CHAPTER XVII
AN OFFICIAL HOUSEBREAKER
No word bearing on the main topic in these men's minds was said duringdinner. Grant was attentive to his guests, but markedly silent, almostdistrait. Two such talkers as Hart and Peters, however, covered any gapsin this respect. Cigars and pipes were in evidence, and, horrible thoughit may sound in the ears of a _gourmet_, the port was circulating, whenWinter turned and gazed at the small window.
"Is that where the ghost appears!" he inquired.
"Yes," said Grant. "You know the whole story, of course?"
"Furneaux misses nothing, I assure you."
"He missed a daylight apparition this afternoon, at any rate. I have nosecrets from my friends, so I may as well tell you--"
"That Siddle called, and implored you to consider Doris Martin's futureby avoiding her at present," put in the Chief Inspector.
Such shocks were losing some of their effect, on the principle that a manhears the burst of the thousandth high-explosive shell with a good dealless trepidation than attended the efforts of the first dozen. Still,Grant gazed at the speaker in profound astonishment.
"You Scotland Yard men seem to know everything," he said.
"A mere pretense. Try him on sheep-raising in the Argentine, Jack,"murmured Hart.
"Wally, this business is developing a very serious side," protestedGrant. Hart stretched a long arm for the port decanter.
"Come, friend!" he addressed it gravely. "Let us commune! You and Itogether shall mingle joyous memories of
"A draught of the Warm South,The true, the blushful Hippocrene."
"We read Siddle's visit aright, it would appear," said Winter quietly.
"Yes. That was his mission, put in a nutshell."
"And what did you say?"
"I told him that, after Wednesday, I would ask Doris Martin to marry me,which is the best answer I can give him and all the world."
"Why 'after Wednesday'?"
"Because I shall know then the full extent of the annoyance whichIngerman can inflict."
"Did you give Siddle that reason?"
"Yes."
Winter frowned.
"You literary gentlemen are all alike," he said vexedly. "You become suchadepts in analyzing human duplicity in your books that you never dreamof trying to be wise as a serpent in your own affairs. The author whowill split legal hairs by way of brightening his work will sign acontract with a publisher that draws tears from his lawyer when a disputearises. Why be so candid with a rank outsider, like Siddle?"
"I distrust the man. Doris distrusts him, too."
"So you take him into your confidence."
"No. I merely give him chapter and verse to prove that his interferenceis useless."
"Have you engaged a lawyer for Wednesday"
"No. Why should I? My hands are clean."
"But your clothes may suffer if enough mud is slung at you. Wire to thisman in the morning, and mention my name--Winter, of course, notFranklin."
"Codlin's your friend, not Short," said Hart. "Sorry. It's a time-wornjape, but it fitted in admirably."
The detective scribbled a name and address on a card.
"I don't think you need worry about Ingerman," he went on, "though it'swell to be prepared. A smart solicitor can stop irrelevant statements,especially if ready for them. But there must be no more of thisheart-opening to all and sundry, Mr. Grant. Siddle is your rival. He,too, wants to marry Miss Martin, and regards you now as the onlystumbling-block."
"Siddle! That stick!" gasped Grant.
"Ridiculous, indeed monstrous," agreed Winter, rather heatedly, "butnevertheless a candidate for the lady's hand."
Then he laughed. Peters's keen eyes were watching him, and Wally Hart wasgiving more heed to the conversation than was revealed by a fixed stareat the negro's head in meerschaum.
"You've bothered me," he went on. "I thought you had more sense. Don'tyou understand that all these bits of gossip reach Ingerman through thefilter of the snug at the Hare and Hounds?"
"The man's visit was unexpected, and his mission even more so. I justblurted out the facts."
"Well, you've rendered the services of a solicitor absolutelyindispensable now."
Grant, by no means so clear-headed these days as was his wont, followedthe scent of Winter's red herring like the youngest hound in a pack; butWally Hart and Peters, lookers-on in this chase, harked back to theright line.
"May I--" they both broke in simultaneously.
"Place to the fourth estate," bowed Hart solemnly.
"Thanks," said the journalist. "May I put a question, Winter?"
"A score, if you like."
"Totting up the average of the murder cases in which Furneaux and youhave been engaged, in how many days do you count on spotting your man?"
"Sometimes we never get him."
"Oh, come a bit closer than that."
"Generally, given a clear run, with an established motive, we know who heis within eight days."
"Wednesday, in effect?"
"Can't say, this time?"
"Suppose, as a hypothesis, you are convinced of a man's guilt, but canobtain little or no evidence?"
"He goes through life a free and independent citizen of this or any othercountry. Arrests on suspicion are not my long suit."
"How does one get evidence?" purred Hart. "It isn't scattered broadcastby a clever criminal. And you fellows seem to object to my method, whichhas been the only effectual one so far in this affair."
"If you had shot that specter the other night there would have been thedeuce to pay."
"But you would now be sure of the murderer?"
"Why do you assume that?"
"Like Eugene Aram, he can't keep away from the scene of his crime."
Winter felt he was skating on thin ice, so hastened to escape.
"Detective work is nearly all guessing," he said sententiously, "yet onemust beware of what I may term obvious guessing. If cause and effect wereso closely allied in certain classes of crime my department would ceaseto exist, and the protection of life and property might be left safely tothe ordinary police. By the way, P. C. Robinson has been rather inactiveduring two whole days. That makes me suspicious. What's he up to? Can youthrow a light on him, Peters?"
The journalist knew that he was being told peremptorily to cease prying.He kicked Hart under the table.
"Hi!" yelled Wally. "What's the matter? Strike your matches on your ownshin, not mine."
"Peters is announcing that the discussion is now closed," saidWinter firmly.
"Very well. He needn't emphasize the warning by a hob-nailed boot. Whenmy injured feelings have recovered I'll discourse to you of strange folkand stranger doings on the banks of the Rio de la Plata, and your stockas an Argentine plutocrat will rise one hundred per cent, next timeyou're badgered by a man who knows the country."
"Meanwhile, Robinson is hot-foot on the Elkin trail," laughed Peters."His face was a study to-day when the groom supplied details of thepicture-buying."
"Furneaux wanted that transaction to be widely known," said Winter. "Hegave every publicity to it."
"Did he secure a bargain, I wonder?" said Grant.
"Oh, I expect so. He doesn't waste his hard-earned money, even forofficial purposes."
But Winter was well aware of, and kept to himself one phase of the artdeal, at any rate. Furneaux had persuaded Siddle to fasten two bulkypackages with string!
He was shaving next morning when his colleague entered, spruce as ever inattire, but looking rather weary. The little man flung himself at fulllength on Winter's bed.
"Been up all night," he explained. "Chemical analysis is fascinating butslow work--like watching a moth evolve from a grub. Had a fearful job,too, to get an analyst to chuck a theater and attend to business. Theblighter talked of office hours. _Cre nom_! Ten till four, and an hourand a half for lunch! Why can't we run _our_ show on those lines, James!"
Winter finished carefully the left side of his
broad expanse of face.
"You came down by the mail, I suppose?" he said casually.
"What a genius you are!" sighed Furneaux. "If _I_ were trembling withexpectation I could no more put a banal question like that than swallowthe razor after I was done with it. You might at least have the commondecency to thank me for leaving you to gorge on rare meats and vintagewines while I dallied with the deadly railway sandwich."
Winter scraped the other cheek, his chin, and upper lip.
"Shall I go to the bathroom first, or listen?" he inquired.
"Ah, well, I'm tired, and hiking these frail bones to bed till twelve, soI'll give you a condensed version," snapped Furneaux. "Elkin 's illness,begun by whiskey and over-excitement, developed into steady poisoning bySiddle. The chemist used a rare agent, too--pure nicotine--easy, in asense, to detect, but capable of a dozen reasonable explanations whenrevealed by the post-mortem. But Elkin wasn't to be killed outright, Igather. The idea was to upset stomach and brain till he was half crazy.As you can read print when it's before your eyes, I needn't go into thematter of motive; Elkin's behavior supplies all details."
"How about the knots? Hurry! I hate the feeling of soap drying on myskin."
"One running noose and twice two half hitches on each package."
"Good! Charles, we're going to pull off a real twister."
"_We!_ Well, that tikes it, as the girl said when her hat blew off withthe fluffy transformation pinned to it."
Winter rushed to the bathroom, and Furneaux crept languidly to bed.
Before going to Knoleworth, Mr. Franklin consulted with Tomlin as to asuitable dinner, to which the other guests staying in the inn, namely,Mr. Peters and the Scotland Yard gentleman--the little man with theFrench name--might be invited. This important point settled, Mr. Franklincaught an early train, and was absent all day, being, in fact, closetedwith Superintendent Fowler and a Treasury solicitor.
Furneaux was sound asleep long after twelve o'clock, and swore at Tomlinin French when the landlord ventured to arouse him. Tomlin wentdownstairs scratching his head.
"Least said soonest mended," he communed, "but we may all be murdered inour beds if them's the sort of 'tecs we 'ave to look arter us."
However, he cheered up towards night. Ingerman, a lawyer, and somepressmen, arriving for the inquest, filled every available room, and thekitchen was redolent of good fare. All parties gathered in thedining-room, of course, and Ingerman had an eye for Mr. Franklin's party.The scraps of talk he overheard were nothing more exciting than theprospects of a certain horse for the Stewards' Cup. Peters had the tipstraight from the stables. A racing certainty, with a stone in hand.
After dinner the financier was surprised when Furneaux approached, andtapped him professionally on the shoulder.
"A word with you outside," he said.
Ingerman was irritated--perhaps slightly alarmed.
"Can't we talk here?" he said, in that singularly melodious voice of his.
"Better not, but I shan't detain you more than five minutes."
"Anything my legal adviser might wish to hear?"
"Not from me. Tell him yourself afterwards, if you like."
In the quiet street the detective suddenly linked arms with hiscompanion. Probably he smiled sardonically when he felt a telltale quiverrun through Ingerman's lanky frame.
"You've brought down Norris, I see?" he began.
"Yes."
"Meaning to make things hot for Grant tomorrow?"
"Meaning to give justice the materials--"
"Cut the cackle, Isidor. I know you, and it's high time you knew me.Grant has retained Belcher. Ah! that gets you, does it? You haven'tforgotten Belcher. Now, be reasonable! Or, rather, don't run your headinto a noose. Grant had no more to do with the murder of your wife thanyou had. Call off Norris, and Grant withdraws Belcher. Twig? It's deadeasy, because the Treasury solicitor will simply ask for another week'sadjournment, as the police are not ready to go on. In the meantime, youpay off Norris, and save your face. Is it a deal?"
"Am I to understand--"
"Don't wriggle! The key of the situation is held by Belcher. Name of apipe! What prompting does Belcher need from me or anybody else after theBokfontein Lands case?"
"But--"
"Isidor, this is the last word. I was at the funeral on Saturday, and metyour wife's mother and sister. They do love you, don't they?"
Ingerman died game.
"If I have your assurance that Mr. Grant is really innocent of Adelaide'sdeath, that is sufficient," he said slowly.
"Well, if it pleases you to put it that way, I'm agreeable. Which is yourroad? Back to the hotel? I'm for a short stroll. Mind you, no wobbling!Go straight, and I'll attend to Belcher. But, good Lord! How his eyeswill sparkle when they light on you to-morrow!"
Neither the redoubtable Belcher, nor the Bokfontein Lands, nor poorAdelaide Melhuish's mother and sister may figure further in thischronicle. The inquest opened at the appointed hour next day, and wasclosed down again for a week with a celerity that was most disappointingboth to the jury and the general public. Of three legal luminariespresent only one, the Treasury man, uttered a few bald words. Belcher andNorris did not even announce the names of their clients. Norris noticedthat Belcher surveyed Ingerman with a grim smile, but thought nothing ofit until he received a check later in the week. Then he made someinquiries, and smiled himself.
The foreman of the jury looked a trifle pinched, though his cheeks boretwo spots of hectic color. Mr. Franklin, drawn to the court by curiosity,happened to glance at him once, and found him gazing at Furneaux in apeculiarly thoughtful manner.
Elkin, thriving on a diet of tea and eggs, was also interested in therepresentative of Scotland Yard. He seemed to ignore Grant entirely.Doris Martin was not in court. Superintendent Fowler had called abouthalf, past nine to tell her she would not be asked to attend that day.
Near Mr. Franklin sat a few village notabilities, who, since they had notthe remotest connection with anyone concerned in the tragedy, have beenleft hitherto in their Olympian solitude. He listened to their comments.
"As usual, the police are utterly at sea," said one.
"Yes, 'following up important clews,' the newspapers say," scoffedanother.
"It's a disgraceful thing if a crime like this goes undetected andunpunished."
"Which is the Scotland Yard man!"
"The small chap, in the blue suit."
"What? _That_ little rat!"
"Oh, he's sharp. I met a man in the train and he told me--"
Mr. Franklin grinned amiably; Hobbs, the butcher, intercepting his eye,grinned back. It is not difficult to imagine what portion of theforegoing small talk reached Furneaux subsequently.
Oddly enough, both detectives had missed a brief but illuminatingincident which took place in the Hare and Hounds the previous night,while Winter was finishing a cigar with Peters, and Furneaux wasbludgeoning Ingerinan into compliance with his wishes.
Elkin's remarkable improvement in health was commented on by Hobbs, andSiddle took the credit.
"That last mixture has proved beneficial, then?" he said, eying thehorse-dealer closely.
"Top-hole," smirked Elkin. "But it's only fair to say that I've chuckedwhiskey, too."
"Did you finish the bottle?"
"Which bottle?"
"Mine, of course."
"Nearly."
"Don't take any more. It was decidedly strong. I'll send a boy earlyto-morrow morning with a first-rate tonic, and you might give him any oldmedicine bottles you possess. I'm running short."
Elkin hesitated a second or two.
"I'll tell my housekeeper to look 'em up," he said. After the inquest hecommunicated this episode to Furneaux as a great joke.
"Queer, isn't it?" he guffawed. "A couple of dozen bottles went back, asI'm always getting stuff for the gees, but those two weren't among 'em.You took care of that, eh? When will you have the analysis?"
"It'll be fully a week yet," said the det
ective. "Government offices arenot run like express trains, and this is a free job, you know. But, beadvised by me. Stick to plain food, and throw physic to the dogs."
Another singular fact, unobserved by the public at large, was that apoliceman, either Robinson or a stranger, patrolled the high-street allday and all night, while no one outside official circles was aware thatother members of the force watched The Hollies, or were secreted amongthe trees on the cliffside, from dusk to dawn.
Next morning, however, there was real cause for talk. Siddle's shop wasclosed. Over the letter-box, neatly printed, was gummed a notice:
"Called away on business. Will open for one hour after arrival of 7 p. m.train. T. S."
Everyone who passed stopped to read. Even Mr. Franklin joined Furneauxand Peters in a stroll across the road to have a look.
"I want you a minute," said the big man suddenly to Furneaux. There wasthat in his tone which forbade questioning, so Peters sheered off, wellcontent with the share permitted him in the inquiry thus far.
"That fellow, Hart, is no fool," went on Winter rapidly. "He said lastnight 'How does one get evidence?' It was not easy to answer. Siddle hasgone to his mother's funeral. What do you think!"
"You'd turn me into a housebreaker, would you?" whined Furneaux bitterly."I must do the job, of course, just because I'm a little one. Well, well!After a long and honorable career I have to become a sneak thief. It maycost me my pension."
"There's no real difficulty. An orchard--"
"Bet you a new hat I went over the ground before you did."
"Get over it quickly now, and get something out of it, and I'll _give_you a new hat. Got any tools?"
"I fetched 'em from town Tuesday morning," chortled Furneaux. "So nowwho's the brainy one?"
He skipped into the hotel, while Winter went to the station to make sureof Siddle's departure and destination. Yes, the chemist had taken areturn ticket to Epsom, where a strip of dank meadow-land on the road toEsher marks the last resting-place of many of London's epileptics. Onreturning to the high-street, Winter lighted a cigar, a somewhat commonoccurrence in his everyday life, where-upon Furneaux walked swiftly upthe hill. A farmer, living near the center of the village, owned a rathershowy cob. Winter found the man, and persuaded him to trot the animal toand fro in front of the hotel. There was a good deal of noise andhoof-clattering, and people came to their doors to see what was going on.Obviously, if they were watching the antics of a skittish two-year-old inthe high-street, their eyes were blind to proceedings in the backpremises. Even the postmaster and his daughter were interested onlookers,and a policeman, who might have put a summary end to the display,vanished as though by magic.
Luckily, Winter was a good judge of a horse. When the cob was stabled,and the farmer came to the inn to have a drink, he was forced to admit atendency to cow hocks, which, it would seem, is held a fatal blemish inthe Argentine.
Meanwhile, Furneaux had dodged into a lane and thence to a bridle-pathwhich emerged near Bob Smith's forge. When he had traversed, roughlyspeaking, one-half of a rectangle in which the Hare and Hounds occupiedthe center of one of the longer sides, he climbed a gate and followed ahedge. Though not losing a second, he took every precaution to remainunseen, and, to the best of his belief, gained an inclosed yard at theback of Siddle's premises without having attracted attention. He slippedthe catch of a kitchen window only to discover that the sash wasfastened by screws also. The lock of the kitchen door yielded topersuasion, but there were bolts above and below. A wire screen in alarder window was impregnable. Short of cutting out a pane of glass, hecould not effect an entry on the ground floor.
Nimble as a squirrel, and risking everything, he climbed to the roof ofan outhouse, and tried a bedroom window. Here he succeeded. When thecatch was forced, there were no further obstacles. In he went, pausingonly to look around and see if any curious or alarmed eye was watchinghim. He wondered why every back yard on that side of the high-street wasempty, not even a maid-servant or woman washing clothes being in sight,but understood and grinned when the commotion Winter was creating came inview from a front room.
Then he undertook a methodical search, working with a rapid yetpainstaking thoroughness which missed nothing. From a wardrobe heselected an overcoat and pair of trousers which reeked with turpentine.They were old and soiled garments, very different from the well-cut blackcoat and waistcoat, with striped cloth trousers, worn daily by thechemist. He drew a blank in the remainder of the upstairs rooms, whichincluded a sitting-room, though he devoted fully quarter of an hour toreading the titles of Siddle's books.
A safe in the little dispensing closet at the back of the shop promisedsheer defiance until Furneaux saw a bunch of keys resting beside amethylated spirit lamp.
"'Twas ever thus!" he cackled, lighting the lamp. "Heaven help us poordetectives if it wasn't!"
In a word, since murder will out, Siddle had forgotten his keys!Probably, he had gone to the safe for money, and, while writing thenotice as to his absence, had laid down the keys and omitted to pickthem up again.
Furneaux disregarded ledgers and account books. He examined a bankpass-book and a check-book. In a drawer which contained these and aquantity of gold he found a small, leather-bound book with a lock, whichno key on the bunch was tiny enough to fit. A bit of twisted wire soonovercame this difficulty, and Furneaux began to read.
There were quaint diagrams, and surveyor's sketches, both in plan andsection, with curious notes, and occasional records of what appeared tobe passages from letters or conversations. The detective read, andread, referring back and forth, absorbed in his task, no doubt, butevidently puzzled.
At last, he stuffed the book into a pocket, completed his scrutiny of thesafe, examined the bottles on the shelf labeled "poisons," and took asample of the colorless contents of one bottle marked "C10H14N2."
Then he went to the kitchen, replaced all catches and the lock of thedoor, and let himself out by the way he had come.
Winter saw him from afar, and hastened upstairs to the privatesitting-room. Furneaux appeared there soon.
"Well?" said the Chief Inspector eagerly.
"Got him, I think," said Furneaux.
Not much might be gathered from that monosyllabic question and itsanswer, but its significance in Siddle's ears, could he have heard, wouldhave been that of the passing bell tolling for the dead.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE TRUTH AT LAST
Not often did Furneaux qualify an opinion by that dubious phrase, "Ithink," which, in its colloquial sense, implies that the thought containsa reservation as to possible error.
Winter looked anxious. Both he and his colleague knew well when to dropthe good-natured banter they delighted in. They were face to face nowwith issues of life and death, dark and sinister conditions which hadalready destroyed one life, threatened another, and might envisagefurther horrors. Small wonder, then, if the Chief Inspector's usuallycheerful face was clouded, or that his hopes should be somewhat dashedwhen Furneaux seemed to lack the abounding confidence which was his mostmarked characteristic.
"You've got something, I see," he said, trying to speak encouragingly,and glancing at the bundle of clothing which Furneaux had wrapped in anewspaper before dropping from the bedroom window of Siddle's house.
"Yes, a lot. What to make of it is the puzzle. We either go ahead on theflimsiest of evidence or I carry out another housebreaking job thisafternoon and restore things in status quo. First, the bundle--an oldcovert-coating overcoat and a pair of frayed trousers which probablydraped Owd Ben's ghost. They've been soaked in turpentine, which, chemistor no chemist, is still the best agent for removing stains. We'll put 'emunder the glass after we've examined the book. Siddle keeps a sort ofdiary, a series of jumbled memoranda. If we can extract nutriment out ofthat we may have something tangible to go upon. Let's begin at the end."
Opening the leather-bound note-book, Furneaux stood with his back to thewindow. Winter, owing to his superior height, could look over the less
erman's shoulder. Many an occult document affecting the famous crimes andsocial or dynastic intrigues of the previous decade had these twoexamined in that way, the main advantage of scrutiny in common being thatthey could compare readings or suggested readings without loss of time,and with the original manuscript before both pairs of eyes.
In the first instance, there were no dates--only scraps of sentences, orcomments. The concluding entry in the book was:
"A tactical error? Perhaps. Immovable."
Then, taking the order backward:
"Scout the very notion of such an infamy. You and every scandal-monger inS. may do your worst."
"Free to confess that events have opened my eyes to the truth, so, notfor the first time, out of evil comes good."
"A prig."
"Visit for such a purpose a piece of unheard-of impudence."
These were all on one page.
"Quite clearly a _precis_ of Grant's remarks when Siddle called onMonday," said Winter.
At any other time, Furneaux would have waxed sarcastic. Now hemerely nodded.
"Stops in a queer way," he muttered. "Not a word about the inquest or themissing bottles."
The preceding page held even more disjointed entries, which,nevertheless, provided a fair synopsis of Doris's spirited words on theSunday afternoon.
"Malice and ignorance."
"Patient because of years."
"Loyal comrade. Shall remain."
"Code."
"No difference in friendship."
"E. hopeless. Contempt."
"Skipping--good."
On the next page:
"Isidor G. Ingerman. Useful. Inquire."
"E.'s boasts? Nonsensical, surely!"
"Why has D. gone?"
Both men paused at that line.
"Detective?" suggested Winter.
"That's how I take it," agreed Furneaux.
Then came a sign: "+10%."
"Elkin's mixture was not 'as before.' It was fortified," grinnedFurneaux. "That's the exact increase of nicotine. By the way, I havea sample. We can take care of him on that charge, without a shadowof doubt."
Winter blew softly on the back of his friend's head.
"You're thorough, Charles, thorough!" he murmured. "It's a treat to workwith you when you get really busy."
Furneaux ran his thumb across the end of several leaves.
"I can tell you now," he said, "that there's nothing of real value in theearlier notes. So far as I can judge, they refer either to a sort ofsettlement with his wife or chance phrases used by Doris Martin whichmight imply that she was heart whole and fancy free. There's not a ballyword dealing with the murder, or that can be twisted into the vaguestallusion to it. But here's a plan and section which have a sort ofsignificance. I've seen the place, so recognized it, or thought I did. Wemust check it, of course. Here you are! You know the footbridge acrossthe river from Bush Walk?"
"Yes."
"The eastern end is supported on a hollow pier of masonry, in which onemight tog up unseen. These drawings would be useful as an _AideMemoire_ on a dark night. A false step, with the river in flood, mightbe awkward."
"What's that on the opposite page?"
"I give it up--at present."
This somewhat rare display of modesty on Furneaux's part was readilyunderstandable. A series of straight lines and angles conveyed verylittle hint of their purport; but Winter smiled behind his friend's back.
"I've been prowling about this wretched inn longer than you," he said."Look outside, to the left."
"Don't need to, now," cackled Furneaux. "It's the profile of a wall,gate, and outhouse along which one could reach the window of theclub-room. Would you mind stopping grinning like a Cheshire cat?"
"Anything else?"
"Yes. This one: 'S.M.? 1820.' That beats you, eh?"
"Dished completely."
"Doris Martin, as usual, supplies the answer. An old volume of the_Sussex Miscellany_, probably that for 1820, contains the full story ofOwd Ben. I might have mentioned it to you, but focussed on currentevents. Siddle has it among his books, which, by the way, are made uplargely of scientific and popular criminal records."
"Is that the lot?"
"I'm afraid so. Have a look."
"Just a minute. I want to think."
Winter turned and gazed through the open window. Seldom had a moregracious June decked England with garlands. The hour was then high noon,and a pastoral landscape was drowned in sunshine. The Chief Inspector cutthe end off a cigar dreamily but with care.
"Broadmoor--perhaps," he muttered. "But we can't hang him yet, Charles. Acouple of knots and a theory won't do for the Assizes. We haven't asolitary witness. Hardly a night but he goes home at 9.30. If only he hadkilled Grant! But--Adelaide Melhuish!"
In sheer despair he struck a match.
"Well, let's overhaul these duds," said Furneaux savagely. "I'll chancethe dinner hour for the return visit. Steynholme folk eat at half pasttwelve to the tick, and you can hardly get up another horse show."
There was a knock at the door.
"Let me in, quick!" came Peters's voice, and the handle was triedforcibly.
"Go away! I'm busy!" cried Winter.
"This is urgent, devilish urgent," said Peters.
Furneaux snatched up the note-book, and Winter tore off his coat,throwing it over the package which reposed in an armchair. Then the ChiefInspector unlocked the door, blocking the way aggressively.
"Now, I must say--" he began.
But Peters clutched his shoulder with a nervous hand.
"Siddle has just hurried up the street and entered his shop," he hissed.
The journalist had not only kept his eyes open, but excelled in the artof putting two and two together, an arithmetical calculation which, asapplied to the affairs of life, is not so readily arrived at as manypeople imagine.
"Buncoed! He's missed his keys!" shrilled Furneaux.
"Confound the man! He might at least have attended his mother's funeral!"stormed Winter, retrieving his coat.
Thus it happened that Furneaux was the first down the stairs, though thethree emerged from the door of the inn on each other's heels. A stoutman, in all likelihood a farmer with horses for sale, was mounting thetwo steps which led to the entrance. His head was down, and his weightforward, so he successfully resisted Furneaux's impact, but Peters andWinter were irresistible, and he tumbled over with a muffled yell.
At that instant Siddle quitted his shop, and headed straight for the postoffice. In his right hand he carried an automatic pistol. The street waswide. Furneaux, absolutely fearless in the performance of his duty, ranin a curve so as to bar the chemist's path, and it was then that Siddlesaw him. The man's face was terrible to behold. His eyes were rolling,his teeth gnashing; he had bitten his tongue and cheeks, and hisstertorous breathing ejected from his mouth foam tinged with blood.
"Ha!" he screamed in a falsetto of fury, "not yet, little man, not yet!"
With that he raised the pistol, and fired point-blank at the detective.Furneaux ducked, and seized a small stone, being otherwise quite unarmed.He threw it with unerring aim, and, as was determined subsequently,struck the hand holding the weapon. Possibly, almost by a miracle, theblow caused a faulty pressure, because the action jammed, though thepistol itself was most accurate and deadly in its properties.
By this time Winter, sweeping Peters aside, was within ten feet of themaniac, who turned and ran into the shop. The door, a solid one, fittedwith a spring lock, slammed in the Chief Inspector's face, and resisted amighty effort to burst it open. A few yards away stood an empty,two-wheeled cart, uptilted, and Winter demanded the help of a few men whohad gathered on seeing or hearing the hubbub.
"I call on you in the King's name!" he shouted. "We must force that door!Then stand clear, all of you!"
He raced to the cart, and, when his object was perceived, willing handsassisted in converting the heavy vehicle into a battering-ram. Thegradient of the hill favored the attac
k, which was made at an acuteangle, and the first assault smashed the lock. There were a couple ofseconds' delay while the cart was backed out, and the detectives rushedin, Furneaux leading, because Winter gave his great physical strength tothe shafts. But the Chief Inspector grabbed his tiny friend by thecollar as the latter darted around the counter and into the dispensaryin the rear.
"Two of us can't go abreast, and you'll only get hurt," he said, speakingwith a calmness that was majestic in the circumstances.
"The nicotine is gone!" yelped Furneaux; both saw that the safestood open.
Behind the dispensary was a small passage, whence the stairs mounted, anda door led to the kitchen. That door was closed now, though it was openwhen Furneaux ransacked the house. Therefore, they made that way at once.No ordinary lock could resist Winter's shoulder, and he soon masteredthis barrier. But the kitchen was empty--the outer door locked butunbolted. Since it is practically impossible for the strongest man topull a door open, the two made for the window, and tore at screws andcatch with eager fingers. Furneaux, light and nimble-footed, scrambledthrough first, so it was he who found Siddle lying in the orchard beyondthe wall of the yard. The unhappy wretch had swallowed nearly the wholeremaining contents of the bottle of nicotine, or enough to poison a scoreof robust men. He presented a lamentable and distressing spectacle. Someof the more venturesome passers-by, who had crowded after the detectivesand Peters, could not bear to look on, and slunk away in horror.
Furneaux soon brought an emetic, which failed to act. Siddle breathed hislast while the glass was at his lips.
In that moment of crisis only three men did not lose their heads. Wintercleared away the gapers, while Furneaux remained with the body. P.C.Robinson came up the hill at a run, and was sent for a stretcher,bringing from Hobbs's shop the very one on which the ill-fated AdelaideMelhuish was carried from the river bank.
But where was Peters? In the post office, writing the first of a seriesof thrilling dispatches to a London evening newspaper. What journalistever had a more sensational murder-case to supply "copy"? And when was"special correspondent" ever better primed for the task? He wrote on, andon, till the telegraphist cried halt. Then he hied him to London bytrain, and began the more ambitious "story" for next morning. What he didnot know he guessed correctly. A fagged but triumphant man was JimmiePeters when he "blew in" to the Savage Club at 1 A.M. to seek sustenanceand a whiskey and soda before going home.
Furneaux was white and shaken when Winter escorted the stretcher-bearersto the orchard.
"Poor devil!" he said, as the men lifted the body. "Foredoomed frombirth! We can eradicate these diseases from cattle. Why not from men!"
The villagers could not understand him. Already, in some mysterious way,the word had gone around that Siddle had murdered the actress, and takenhis own life to avoid arrest, after shooting at the detective who was hoton his trail.
Not until Peters's articles came back to Steynholme did the public atlarge realize that the chemist undoubtedly meant to kill Doris Martin. Hewas going straight to the post office when the way was barred byFurneaux. The bullet which missed the latter actually pierced the zincplate of the letter-box, and scored a furrow, inches long, in an oakcounter which it struck laterally.
The village did not recover its poise for hours. Grant and Hart, to whomBates brought the news about one o'clock, rose from an untasted luncheonand hurried to the high-street. Knots of people stared at Grant, somesheepishly, others with frank relief, because all who knew him liked him.One man, a retired ironmonger and an impulsive fellow, came forward andwrung his hand heartily. A few prominent residents followed suit. Grantwas greatly embarrassed, but managed to endure these awkward ifwell-meant congratulations. There could be no mistaking their intent. Hehad been tried for murder at the bar of public opinion, and was nowformally acquitted.
Even Fred Elkin, ignorant as yet of his own peril, yielded to theinfluences of the moment and bustled through the crowd.
"Mr. Grant," he cried outspokenly, "I ask your pardon. I seem to havemade a d--d fool of myself!"
"Easier done than said," chimed in Hart. "But, among all thisbell-ringing, can anyone tell what has actually happened? Where'sPeters?"
"In the post office."
The two went in, and found the journalist scribbling against time. Hartcoolly grabbed a few slips of manuscript, and commenced reading. Grantlooked about for Doris. She was not visible, but Mr. Martin, pallid andnervous, nodded toward the sitting-room. The younger man, taking thegesture as a tacit invitation, entered the room.
Doris was sitting there, crying bitterly. Poor girl! She had seen thatportion of the drama which was enacted in the street, and the shock of itwas still poignant. She looked up and met her lover's eyes. Neitheruttered a word, but Grant did a very wise thing. He caught her by theshoulders, raised her to her feet, and, after kissing her squarely on thelips, gave her a comforting hug.
"It will be all right now, Doris," he whispered tenderly. "Suchthunderstorms clear the air."
An eminent novelist might have found many more ornate ways of avowinghis sentiments, but never a more satisfactory one. At any rate, itserved, so what more need be said?
Certain rills of evidence accumulated into a fair-sized stream beforenight fell. P.C. Robinson, for instance, scored a point by ascertainingthat Peggy Smith had seen Furneaux dropping from the bedroom window ofthe chemist's shop. She was some hundreds of yards away, and could not bepositive that some man, perhaps a glazier, had not been therelegitimately effecting repairs. Still, when she met Siddle hurrying fromthe station, she told him of the incident.
"He never even thanked me," she said, "but broke into a run. The look inhis eyes was awful."
The girl had, in fact, confirmed his worst fears, and her neighborlysolicitude had merely hastened the end.
Again, the railway officials showed that Siddle had returned fromVictoria instead of taking train to the asylum. Furneaux had guessedaright. The discovery that his keys had been left behind drove the maninto a panic of fright.
It took nearly three weeks before the unhappy business was finallydisposed of. A Treasury solicitor was given the chance of his career bythe medico-legal disquisition which cleared up an extraordinary record.The annals of the disease which predisposed Theodore Siddle to crimewent back many years. He was a fairly wealthy man by inheritance, andadopted the profession of chemistry as a hobby. One fact stood outboldly. He was aware of his hereditary taint, and had settled down inSteynholme believing that a quiet life, free from care or thedistractions of a town, would enable him to overcome it. Probably, thelawyer held, the man owned two distinct individualities, and the baserinstincts gradually overpowered the humane ones.
Of course, the whole history of those trying days had to come out in opencourt, and the postmaster's daughter was given a descriptive andpictorial boom which many an actress envied. Peters was restored to gracewhen he showed plainly that his articles had kept the fickle barometer ofpublic opinion at "set fair," in so far as Grant and Doris wereconcerned.
"But," as Hart drawled during a dinner of reconciliation, "you needn'thave been so infernally personal about my hat."
Grant and Doris were married before the year was out. Mr. Martin retiredon a pension, and the young couple decided that they could neverdissociate The Hollies from the tragic memories bound up with itsghost-window and lawn. So the place was sold, and Steynholme knows "thepostmaster's daughter" no more. Winter and Furneaux week-ended with themrecently at a pretty little nook in Dorset. Hart, just home from theBalkans, traveled from town with the detectives, and Doris, a radiantyoung matron, was as flippant as the best of them.
One evening, when the men were sitting late in the smoking-room, the talkturned on the now half-forgotten drama in which the hapless AdelaideMelhuish played her last role.
"I met Peters in the Savage Club the other night," said Hart, filling thenegro-head pipe with care while he talked, "and he was chortling abouthis 'psychological study,' as he called it, of that unfo
rtunate chemist.He still clings to the theory that your wife was the intended victim,Grant. Do you agree with him?"
"Rubbish!" cried Furneaux, before his host could answer. "At best, Petersis only a clever ass. Siddle never had the remotest notion of killingMiss Doris Martin, as Mrs. Grant was then. We shall never know forcertain just what happened, but there are elements in the affair whichgive ground for reasonable guesswork. The first thing that impressedWinter and me--at least, I suppose I really evolved the idea, though mybulky friend elaborated it" (whereat Winter smiled forgivingly, andbeheaded a fresh Havana) "was the complete noiselessness of the crime.Here we had Mr. Grant startled by the face at the window, and actuallysearching outside the house for the ghostly visitant, while Miss Doriswas gazing at The Hollies from the other side of the river, and not asound was heard, though it was a summer's night, without a breath ofwind, and at an hour when the splash of a fish leaping in the streamwould have created a commotion. Now, Miss Melhuish was an active andwell-built young woman, an actress, too, and therefore likely to meet anemergency without instant collapse. Yet she allows herself to be struckdead or insensible without cry or struggle! How do you account for it?"
"Go on, Charles; don't be theatrical," jeered Winter. "You've got thestory pat. Even that simile of the jumping fish is mine."
"True," agreed Furneaux. "I only brought it in as a sop. But, tocontinue, as the tub-thumper says. Isn't it permissible to assume thatSiddle accompanied the lady, either by prior arrangement or by contrivinga meeting which looked like mere chance? We know that she went to hisshop. We know, too, that he was clever and unscrupulous, and any allusionto Grant would stir his wits to the uttermost. He would see instantly howinterested Miss Melhuish was in the owner of The Hollies, while she, asmart Londoner, would recognize in Siddle an informant worth all the restof the babblers in Steynholme. At any rate, no matter how the thing wasbrought about, it is self-evident that Siddle brought his intended victiminto the grounds, and told her of the small uncovered window throughwhich she could peer at Grant after Miss Doris had gone. He showed herwhich path to use, and undoubtedly waited for her, and stayed her flightwhen Grant rose from his chair. She was close to him, and whollyunafraid, finding in him an ally. They were purposely hidden, in thegloom of dense foliage, and remained there until Grant had closed thewindow again. Then, and not till then, did the murderer strike, probablystifling her with his free hand. He had the implement in his pocket. Therope was secreted among the bushes. He could carry through the wholewretched crime in little more than a minute. And his psychology went fardeeper than Peters gave him credit for. He had weighed up the situationto a nicety. No matter who found the body, Mr. Grant was saddled with aresponsibility which might well prove disastrous, and was almost sure toaffect his relations with the Martin household. For instance, nothingshort of a miracle could have stopped Robinson from arresting him on acharge of murder."
"You, then, are a miracle?" put in Hart, pointing the pipe at thelittle man.
"To the person of ordinary intelligence--yes."
"After that," said Winter, "there is nothing more to be said. Let's seewho secures the pocket marvel as a partner at auction."
* * * * *
As a fitting end to the strange story of wayward love and maniacal frenzywhich found an unusual habitat in a secluded hamlet like Steynholme, asmall vignette of its normal life may be etched in. The trope is germaneto the scene.
On a wet afternoon in October Hobbs and Elkin had adjourned to the Hareand Hounds. Tomlin was reading a newspaper spread on the bar counter. Hewas alone. The day was Friday, and the last "commercial" of the week haddeparted by the mid-day train.
"Wot's yer tonic?" demanded the butcher.
"A glass of beer," threw Elkin over his shoulder. He had walked to thewindow, and was gazing moodily at the sign of the "plumber and decorator"who had taken Siddle's shop. The village could not really support anout-and-out chemist, so a local grocer had elected to stock patentmedicines as a side line.
Tomlin made play with a beer-pump.
"Where's yer own?" inquired Hobbs hospitably.
Elkin came and drank. After an interlude, Tomlin ran a finger down acolumn of the newspaper.
"By the way, Fred, didn't you tell me about that funny little chap,Furno, the 'tec, buyin' some pictures of yours?" he said.
"I did. Had him there, anyhow," chuckled Elkin.
"How much did you stick 'im for?"
"Three guineas."
"They can't ha' bin this lot, then, though I've a notion it wur the samename, 'Aylesbury Steeplechase.'"
"What are you talking about?"
"This."
Tomlin turned the paper, and Elkin read:
At their monthly art sale on Wednesday Messrs. Brown, Jenkins and Browndisposed of an almost unique set of colored prints, by F. Smyth, dated1841. The series of six represented various phases of the long defunctAylesbury Steeplechase, "The Start," "The Brook," "The In-and-Out," andso on to "The Finish." It is understood that this notable series,produced during the best period of the art, and at the very zenith ofSmyth's fame, were acquired recently by a Sussex amateur at a low price.Bidding began at fifty guineas, and rose quickly to one hundred andtwenty, at which figure Messrs. Carnioli and Bruschi became the owners.
Elkin read the paragraph twice, until the words burnt into his brain.
"No," he said thickly. "They're not mine. No such luck!"
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends