CHAPTER XXII
THE HEAVY WALLET
All that remained of the once stately, if restricted, premises of Messrs.Dashwood and Solomon was a gaunt-looking front wall, blackened by thefire. Tarling interviewed the Chief of the Fire Brigade.
"It'll be days before we can get inside," said that worthy, "and I verymuch doubt if there's anything left intact. The whole of the building hasbeen burnt out--you can see for yourself the roof has gone in--andthere's very little chance of recovering anything of an inflammablenature unless it happens to be in a safe."
Tarling caught sight of the brusque Sir Felix Solomon gazing, without anyvisible evidence of distress, upon the wreckage of his office.
"We are covered by insurance," said Sir Felix philosophically, "and thereis nothing of any great importance, except, of course, those documentsand books from Lyne's Store."
"They weren't in the fire-proof vault?" asked Tarling, and Sir Felix shookhis head.
"No," he said, "they were in a strong-room; and curiously enough, it wasin that strong room where the fire originated. The room itself was notfire-proof, and it would have been precious little use if it had been, asthe fire started inside. The first news we received was when a clerk,going down to the basement, saw flames leaping out between the steel barswhich constitute the door of No. 4 vault."
Tarling nodded.
"I need not ask you whether the books which Mr. Milburgh brought thismorning had been placed in that safe, Sir Felix," he said, and the knightlooked surprised.
"Of course not. They were placed there whilst you were in the office," hesaid. "Why do you ask?"
"Because in my judgment those books were not books at all in the usuallyunderstood sense. Unless I am at fault, the parcel contained three bigledgers glued together, the contents being hollowed out and that hollowfilled with thermite, a clockwork detonator, or the necessary electricapparatus to start a spark at a given moment."
The accountant stared at him.
"You're joking," he said, but Tarling shook his head.
"I was never more serious in my life."
"But who would commit such an infernal act as that? Why, one of my clerkswas nearly burnt to death!"
"The man who would commit such an infernal act as that," repeated Tarlingslowly, "is the man who has every reason for wishing to avoid anexamination of Lyne's accounts."
"You don't mean----?"
"I'll mention no names for the moment, and if inadvertently I haveconveyed the identity of the gentleman of whom I have been speaking, Ihope you will be good enough to regard it as confidential," said Tarling,and went back to his crestfallen subordinate.
"No wonder Milburgh was satisfied with the forthcoming examination,"he said bitterly. "The devil had planted that parcel, and had timedit probably to the minute. Well, there's nothing more to be doneto-night--with Milburgh."
He looked at his watch.
"I'm going back to my flat, and afterwards to Hertford," he said.
He had made no definite plan as to what line he should pursue after hereached Hertford. He had a dim notion that his investigation hereaboutsmight, if properly directed, lead him nearer to the heart of the mystery.This pretty, faded woman who lived in such style, and whose husband wasso seldom visible, might give him a key. Somewhere it was in existence,that key, by which he could decipher the jumbled code of the DaffodilMurder, and it might as well be at Hertford as nearer at hand.
It was dark when he came to the home of Mrs. Rider, for this time he haddispensed with a cab, and had walked the long distance between thestation and the house, desiring to avoid attention. The dwelling stood onthe main road. It had a high wall frontage of about three hundred andfifty feet. The wall was continued down the side of a lane, and at theother end marked the boundary of a big paddock.
The entrance to the grounds was through a wrought-iron gate of strength,the design of which recalled something which he had seen before. On hisprevious visit the gate had been unfastened, and he had had no difficultyin reaching the house. Now, however, it was locked.
He put his flashlight over the gate and the supporting piers, anddiscovered a bell, evidently brand new, and recently fixed. He made noattempt to press the little white button, but continued hisreconnaissance. About half-a-dozen yards inside the gateway was a smallcottage, from which a light showed, and apparently the bell communicatedwith this dwelling. Whilst he was waiting, he heard a whistle and a quickfootstep coming up the road, and drew into the shadow. Somebody came tothe gate; he heard the faint tinkle of a bell and a door opened.
The new-comer was a newspaper boy, who pushed a bundle of evening papersthrough the iron bars and went off again. Tarling waited until he heardthe door of the cottage or lodge close. Then he made a circuit of thehouse, hoping to find another entrance. There was evidently a servants'entrance at the back, leading from the lane, but this too was closed.Throwing his light up, he saw that there was no broken glass on top ofthe wall, as there had been in the front of the house, and, making ajump, he caught the stone coping and drew himself up and astride.
He dropped into the darkness on the other side without any discomfort tohimself, and made his cautious way towards the house. Dogs were thedanger, but apparently Mrs. Rider did not keep dogs, and his progress wasunchallenged.
He saw no light either in the upper or lower windows until he got to theback. Here was a pillared-porch, above which had been built what appearedto be a conservatory. Beneath the porch was a door and a barred window,but it was from the conservatory above that a faint light emanated. Helooked round for a ladder without success. But the portico presentedno more difficulties than the wall had done. By stepping on to thewindow-sill and steadying himself against one of the pillars, he couldreach an iron stanchion, which had evidently been placed to support theframework of the superstructure. From here to the parapet of theconservatory itself was but a swing. This glass-house had casementwindows, one of which was open, and he leaned on his elbows andcautiously intruded his head.
The place was empty. The light came from an inner room opening into theglass sheltered balcony. Quickly he slipped through the windows andcrouched under the shadow of a big oleander. The atmosphere of theconservatory was close and the smell was earthy. He judged from thehot-water pipes which his groping hands felt that it was a tiny wintergarden erected by the owner of the house for her enjoyment in the dark,cold days. French windows admitted to the inner room, and, peeringthrough the casement curtains which covered them, Tarling saw Mrs.Rider. She was sitting at a desk, a pen in her hand, her chin on herfinger-tips. She was not writing, but staring blankly at the wall, asthough she were at a loss for what to say.
The light came from a big alabaster bowl hanging a foot below the ceilinglevel, and it gave the detective an opportunity of making a swiftexamination. The room was furnished simply if in perfect taste, and hadthe appearance of a study. Beside her desk was a green safe, half letinto the wall and half exposed. There were a few prints hanging on thewalls, a chair or two, a couch half hidden from the detective's view, andthat was all. He had expected to see Odette Rider with her mother, andwas disappointed. Not only was Mrs. Rider alone, but she conveyed theimpression that she was practically alone in the house.
Tarling knelt, watching her, for ten minutes, until he heard a soundoutside. He crept softly back and looked over the edge of the portico intime to see a figure moving swiftly along the path. It was riding abicycle which did not carry a light. Though he strained his eyes, hecould not tell whether the rider was man or woman. It disappeared underthe portico and he heard the grating of the machine as it was leantagainst one of the pillars, the click of a key in the lock and the soundof a door opening. Then he crept back to his observation post overlookingthe study.
Mrs. Rider had evidently not heard the sound of the door openingbelow, and sat without movement still staring at the wall before her.Presently she started and looked round towards the door. Tarling notedthe door--noted, too the electric switch just in view. Then the
dooropened slowly. He saw Mrs. Rider's face light up with pleasure, thensomebody asked a question in a whisper, and she answered--he could justhear her words:
"No darling, nobody."
Tarling held his breath and waited. Then, of a sudden, the light in theroom was extinguished. Whoever had entered had turned out the light.He heard a soft footfall coming towards the window looking into theconservatory and the rattle of the blinds as they were lowered. Then thelight went up again, but he could see nothing or hear nothing.
Who was Mrs. Rider's mysterious visitor? There was only one way todiscover, but he waited a little longer--waited, in fact, until he heardthe soft slam of a safe door closing--before he slipped again through thewindow and dropped to the ground.
The bicycle was, as he had expected, leaning against one of the pillars.He could see nothing, and did not dare flash his lamp, but his sensitivefingers ran over its lines, and he barely checked an exclamation ofsurprise. It was a lady's bicycle!
He waited a little while, then withdrew to a shrubbery opposite the dooron the other side of the drive up which the cyclist had come. He had notlong to wait before the door under the portico opened again and closed.Somebody jumped on to the bicycle as Tarling leaped from his place ofconcealment. He pressed the key of his electric lamp, but for some reasonit did not act. He felt rather than heard a shiver of surprise from theperson on the machine.
"I want you," said Tarling, and put out his hands.
He missed the rider by the fraction of an inch, but saw the machineswerve and heard the soft thud of something falling. A second later themachine and rider had disappeared in the pitch darkness.
He re-fixed his lamp. Pursuit, he knew, was useless without his lantern,and, cursing the maker thereof, he adjusted another battery, and put thelight on the ground to see what it was that the fugitive had dropped. Hethought he heard a smothered exclamation behind him and turned swiftly.But nobody came within the radius of his lamp. He must be getting nervy,he thought, and continued his inspection of the wallet.
It was a long, leather portfolio, about ten inches in length and fiveinches in depth, and it was strangely heavy. He picked it up, felt forthe clasp, and found instead two tiny locks. He made another examinationby the light of his lantern, an examination which was interrupted by achallenge from above.
"Who are you?"
It was Mrs. Rider's voice, and just then it was inconvenient for him toreveal himself. Without a word in answer, he switched off his light andslipped into the bushes, and, more as the result of instinct thanjudgment, regained the wall, at almost the exact spot he had crossed it.
The road was empty, and there was no sign of the cyclist. There was onlyone thing to do and that was to get back to town as quickly as possibleand examine the contents of the wallet at his leisure. It wasextraordinary heavy for its size, he was reminded of that fact by hissagging pocket.
The road back to Hertford seemed interminable and the clocks were chiminga quarter of eleven when he entered the station yard.
"Train to London, sir?" said the porter. "You've missed the last train toLondon by five minutes!"