tommy Burke shrugged. “He must’ve felt worse than he admitted. Better get him into the house.”

The young man put out a hand to turn the key in the door when Hawke sprang forward.

“No! Tommy, don’t touch that, whatever you do.” Tommy Burke swung around. “What’s up, Chief?”

Hawke indicated an oblong, metal-grilled mat in front of the door, and used for wiping shoes on a wet day.

“I’ve just spotted a length of flex attached to that mat.” And something else. Norton has a nasty burn on his right-hand thumb and index finger with which he put his key into the lock. “All that adds up to the real reason he fell dead. He was electrocuted!”

Tommy Burke gaped incredulously. Taking a pencil from his pocket, the detective snapped it in two, and, pressing the pieces firmly against the sides, was able to turn the key in the lock. Then, pushing the door open, Hawke stepped carefully into the hall.

A two-stranded length of flex was plugged into a wall point in the skirting. From this, one strand led under the door to the metal mat outside. The other strand was attached to the inside of the latch. Current from the wall point passed along the flex, and was “tapped” when anyone made contact by putting their key into the lock.

Standing on the metal mat outside, the current passed right through the body of the person trying to get in. It took the detectives only a few moments to discover which fuse served the circuit to which the fatal wire was connected.

The usual porcelain fuse had been removed, and a thin, metal strip substituted, so that the full impact of the entire voltage would be encountered at the door. No wonder that, having already a weak heart, Norton had been killed outright.

Hawke used the telephone to contact the local police. While waiting for them to arrive, he and Tommy Burke took a look around the rest of the house. They came upon a kitchen window at the rear. It had been forced open, and suggested that whoever set up the death trap got in that way.

Inspector Marsh was soon on the scene. “Roger Norton,” explained the inspector, “is a well-known solicitor in the town. His offices are in Fore Street.”

The CID photographer and two other men got busy with the usual routine, while Marsh went into the house and inspected the death trap. “Ingenious – diabolically ingenious!” he muttered.

“How about Mrs Norton? This must’ve been an awful shock for her?” Dixon Hawke said, “She’s not at home. We’ll have to wait till she gets back.”

“We’ll do that, then,” Marsh decided. While they were doing so, the front door bell rang. It was a man named Mitchell, who stated he had arranged to see Roger Norton at half-past seven that evening.

When told the tragic news, he gasped. “N-Norton dead – murdered? Who on earth did it?” Inspector Marsh countered with, “Have you any ideas, sir? You knew Norton, so maybe you can help us.”

“He was my solicitor,” was the answer, “and I only knew him in business. We were meeting here this evening, instead of at his office, at his suggestion.”

A few minutes later, still looking bewildered, Mitchell went off. It was around 9.30pm, when Mrs Norton came in – a tall, striking woman of around 45. She was, fortunately, not a hysterical type, but it took her some time to regain enough composure to be able to answer questions. “No,” she declared dully, “I – I can’t imagine who’d do such a terrible thing.”

“When did you last see him alive?” Marsh asked. “When he left here this morning, soon after nine o’clock. He always lunched in the town, and got back home at about five in the evening. I left at half-past two to visit friends.”

“I see.” Marsh nodded. “You’ve no objection to our going through your husband’s personal papers and things?”

“Do whatever you think best, Inspector. I’d like to pack a bag and return to the friends I’ve been visiting. I couldn’t possibly stay in this house tonight. You do understand?”

“Of course, ma’am. But perhaps you’d leave the address in case we want to contact you?” Mrs Norton departed, leaving the detectives to their task.

Upstairs in the bedroom the contents of the bureau were gone through. One drawer was found to be locked, but Inspector Marsh sanctioned the use of unorthodox means to open it. Inside this drawer were two insurance policies, each for a large sum, and some bearer bonds. There was also a copy of a will in which Norton left three thousand pounds to his chief clerk, named Wilkes.

Smaller sums were left to various charities and the rest of his estate to his wife. There was also a diary which the police officer glanced through.

While he was doing so, Hawke crossed the room to look more closely at something that had caught his attention.

This led the private investigator to look intently about him, then open a wardrobe and scan its contents.

“I say, Hawke, what d’you make of this?”...

More tomorrow.