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Title: The Clifford AffairAuthor: A. Fielding* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 1900481h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: Apr 2019Most recent update: Jul 2020This eBook was produced by Colin Choat and Roy Glashan.Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printededitions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless acopyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks incompliance with a particular paper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to checkthe copyright laws for your country before downloading orredistributing this file.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost norestrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-useit under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia Licensewhich may be viewed online athttp://gutenberg.net.au/licence.htmlTo contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go tohttp://gutenberg.net.au
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Dust Jacket, "The Clifford Affair," James A. Knopf, New York, 1926
Cover, "The Clifford Affair," James A. Knopf, New York, 1926
THE Assistant Commissioner of New Scotland Yardlistened for a moment at one of his telephones, told the man atthe other end, it happened to be Superintendent Maybrick ofHampstead, to hold on a moment, and sent one of his constable-clerks in search of Chief Inspector Pointer.
It was then just a little before nine of a Tuesday morning. Atall, lithe, lean young man came in with a step that suggestedthe kilt and the springing heather.
"Look here, Pointer. Suppose you hand over the reins of thatcase you're on to Clark. He can carry on all right now.Superintendent Maybrick of Hampstead wants help. Or rather, Ithink he needs it. He's just been called in to a horrid mess, amurder, in one of the flats in his district. From certain thingshe thinks it's an anarchist plot gone wrong, 'biter bit' sort ofthing," Major Pelham said vaguely; "he's got into touch with theForeign Office already. So by this time there's sure to be someF.O. man sprinting along to have a first look. Go and see whatyou think of it, will you? If it isn't a foreign spy job, then itshould be a fine problem for you to solve. Here's the address."He handed a chit to the Chief Inspector, who left the room withhis swift, unhurried stride that covered such an amazing amountof ground.
Pointer drove to the place mentioned—a large block offlats with a view over Hampstead Heath.
The head porter, after a keen glance at the Chief Inspectorwhen the latter asked for "Mr. Maybrick," saluted, and took himup in the lift. The only information which he volunteered wasthat none of the residents had an idea of what had happened.
"These are all service flats, sir, and news gets aroundterrible fast unless one's very careful. As a rule illnesses are'maternity cases' when possible. Deaths are 'measles,' to accountfor the body being took away, but murder—the owners haven'tgiven instructions about that. Not yet." The porter stopped thelift at the third floor, and stepped forward to ring the bell ofa flat marked fourteen, which had no card in the little glasscase beside the door. Pointer stopped him.
"A moment!" His eye ran over the door and mat and landing, aswell as up and down the staircases. Then he nodded. The porterrang. The door opened an inch. The Superintendent inside, inplain clothes too, inspected them both cautiously, then he stoodback and Pointer entered.
Maybrick saluted. He was one of Pointer's many policemanadmirers. What a pity, he thought, that there was nothing herefor the Chief Inspector to get his teeth into, those teeth thatnever let go.
"A moment!" Pointer said again, as he switched on the lightand gave one swift glance around the square hall, a glance thatnothing visible escaped. Then he nodded.
"Now lead the way."
"Shall I tell you first what I know, sir?"
"Not if any one from the Foreign Office is on the trail,"Pointer said promptly. "They're quick workers. And I like to havemy clues untouched, as far as may be."
"No one's come yet, sir. Not even the doctor. And the cluesaren't ones that can be disarranged." Maybrick was about toexpand into detail, but Pointer stopped him.
"Then this way, sir." Maybrick led down to a door at thefarther end of a little passage. Pointer stepped into a tiledbathroom. In the bath-tub—it was not a pleasantsight—lay a man's body, stripped and headless.
"Where's his head?"
"Not on the premises, sir. Gone. Like his clothes. Allgone."
Pointer knelt down in the doorway and looked sideways acrossthe floor.
"Rubber-soled shoes. Man's heel marks. Apparently only onepair. What's that?" He advanced now, and bent to a tiny splash ofsomething white on the tiles under the raised china bath.
"Powder they use to clean the tub, sir. Shall I tell you whatthe head porter—"
Again Pointer stopped him.
"Has the body been touched by any one, as far as youknow?"
"No, sir. Not the kind of thing to get touched by any sensibleman."
"Have you photographed it?"
"Films are being developed at the station now."
Pointer lifted each of the hands in turn.
They were slender, beautiful hands, that looked as though theywould be clever at whatever they did. Hard work had never beenasked of them.
"Wore a ring on the middle finger of the right hand. Broad,thick ring. Signet ring very likely. Cigarette smoker. Gentlemancertainly from the care of the whole body."
There were no marks of blood-stained hands either on the bath,or on the fitted basin beside it, or on any of the taps, norfinger prints of any kind.
Pointer stepped on into a bedroom opening out of the bath-room. Then he returned to Maybrick.
"We can wash our hands in the bedroom. The basin in there'snot even been dusted. This one has been used."
A ring came at the door. Maybrick answered it. A small, quick-stepping, alert-eyed, gray-bearded man stepped into the flat. Hewas of the type to pass easily for English in England, French inFrance, Spanish, or Eastern, according to where he was met."Many-tongued Tindall," a great international sleuth or sleutherof sleuths, was an amateur. A man of means attached to theForeign Office, when he was not on loan to the Home Office. Inmanner he was very quiet, in speech very direct.
"I've come to see if the dead man's one of our birds," hesaid, after shaking hands with Pointer. "But you here?" He eyedthe Chief Inspector with mock distrust. "No poaching, youknow!"
For a second Tindall too stood looking about him with swift,piercing glances.
"Now for the story"—he turned to the Superintendent.First eyes, then ears, was Pointer's way. But Tindall was as highin his branch as Pointer was in the C.I.D., and was, moreover, amuch older man. So Maybrick led them into the drawing-room, wherethe dust lay thick, and where the blinds still shut out thedaylight.
The story, as known to Maybrick, was exceedingly simple. Theflat belonged to a Mr. Marshall, a senior clerk at Lloyds who, asusual, wished to let it furnished while he was away on a fourweeks' holiday. He had left last Thursday. On Friday, about six,a man had presented himself to the head porter with a view cardfrom the house agents, which gave his name as a MonsieurTourcoin. The flat was shown him, and a little later the headporter was informed over the telephone by the agents that Mr.Tourcoin had taken the flat for a friend, a Captain Brown.Captain Brown would "take possession" on Tuesday orWednesday.
On Monday evening something went wrong with the lock of anupstairs flat. The porter thought it a good opportunity, when thelocksmith arrived this morning, to have him run his eye over thefront door of Number Fourteen as well. Mr. Marshall hadcomplained of its not always catching properly when hastily shut.He also remembered a difficulty with Marshall's bathroom bolt,and took the man in there first. He had his own pass-key, ofcourse.
"They didn't stay to look at any bolts," Maybrick said dryly."Nasty sight that body in there. They rushed to the telephone andcalled us in."
"What body in where?" Tindall asked impatiently. He was takento see it. His face paled as he looked carefully at it and at theroom.
"Horrible!" he muttered. "Horrible!"
He turned to Maybrick.
"What made you 'phone to us—made you think the crimepolitical?"
"This, sir." Maybrick passed into a sitting-room, which, likethe bedroom, opened out of the bathroom. He pointed to anewspaper on the table. It was aTimes of Friday, heavilyscored at a few passages. Maybrick pointed to these. Tindall readaloud"Anti-royalist plot suspected in Madrid. I see he'sunderscored that'suspected.' What's this next?KingAlfonso's yacht Esmeralda to be ready by a certain date. Aquestion mark is pencilled beside the date. Indeed! Indeed! Andhere's something about King Boris's coming trip to Sofia heavilymarked at the side. Except for that last, the items are onlySpanish..." Tindall perched on a chair in a way that suggestedflight rather than rest.
"Man's clothes missing...Papers in them gone too, ofcourse...Head taken away...Identity to be concealed,or—Anything else made you think the murder political beyondthe marked paper, Superintendent?"
"These." Maybrick lifted up the waste-paper basket. "I screwedthem up as nearly as possible as I found them. They're funnyreading together with those bits in the paper and that deadbody!"
In the basket lay what looked like two crinklyeggs.They were wads of paper that had been crushed into little balls.Opened out, they showed as two sheets of plain letter-paper,headed with the address of the flat. On each were some lines ofwriting in a pointed, very sloping, foreign hand. The firstran:
You have betrayed the change in the crew of the"Esmeralda." But I give you one chance to explain. Come here to-night and clear yourself if you can. If not—
The rest of the sheet was blank. Apparently this draft had notpleased the writer. It had been screwed up and tossed away. Thesecond was a complete note. It ran:—
You are a traitor, but I give you one morechance to explain why you have not carried out the orders I gaveyou at "Iguski Aidé." Take it. Or it will be the end. Come tothis address tonight. If you do not come you know the penalty.Expect it without mercy."
The last two sentences had been scratched out. There was nosignature, but a little drawing of the outline of a house with aV inside.
"That scratched out bit about the penalty is why he copied outthe note and threw this away," Maybrick explained like ashowman.
Tindall's eyes were shining. He stroked his beard with a handthat quivered a little.
"These settle it." He spoke calmly but with the calm of onewho forces a layer of composure over a seething mass of red-hotfeeling.
"Itwas a political crime! Or an act of justice, if youwill."
"You know what that signature stands for?" The ChiefInspector's tone made the remark a statement, not a question.
"The V within the outline of a house? Etcheverrey, Pointer.Yes. Etcheverrey, the great anarchist. Or rather anti-royalistagitator."
Pointer said nothing. Maybrick gave a cluck of delightedamazement. The police of every country knew, and were on the huntfor that name, that man.
"That's his secret signature," Tindall went on. "Only used tohis own men. Only known to us at the F.O. AndIguskiAide!—'Sunny Corner'! That's Etcheverrey's well-hiddenBasque refuge, deep in the heart of some Pyrenees ravine, not yetlocated. The mere name is only known to a chosen and picked fewamong his followers. We at the F.O. have only just—onlyjust learnt it."
"He's French, isn't he?" Maybrick asked.
"Officially, yes. But there's not a drop of French blood inhis veins. Basque father. Catalan mother. Speaks all languages.Brains of the devil. And up till now his luck."
"Do you think Etcheverrey's the killer, or the killed here,sir?" Maybrick asked again.
"The killed. The dead man," Tindall said, after a moment'sdeep thought. "Etcheverrey would have taken those scraps of paperaway. His slayer is not identified by them. I think that thetables were turned on the Basque for the—first andlast—time in his life, by the man he summoned here. And Ican make a good guess at that man's name. You know my slogan." Heturned to Pointer. "What the brain can't see, the eyes can'teither. Eyes won't solve this problem. Not even yours. Now whathas cost Etcheverrey his head, literally is, I think, his lastbreak."
"His attempt on the Shah of Persia?" Maybrick knew every oneof Etcheverrey's unsuccessful efforts by heart. "Pretty nearthing for the Shah!"
"And for Etcheverrey," Tindall threw in grimly. "He was allbut caught. As it was, they got a good view of him. The only timehe's been really seen. And since then there's a fine price on hishead at Ispahan. On the real, solid head. Duly delivered. That'swhy the descriptions we get from there are so vague. All we knowof his appearance is that he has unusually small feet, and reallybeautiful hands."
"First thing I noticed about the corpse." Maybrick was sortinghis notes. "Here it is. Par seven."
"Yes," Tindall was talking half under his breath, "Mirza Khanis over here, we know. He's the Shah's secret agent. It's hishead or Etcheverrey's, I understand. We know that Etcheverrey isin London again. Sir Edward Clifford rather inclines to thebelief that he's been here for years, carefully hidden in somecommonplace identity, and that he only leaves London for someswift flight and one of his lightning efforts, and then comesback again and takes up his seemingly everyday existence. I don'tagree with him, but that's Sir Edward's view."
Sir Edward Clifford was Permanent Under Secretary of State forForeign Affairs.
"Every man jack of us has been living on a volcano, with theKing of Spain on his way here next month." Maybrick drew a deepbreath.
"Etcheverrey nearly got him in Spain last year," Tindall wenton, "just as he had a hard try for our Prince of Wales in SouthAmerica." He was examining the room carefully as he talked. Therewas little to discover. A smallish, still damp splotch of bloodon the thick carpet near a little table on which stood a reading-lamp. A few drops of blood had dried on the wooden edge of thetable. Smaller ones yet were found on the parchment lamp-shade,and a hint of a trickle down one leg of the arm-chair standingnear.
"There's been no struggle?" Tindall looked at Pointer.
"No sign of any," Pointer said cautiously.
"Just so. Yet the man summoned by such a letter as that wouldhave been on the alert and would have struggled. Etcheverrey, onthe other hand, would not dream that the tables could be turnedon him. He was either shot, or more probably slogged on the head.Dragged to the tub, beheaded, and the head's now on its way todistant Ispahan in the care of that good old hater, Mirza Khan.But all that's for me to find out."
"Well, sir," Maybrick slipped a band over his bulging note-book, "as you're quite sure that the murder was political, I handit over to you."
The Superintendent was aware that he had done very well. Buthe knew when he was out of his depth. Nor had he any intention ofwasting his time over a case of which the honours would all go tothe Foreign Office. They had their own men. It was all very wellfor the Chief Inspector, who had already, young though he was,risen so high, but he, Maybrick, had more paying matters from thepoint of view of promotion waiting for him at his police station.And so with a salute, he passed from the scene—to his neverdying regret.
"Now for the porters," Tindall continued, when the two werealone. They learnt nothing which could explain the crime itselffrom them, though they gained a clear idea of how the flat couldhave been entered and left by any one unobserved. The buildinghad several lifts, the corner ones being automatic and worked bythe residents. There were many staircases. There was a restauranton the ground floor open to the public. There were billiard roomsand reading rooms.
The estate agent, for whom they telephoned, repeated in fullerdetail what Maybrick had already told them about the taking ofthe flat. Monsieur Tourcoin had paid for the four weeks intwenty-four one-pound notes, and the transaction had beencompleted on the spot.
"No references asked for?"
"Not in a case of this kind. A furnished flat let for a month.The porters here keep their eyes open. And undesirable peoplewould be asked to leave at once. We find that simpler and betterthan bothering with references," the house-agent explained.
"Now as to this Mr. Marshall—"
"We know all about Mr. Marshall. Our firm has known him andhis parents, they lived in one of our houses, for twenty years.Just as we've known the head porter here about that long. There'snothing wrong with Mr. Marshall, I'll go bail, any more thanthere is with Soulyby, the head porter."
"How did this Mr. Tourcoin learn of the flat?" Pointerasked.
"Saw our advertisement in the paper, I suppose."
"When was it advertised?"
"Friday morning for the first time."
"And the paper?"
"The Times."
"And he spoke broken English," Tindall murmured.
The agent laughed. "Rather!" He gave them a very good copy ofthe man's accent.
"On leaving, he nipped into a taxi which some one was justpaying off, and called to the chauffeur. 'To the station atCharing Cross. Arrest yourself there for one little minute whileI learn what time train for Paris he start.' The driver winked,and said he'd arrest himself all right if need be."
"What clothes was the man wearing?" Pointer asked.
"Motor cap—he apologised very civilly for keeping it on,but he had a bad attack of head neuralgia—big brown andorange check motoring coat. That's all I remember."
"Young man?"
The agent thought so, but as he had seen many men yesterdayafternoon he could not be quite sure. The whole affair was sosmall compared with most of their business that he had not paidmuch attention.
"Do you remember his hands, when he signed those papers,"Pointer went on, "were they large hands?"
The estate agent could not remember anything about them. Moredetails of the conversation were asked, and as far as possible,given. Then the agent took his leave—a very agitatedleave.
The head porter had not noticed the appearance of the M.Tourcoin to whom he had shown the flat, except that the man worea motoring ulster of orange and brown tweed, and a brown silkscarf. He had an impression of a young man, but as he had alreadyon Friday afternoon shown the flat to several friends of Mr.Marshall's, he could not even be sure of that.
The man had barely glanced over the flat.
"I never thought he meant what he said about taking it, butwithin half an hour the agents phoned up to me that the flat wasgone. Taken by the monseer for a month. As to seeing himagain— not unless that's him in there. But the chap Ishowed the flat to, looked a bigger chap. Bigger and brawnier,though I never saw his face. Not tosee it."
"Was he smoking?" Pointer asked.
"Yes, sir. Briarwood pipe. One of these new comfort pipes?
"What kind of tobacco? Any kind you knew?"
"Yes, sir." It was a kind that the head porter particularlyliked when he could afford it. A well-known British make. "I saysto myself," the man went on, "France is all very well for wines,but when it comes to pipes and baccy—there's nothing likeUs!"
"Umph," Tindall murmured, when the two were alone. "Tourcointakes the flat for a Captain Brown. He or this captain Brown canbe seen in it therefore. If need be. One of the two isEtcheverrey. Almost certainly he would be Brown. The Unseen. Nowis Tourcoin the man to whom the summoning letters were sent? Ishe the man who killed Etcheverrey? Is he, in fact, Mirza Khan,who speaks French—and English too for thatmatter—like a Frenchman?" There was a short silence brokenby the Chief Inspector, who had been standing looking down at thetoes of his shoes, hands loosely clasped behind him. He looked upnow.
"Those papers found in the basket"—he spokethoughtfully— "are they in Etcheverrey's writing?"
"He had some thirty different kinds of writing."
"And on the blotter," Pointer went on musingly, "there are nomarks except from the two notes we found torn up..."
"None. Why should there be?" Tindall asked, with a faintsmile. "You police always want so much for your money."
There was another pause. Tindall eyed Pointer whimsically.Pointer looked back at him with his tranquil, steady gaze. Thedetective officer had fine dark gray eyes, pleasant, though attimes rather enigmatic in expression.
"To stake the effect of a political crime would be a capitalred herring, wouldn't it, to drag across the trail of a privatemurder."
Tindall smiled still more. A smile of real amusement at thisdoubt on his own reading of the case from a man young enough tobe his son.
"We're like two Harley Street specialists, Pointer," he saidgood-humouredly, "each reading a case according to his ownspecial lines. I say heart. You say liver. You're welcome totreat the case for liver, of course. But it's a heart case.Believe me, it's heart. In other words, I've been studyingEtcheverrey so long that I have no hesitation in saying that thismurder belongs to me. Don't waste your valuable time in huntingfor this poor chap's head. I see that search being organisedalready."
Pointer laughed a little. Tindall was right. He was alreadycharting his course.
"It's on its way to distant Ispahan," Tindall continued. "PityMirza Khan has such a start. Well, he knows my methods. They'relazy, compared with yours, but they're quick."
"They often lead to splendid results," Pointer said honestly.In what might be called society crimes, thefts, stolen letters,the finer shade of blackmail, Tindall had done wonders, besideswinning many a triumph in his own field—the politicalfield.
"I leave the details of the flat to you." Tindall despisedhunting for clues. "The exact spot where the murder wascommitted...which way the man faced...and so on."
Pointer nodded, let him out of the flat, telephoned toScotland Yard for their expert locksmith, and then rang for thehead porter. That worthy was asked to institute a sort of house-clearing. Fortunately he was at one with the Scotland Yardofficer in wanting to make sure that the missing head was nothidden somewhere on any premises for which he wasresponsible.
"I'll see to my part of it. Every nook shall be turned out.Every cupboard moved, or I'll know the reason why," Soulybypromised, "and every parcel opened."
"As soon as the doctor has examined the body we shall have arough idea of about what time the murder was committed. As it is,we know that it must have taken place between seven on Fridayevening, and eight this morning. Ask cautiously about whether anyone was seen coming into, or going out of, this flat during thattime."
Pointer dismissed him and telephoned to Lloyds. Marshall hadbeen with them for fifteen years, he learnt. Came straight fromLondon University. His present address was Bastia in Corsica. Butas he had spoken of mules and guides...Yes, the man answering thetelephone was a friend of his and quite willing to act as hisreference if necessary. The firm would act as another. But hebelieved the flat was taken. The inquiry was about Marshall'sfurnished flat, of course?
"Just so," Pointer murmured, as he turned away. "Ofcourse!"
He now began his own patient investigations. The bathtubs, hehad learnt, were cleaned with Sapolio. The little smear of whiteunder this one seemed to him to be plaster. He scraped it into astoppered bottle and labelled it before putting it into hisattaché case. Then he bent over some mark on the tiledfloor— marks such as a dull lead pencil might make if ithad been rubbed with a broad, circular motion over the spot.Pointer decided that a tin had been placed there, and beenpressed hard down while it was moved round and round.
Then he turned his attention to the fitted basin beside thebath. The taps had been turned off and on with a towel, hethought. Unfortunately the hall porter could not say, nor couldthe housekeeper, how many towels had been left in a warm cupboardjust by the basin. Pointer looked about him for a pail. Butfailing that, he took a bronze jar from the living-room and setit beneath the basin. With a spanner he unscrewed the trap in theoutflow pipe, and let the contents run into his receptacle. Athickish, reddish mixture came out. Ammonia told him that thereddish colour was blood, the whitish part he took to be moreplaster. It looked to him as though the murderer or murderers hadwashed their hands here. He bottled some of this mixture too, andturned away after replacing the fixture. He started on thebedroom. Here he found nothing except proofs that the room hadnot been used last night. He passed on to the sitting-room. Atthat moment the doctor arrived.
"Going to have your work cut out this time, Chief Inspector,"he grunted. "Even you must be up a tree with this body."
"Any help to give me?"
"The man was probably about forty. Good condition. Nails showhe's had no operations, is no victim of any chronic disease. Agentleman, I take it."
"And the head was severed?"
"With two or three hard, downward blows." He gave some medicaldetails. "As to whether the man was dead or alivefirst—can't be sure till I've examined the lungs, butprobably dead."
"Had the man who cut off the head any knowledge ofanatomy?"
"None whatever. A sixteenth of an inch lower would have madethe job half as easy again. Tremendous violence was used. Musthave been a strong chap, and used something on which he got agood purchase which had a very firm edge."
"How long would it have taken do you think?"
"To cut off the head?" The doctor meditated. "About fifteenminutes, I should say."
"And the death occurred, at a rough guess?"
"Some time last night, I should judge. That cut's about twelvehours old. Certainly not more."
He left at that, and Pointer went on with his work. There wereno signs of any bullet having entered a wall or piece offurniture. Nor did the man seem to have been shot in a line withany of the windows, supposing him to have been shot—asPointer did, partly from the size of the blood stain, chieflyfrom the fact that the chair down which a rivulet of blood hadrun was the only one in the room that had a very high, spreadingback. It was the last kind of a chair to choose had a blow beenintended.
Feeling the carpet, going by the stain, Pointer replaced thechair as it had probably stood. The bedroom door was to one sideand a little behind it—an ideal position for a shot. Thisbedroom door had odd pin-marks in the wood near the handle, twoon one side, two on the other, about the same distance apart.
Pointer finally decided that a strip of some thin but strongmaterial such as tape had been fastened with drawing pins tautacross the tongue, so as to prevent the rather noisy latch fromacting, and let the door be opened by a touch, though it mightlook closed.
He drew the curtains and switched on the lights. The side ofthe door that interested him was then thrown into deep shadow bya Chinese lacquer cabinet. So that, provided that the strip hadbeen white, for the door was white, it might pass undetected by acasual glance, or by a short-sighted person. Pointer thought thislast idea very probable. It explained the otherwise venturesomesilencing of the door, it was borne out by the position of thereading-lamp that had been drawn to the extreme edge of thelittle table, and close against the left side of the chair.
Pointer stared at the pin marks. To him they were a very odddetail, one that was quite out of keeping with the rest of thecrime as known so far. Primarily they showed that the man who hadbeen murdered was evidently not hard of hearing, since theyspelled care that no snap of the catch could be heard. But theymeant more than that. Those pin-pricks meant a quick job. Just asthey showed that probably there had been no sounds—music,talk— during which the cautious opening of the door couldpass unnoticed. It looked as though the victim had been alone.But alone or not, Etcheverrey must be always on the alert, eversuspicious. A man wanted by the police of all the world, a manwith a price on his head, a man who had never yet been caught,would not have let any door pass uninvestigated, let alone onethat stood half in shadow. Incongruous in any case, the tapeseemed to Pointer doubly so in connection with the much sought-for, wily Basque.
It came to this, he thought, if Etcheverrey had been the manin the flat, he could have taken sufficient time to silence thatdoor in some better way than by means of a hastily fastened-onstrip. If the man was not Etcheverrey, then the anarchist wouldhave noticed it.
A search found a bath mat in a hall cupboard. Where,apparently, a loop of tape had been sewn on, now only an enddangled; a roughly cut-off end, cut with a knife, not scissors.The piece that remained was the width indicated by tie pinpricks. So the murderer had not come provided with tape. He founda few drawing-pins in a drawer which left just such marks asthose on the door. Pointer again tested each object in the room.But still only the carpet, the chair, the table edge, and thelamp-shade showed marks of blood. On none of these, moreover, hadthere been any effort to clean away the marks. As for thecrumpled papers in the waste-paper basket, of which, eachpromising the other a photographic copy, Tindall had kept one,and Pointer one, the Chief Inspector found a few more sheets in adrawer. It looked as though they had been left there by Marshall.The writing had been done with a pointed fountain pen, which,like the ink—Pointer intended to have the latter tested atthe Yard—seemed of quite an ordinary kind.
The lock expert arrived from the Yard at this point. A closescrutiny of the Yale lock now taken off the front door told himthat though it was old and badly in need of newsprings—failing entirely to catch now and then—yet ithad not been forced, or picked, or opened with any other but itsown rightful key. The house agent had said that he had handedMarshall's two keys to Monsieur Tourcoin.
The ambulance arrived and the body was taken away. Pointerwent back to the bath and scrutinised the bottom. With what hadthose two deep gashes been made? The flat had no kitchen. Nosuitable knife or weapon hung on any of its walls.
POINTER strolled down all the stairs and lethimself up and down in all the lifts. Finally he stopped beside acouple of workmen who were doing some plastering on the groundfloor, near the foot of the stairs that led up to NumberFourteen. He had noticed the bags and the tools when he arrivedjust now.
"I borrowed some of your plaster last night," he saidpleasantly, "how much do I owe you for what I used?"
"That's all right, sir," one of the men said civilly, "me andmy mate was just saying that one of the porters must have doneit. Quarter of a bag, wasn't it, sir. If you like to call it ashilling, that'll be all right."
Pointer liked a half-crown better, and so apparently did themen.
"Hope I cleaned the spade off all right," Pointer chatted on,lighting a cigarette. A cigarette which he took care not toinhale.
"Lord, sir, there wasn't no call to clean it that-away!Staggered Jim here it did to see it cleaned up. We only uses itfor mixin'. Why, you sharpened the thing, didn't you?"
"No. Not beyond cleaning it." Pointer's cigarette was in hishand. He flicked its ash over the handle and stood looking downat it while talking. The ash, "finger-print cigarette" ash,showed no marks except those of a gloved hand. The workmen nottouched it. So some one had scraped it and cleaned it since theyhad used it last.
And, according to the men, some one had sharpened it as well.It certainly was quite sharp enough now to have done what Pointerbelieved it had done. A couple of blows from it would account forthe marks on the bottom of the tub. The murderer must have foundhis grisly task lightened unexpectedly by the implements left inthe building. Or had "Tourcoin" noticed them, and laid his planaccordingly?
"I think I put everything back as it was," he said again;"messy work, plastering. When you aren't used to it. Missanything else?"
"Nothing, sir."
But Pointer seemed still uncertain.
"Let me see...didn't I take a tin?" He was thinking of themarks on the bathroom tiles.
"That old tin isn't no loss, sir. You're more than welcome toit. We found it on the dust-bin, and was going to throw it outagain when we was finished."
"Still," Pointer reminded them, "a tin comes in handy, Iexpect. What size is it? I borrowed another from one of theporters."
"Seven pound biscuit tin, sir. Stove in a bit at one side. Itcomes in handy for plaster we've sieved and don't want to useimmediate, as you say, sir. But there's no hurry!"
"I'll send it down. Did I take its lid too?" he asked, peeringabout him.
He was told that he must have, as the lid was kept on thebox.
Pointer tipped them, "in case the tin shouldn't turn up," andwent slowly out of the building, an hour after he had firstentered it.
If Tindall was right, and the body found was that ofEtcheverrey, then, as far as he was concerned, the case was over.Some Special Branch man at the Yard would be told off to assistthe Foreign Office, and Pointer would take up another tangle. Butwas it Etcheverrey? Was it "political" at all?
Very great care had been taken to dispose of all personaleffects. Nothing but those scraps of paper in the basket had beenleft to tell who the man was. And, supposing the scraps of paperto have been faked, then no clue whatever had been left. For theflat was a furnished flat, shedding no light on the character ofits present occupier. As far as identity went, if the papers inthe basket were what the Force calls "offers," a trail laid todeceive, then it was as if the police had found a body stripped,and without a head, lying in an empty room.
Each great case, and Pointer nowadays was concerned only withgreat cases, groups its facts in such a different way from anyother, that it becomes an entirely new problem. Pointer had neverhad one like this before, where all the usual means ofidentification of murdered man and missile used had been takenaway. Of course Tindall might be right. Probably he was. Butsupposing he were not, how the dickens was he, Pointer, to findout who the man had been? And above all, who the murderer hadbeen? Somewhere there was a weak spot in the crime. There alwayswas. There always would be. Where was it in this case?
The detective officer's every nerve tautened at the idea of amurderer escaping. Pointer never saw his work as a game of brainsagainst brains, where, provided only that the one move wascleverer than the other, it ought to win. He was a soldier,fighting a ceaseless battle where no quarter could be asked orgiven. The battle of light against darkness. Right against Wrong.If the other side won, it would be all up with the world. Pointerhad never failed the side of justice yet. He would not fail itnow, if he could help it.
But could he help it? Tindall was working at the case from hisend. Pointer was not sure that he wanted to follow the other'strack. He must make his own path therefore. If Tindall wereright, the Chief Inspector's road and that of the F.O. man wouldmeet in due course, the two ends of a well-dug tunnel.
He went up to his rooms at Scotland Yard and did sometelephoning. By that time the analyst's report, on the bottleswhich had been sent in, was ready. One contained nothing butplaster mixed with water. The plaster was a very coarse kind usedby plumbers for certain face-work. The other contained the sameplaster, some water, and a mixture of blood.
Pointer walked up and down his room. He was not the ChiefInspector now, but a man who had committed a murder; a man towhom it was absolutely vital that the corpse should not berecognised, or that the weapon used should not be identified.Pointer had an open mind as to which of the two reasons compelledthe taking away of the head. The clothes might have been takenfor the purpose of confusing the issue.
"Yes," he murmured to himself, "I've put the head in a biscuittin, mixed and poured in plaster to keep it from rolling around,and now what?"
In the absence of all known hiding-places, he finally, after ashort chat over the wire with the Home Office, sent a codedmessage to every post office throughout the United Kingdom thatall wrongly-addressed or uncalled-for parcels were to be reportedto him at once. He thought it very possible that the murderedman's clothes, and the towels used by his murderer, had been madeinto small, convenient parcels, and sent to various fictitiousnames and non-existent streets in some home-town. Abroad would beout of the question.
All omnibus headquarters, taxi stands, garages, and railwaystations were warned to keep an eye out for similar but unmarkedparcels which either had been left in vehicles some time lastnight or might be left in the near future.
Similar instructions reached the L.C.C. dustmen and all parceldeposit offices. The river police were not forgotten. They hadfound nothing so far which could interest Pointer, but theypromised to be even more on the alert than usual, if possible.Then he telephoned to the police surgeon who had first seen thebody. He learnt that nothing had been found to explain the causeof death. There were no signs of a struggle. Death had beenabsolutely instantaneous. The doctor thought that a bulletthrough the head would account for the facts. "But, of course, asMr. Tindall suggests, a blow might be equally swift." At anyrate, the head had been certainly severed after death. But notlong after it. The death itself had taken place somewhere aroundmidnight on Monday night. Pointer put down the telephone and wentto the mortuary chapel, a grimly sanitary place.
The finger prints had already been taken, and definitelynot identified at Scotland Yard, as those of any knowncriminal.
Flashed by wireless photographs to the continent, the sameanswer had come from each capital in turn. So the body was stillnameless. And as long as it remained so, the murderer wassafe.
Pointer looked the body over very carefully yet once again.Especially the beautifully shaped hands. Hands that in life mustsurely have done many things well. In whose life? What things hadthey done?
As he studied them, he remembered their quick examination bythe doctor. He knew that on the arrival of an unconscious patientat any hospital, the medical men run their eyes over the nailsfor any trace of recent operations, illnesses, chroniccomplaints, or even nerve shocks. Pointer, calling in a constableto help him, scraped the inside of each well-kept nail with hispenknife on to a small glass slide. Having carefully covered andmarked each slide, he took them back with him to the Yard. Therethe slides were examined. The result was handed to him almostimmediately.
Both hands showed fluff of white paper made from esparto grassof a kind that is usually only sold for very superior typewritingpurposes. One nail had lightly scraped a sheet of carbon paper.One—the first of the right hand—showed traces ofsugar.
In other words, the dead man was almost certainly a writer, ora typist. But probably a writer who was only in occasionalcontact with sheets of carbon paper. He might be a secretary. Hemight be a clerk. But the nails of the feet showed that he hadlast worn black socks of a most expensive silk. That suggestednot a clerk. The sugar on the right hand suggested aninvestigating finger among lumps in the sugar bowl, which in itsturn suggested the free and easy ways of a man's own home.Probably his after-dinner coffee. No china had been used in theflat where the body was found. No sugar-basin filled there. Thecomplete picture as filled in by the police surgeon's and theanalyst's reports and Pointer's own reading of the room in whichhe believed the murder to have taken place, was that of a well-to-do author, possibly a journalist, one used to sudden alarms,who, after his dinner at home, had gone out unsuspectingly tomeet his terrible death. A writer of about forty years of age, ingood health and circumstances. Not blind, for he had probablydrawn that reading lamp towards him, but very likely short-sighted, for he had drawn it close. Not deaf, as the muffled doorshowed.
Pointer took a turn around his room. It was a step forward.But it looked like being the last step for the moment.Unless— Pointer stared at his shoe-tips. Then he went backto the mortuary chapel.
There was a tiny scar on the sole of one foot, such as mightclinch an identification but not suggest one. He studied itafresh. No, that would not help him. There was nothing peculiarabout that tiny mark. Again he picked up the hands, looked at theuncalloused palms. The man was no sportsman. Not a hard spotanywhere. Surely there was more to be learned. But how? The handswere the only chance. The only possible chance...
The lines on the palms were singularly clear, and not at alllike his own. Apart from palmistry in the sense of prophecy, ofcharlatanry, some people claimed that you could tell a person'scharacter, even their profession, from the lines in theirhands.
Pointer thought of Astra. The police knew all about her.
Astra was the professional name of an American, a Mrs. Jansen,who had amazed London by her skill in reading the character ofmen and women from their hands. She was no teller of fortunes.But she did tell what lay dormant, or wrongly applied. Parentsbrought her their children in large numbers, and Astra wouldexamine the little palms, and then give the parents a verytruthful, sometimes appallingly truthful, list of their drawbacksand their talents. She would proceed to point out that this mustbe encouraged, that repressed. In what the child should succeed,in what he was bound to fail. With elder people she was asforthright. "Your gifts are these—your bad qualities thisand that." Astra was amazingly honest, and amazingly right. Shewas no pessimist. "Change your life, use your gifts, keep underthe evil in you, and the lines will surely change," was hersermon. "Each of us is our own enemy. Fight that enemy." And shewould give clear particulars as to where and how that fightshould begin.
The two police inspectors who had been sent to test her, foryou must not prophesy for money in England, had come backgenuinely impressed. She had not prophesied, but she had hit offeach man's character very neatly. Pointer had not much hope inthe issue of any interview with her, but she might classify thesehands still more narrowly than the microscope had done, and themicroscope's testimony would serve to check her statements, ifindeed she made any.
He took very careful imprints of the palms on tablets ofthick, warmed, modelling wax, brushing a little red powder overthem to bring out the lines. He wrapped each tablet in paraffinpaper and fastened them side by side in his case. Then hetelephoned from a call office for an appointment in the name ofYardly, an immediate appointment. As it was not yet twelve, hewas successful. He drove to a house in Sloane Street, and wasshown into a cubicle. Mrs. Jansen's clients did not see eachother. After a few minutes waiting he was taken into a cheerfulroom, where, in a window sat a well-dressed woman with a thickmop of curly gray hair held back by combs. A pleasant, keen pairof eyes looked up. A pleasant, firm hand shook his.
Pointer took a seat facing the light, laying his lean brownfingers on two black velvet cushions. He would try her first withhis own hands. Her reading of them might end the interview—probably would.
With a magnifying glass the American bent over them, turningthem now and then. She nodded her head finally as ifsatisfied.
"I wish all the hands that have lain there were as pleasantreading," she said, slipping the glass back into its case. "Theyare the hands of one who, in any walk of life, would go to thetop. Your chief characteristic is love of justice. Your dominantquality, penetration."
She went on to give an extraordinary accurate analysis of theChief Inspector's character. Pointer, who was a thoroughly nicefellow, and very unassuming, actually blushed at the flatteringpicture drawn.
"I wonder if you can guess the nature of my work? my trade? ormy profession?" he said, when she had done. "Or isn't that a fairquestion?"
"It's a difficult one. But sometimes I hit the nail on thehead. I should say that law in some form was your branch. Youcould be a barrister and a great one—you could be great inany branch that you took up—only that the gift of a flow ofwords isn't yours. Nor have you that kind of personal magnetism.The friends you win are won by your character. Also, I don'tthink that you work for money. I mean, I don't think that yourincome depends on your work. So not a barrister...You're tooyoung to be a judge. Solicitor?...No, not solicitor. As I saidwhen I read your hands, you deal with tremendously importantissues. Your life is very varied, yet not by your own choosing.The decisions you make are important ones. You're used toconstant calls on your physical courage. Used to it, and aregoing to have plenty more of it...I should think the army butfor—" She bent closer.
"You know, if you were older and had an ecclesiastical bent,from certain things in your hand I should guess you some Superiorin the Jesuit Order. Even Vicar-General..."
This did amuse Pointer. He showed it. But it gave him littlehope of any good issue from this wildest of forlorn ventures fora Scotland Yard man.
"It's nearer the mark than you think," Mrs. Jansen saidshrewdly. "It would have suited one side of your character verywell. By your laugh I see that you're not even a Roman Catholic.Then what about—" She frowned, gazing at the erect figuresitting so easily in the chair. Pointer could not slouch.
"Law...danger...executive ability," she murmured. "Police! Andsince your hands show that you are a man doing work thatthoroughly suits your talents, I should say some big man atScotland Yard. How about the C.I.D.?"
She leant back and looked up inquiringly. Pointer gave anod.
"You've hit it, and very clever of you indeed! You did that soneatly that I wonder what you'll make of the owner of thesehands." He laid down his tablets. "It's to be paid for as aseparate visit, of course. Do your best with them, won'tyou."
She glanced at the tablets. Then she looked a little vexed."Really, Mr.—eh—" She paused. "I know the AssistantCommissioner by sight. Are you the Commissioner?"
"No, no! I'm from the ranks. But you were saying?"
"If you take the trouble to glance through my book onPractical Cheirography, you'll see those palms analysed inChapter Ten. Mr. Julian Clifford kindly let me use his hands inmy chapter on authors."
Pointer felt as though he had had a severe punch. For JulianClifford was England's greatest living author.
"Are you quite sure these tablets are imprints of JulianClifford's hands?" he asked tranquilly.
"Oh, quite! His are as unforgettable, as unmistakable, asSarah Bernhardt's. See. Here they are!" She drew a book fromunder the table and opened it at a couple of plates. Pointer'shead was all astir. But he scrutinised them through hermagnifying glass. The illustrations seemed identical with histablets, even to a slight enlargement of the top joint of theleft forefinger.
He thanked her and prepared to go. She stopped him with anexclamation. She was bending over his tablets with her glass.
"These were not taken from the hands of a living man! JulianClifford must be dead!"
"What an idea!" he scoffed.
"A true one! There's a lack of spring, of elasticity aboutthem that's unmistakable. Julian Clifford dead! What a loss tothe world! Was it in some accident?"
There was a pause. Mrs. Jansen's reputation was that of anabsolutely trustworthy woman. Besides, her face vouched for her.Or rather, her aura. That immense, impalpable Something, woven ofour thoughts, our desires, that surrounds each one of us, thatnever leaves us, that perhaps is most truly "us"—enNefss, as the Arabs call it—having its own way ofmaking itself felt, its own warnings, its own dislikes,attractions, and guarantees.
"I wanted you to help us identify a body," he said simply."Apparently you have. I wonder if there is anything more you cantell me—about Mr. Clifford, I mean."
She interrupted him.
"That's no good with me,—I've seen your palms,remember—I mean that air of a child asking to be helpedover the crossing. Besides, why are you here? You weren't in theleast interested in your own character. You were keenlyinterested in those tablets. I don't think it's merely theidentification"—her eyes widened— "hassomething—something criminal—happened to Mr.Clifford? Has he been—killed?" she asked in a low,horrified voice.
"And supposing something 'wrong' has happened to him, Mrs.Jansen?" He gave her back a long, steady stare. "Mind you, allthis is in strictest confidence. I'm Chief Inspector Pointer ofNew Scotland Yard. Of the C.I.D. The whole of this conversation,of my inquiries, must be kept absolutely to yourself, just as theYard will treat anything you tell me about Mr. Clifford asconfidential. Why did the idea come so quickly to you that hisdeath may be due to a crime? You have more to go on than merelymy coming to see you."
She looked at him over her horn spectacles for all the worldlike a modern witch.
"Mr. Clifford came to see me himself a week ago lastThursday," she said finally. "He wanted to know whether I wouldlook in his hands and tell him if any danger threatened him. Hewas kind enough to say that I had impressed him as truthful whenI took the photographs of his hands for my book two years ago. Ihad only seen him that once before. In Cannes."
"And you?"
"I told him that that was out of my line. Nor could any onehave answered that question for him. His hands only showedcharacter and talents...That sort of thing. There are peoplewhose hands do record events...His didn't. Events outside himdidn't enter into Julian Clifford. What mattered to him camealways from within. Death, for instance, wasn't marked on hispalms. Death means very little to him. His personality was quitedistinct from his body. With some people it is bound up in it.Even a toothache is marked on their palms."
"What did you tell him? May I know?"
"I told him just that. He seemed rather disappointed. He askedme to look again. 'I'm on the eve ofsomething—well—important.' He hesitated before usingthat word. I thought he chose it finally rather as a cloak. Idon't think 'important' was the word he would have used inwriting."
"You think Clifford the man was not so honest as Clifford thewriter?"
She did not reply for a moment. Then—
"I have an idea that he was undecided about something. Orperhaps hesitating before doing something would be a betterword."
Again there was a silence.
"Is that all you can tell me about him?"
"Everything," she said, with a frank look into the detective-officer's face.
Pointer stared at his shoes.
"Mrs. Jansen, I wish you'd tell me Mr. Clifford's weakpoints—as you see them. Suppose something untoward hashappened to him. Something that needs investigation. As a rule aman's good qualities don't lead to that necessity. Was thereanything in Julian Clifford's character—as shown in hishands—that could have brought about, or led to, orexplain—sudden death? Mind you, I ask this in strictestconfidence."
She nodded gravely.
"In strictest confidence," she repeated, "nothing in his handscould explain any end other than a happy and honoured one. Hiswas a fine character, noble and generous. He had faults, ofcourse. There was a certain ruthlessness where his work wasconcerned. He would have sacrificed his all on thataltar...unconsciously or even consciously."
Still Pointer looked at his shoes.
"Was he a man of high morality, would you say?"
"I don't think he had ever been tempted. He was fastidious bytemperament, and his wealth made high standards fairly easy."Mrs. Jansen rose. "And that, Mr. Chief Inspector, is all I cantell you. Mr. Clifford sat a moment there in that chair you'rein, peering at his own palms. He was very short-sighted. Then helooked at me half in vexation as he got up. 'What did theancients do when the oracle wouldn't oracle?' And with that hesaid good-bye."
"Can I call upon you, in case of need, to identify the handsfrom which I took these wax impressions as those of JulianClifford?" Pointer asked, rising.
"I will identify them any time, any where, as his Hands are tome what faces are to most people—the things I go by."
Pointer paid the moderate fees and drove off. His whole beingwas in a turmoil under his quiet exterior. Julian Clifford, thegreat author, younger brother of Sir Edward Clifford of theForeign Office, to be that headless trunk!
Back at Scotland Yard, within half an hour, the plates in Mrs.Jansen's book were enlarged and compared with quickly-takenphotographs of the dead man's palms. Again they seemed to beidentical. Every whorl and loop, which showed in bothtallied.
Pointer meanwhile looked up Clifford's town address. It wasgiven as Thornbush, Hampstead. A moment more, and he was askingover the telephone if he could speak to Mr. Clifford—Mr.Julian Clifford.
"Mr. Clifford is away, sir," a servant's voice answered.
"Away!" Pointer's tone marked incredulous surprise. "But hehad an appointment with the Home Secretary at eleven!"
"He's not here, sir."
"But surely he gave you a message, or a letter when he left?It's Mr. Marbury of the Home Office who is speaking."
Pointer's tone suggested that Mr. Marbury was not accustomedto be slighted.
"I'll inquire, sir," a crushed voice replied.
There was a pause, then the voice came again, veryapologetically.
"No, sir. No message was left. Mr. Clifford left early thismorning before any one was up."
"Most extraordinary!" Mr. Marbury said stiffly. "I think I'llcall and see some one about the matter." He hung up.
So Julian Clifford was supposed to have left his home beforeany one was up. That probably meant that he had not been seensince last night. Since last night, when a murder had beencommitted in Heath Mansions.
What about Julian Clifford's brother! He might have someinformation. But an inquiry at the Foreign Office for Sir Edwardtold Pointer that the brother was not in town. A few questions tohis valet in Pont Street added the information that Sir Edwardhad left town yesterday, Monday, evening after dining with hisbrother, Mr. Julian Clifford, at the latter's house. He had goneto his cottage in Surrey, a peaceful spot where the telephone wasnot.
Pointer opened hisWho's Who. He reviewed the well-known facts of the novelist and playwright's life. Clifford was alittle under forty-five, the younger son of the late Sir JamesClifford of Clifford's Bank, long since incorporated in one ofthe big general banks; he had had a brilliant career at Eton andOxford, and was the author of an imposing array of novels,poetry, plays, and serious works. He had been twice married, thefirst time to Catherine Haslar, daughter of Sir William Haslar,High Commissioner of Australia, and, some years after her death,to Alison Willoughby, daughter of Mr. Willoughby of Sefton Park.Clifford had no children.
That was all very well as far as it went. But again it did notgo far.
Pointer smoothed his crisp hair which always looked as thoughit would curl if it dared. Then he pressed a bell. Could Mr. Wardcome to his room at once? Apparently Mr. Ward could, for inanother moment there appeared in the door a vision to delight atailor's eye. Ward, sartorially speaking, was It, even in a royalgroup. His quaint pen-name adorned many a weekly paper. Alwaysup-to-date, invariably correct in all his reports, for two hoursof every week-day Ward occupied a small room in one wing next tothe Assistant Commissioner's.
"About Julian Clifford—not his literary side, I suppose?Just so. A description of his appearance? Especially of hisface?"
Ward gave a very good pen-picture of the great man, afterwhich he repeated briefly what Pointer already knew aboutClifford's family.
"Present wife had intended to become a Pusey Sister. Changedher mind and took to divining rods and crystal balls instead. Ison the committees of all the spook societies. People say she's awonderful clairvoyante. But then they always do say that if theperson concerned talks enough to enough people. She usuallycarries a crystal ball around with her in her bag."
"Supposing," Pointer began, lighting his pipe—thatbeloved pipe of his which he always denied himself while on thescene of a crime—it might blot out other scents."Supposing, Mr. Ward, that Julian Clifford had suddenlydisappeared from his circle, where would you look for himfirst?"
"I hardly know. Clifford does this sort of thing every now andthen, you know, when he wants some new material for a book. Buthe always returns to the surface within a week or a month."
"But supposing you had reason to think that something hadhappened to him—that something was wrong with hisdisappearance this time?"
"Good God!" Ward's light manner dropped from him. "You don'tmean to tell me, Chief Inspector, that anything serious hashappened to Julian Clifford?"
Pointer nodded. "I do." He did not insult Scotland Yard, norWard, by asking him to regard that as confidential. Everythingthat was said within these walls was always confidential to themen considered sufficiently trustworthy to be consultedthere.
"You mean that he's—dead?" Ward asked in a hushed voice."You think there's been foul play?" He spoke in the tone of a manwho asks a monstrous question.
"I'm sorry to say that I'm sure of it. And so, I want you tothink whether you've ever heard any talk, any hint, anything thatcould explain his murder." Pointer gave the few terrible facts.Ward felt that headless body as an additional horror.
"Incredible!" he murmured. "No I know nothing whatever thatcan explain this crime. It must have been the work of amaniac."
"He was a wealthy man, I always understood?" Pointerasked.
"A very wealthy man apart from his literary work. And a quitesufficiently wealthy man apart from his private fortune."
"Who are the inmates of his household, not counting servants,do you know?" was the next question.
Ward had often been the guest of the Cliffords.
"All of them beyond suspicion. First there's Adrian Hobbs.He's Mrs. Clifford's cousin, and acts as Clifford's literaryagent. Clever chap. Thoroughly good business man. Really he'swasted in his present surroundings. Hobbs ought to 've startedlife with half a crown and a huckster's barrow."
"Straightforward?"
"Perfectly, I should say. That is—eh, well—ofcourse, he's a good business man, as I told you."
Both smiled.
"What's he like to look at?"
"Big, powerful build. Heavyweight." Ward described Hobbs'looks. "Then there's Clifford's regular secretary. A poor fellowwho lost his memory during the war. Blown up once too often. Justat the end too. Hard lines, eh? Name of Newman. Clifford ranacross him at a base hospital, and gave him a try. He's very goodindeed, I believe."
Again, at Pointer's request, he gave a snapshot of thesecretary's appearance. Slim, but very strong, he thoughthim.
"How do these two men and Mrs. Clifford get on? You say theyboth live with the Cliffords?"
"She bores her cousin, Hobbs, stiff. And I think she secretlybores Newman too. Though he's a chap of whom it's very difficultto know what he thinks."
"Were the Cliffords attached to each other?"
"As far as I know, very much so. But of course—there'sthat talk about Mrs. Orr, the Merry Widow."
"Widow? Grass or sod, as the Americans say."
Ward laughed. "Oh, a genuine widow. As though you hadn't heardof the beautiful Mrs. Orr. As beautiful and far swifter than thelatest eight-cylinder. Julian Clifford is supposed tobe—was supposed to be—putting her in his next novel.All I know is he's been haunting her society lately. In seasonand out of season."
"And what does Mrs. Clifford say to the hauntings? Hasn't shetried to lay the spirit?"
"Mrs. Clifford is quite unperturbed, apparently. She goes onsmiling her faint smiles and dreaming her dreams, and hearing hervoices and seeing her visions in her crystal. She's one of thefew women who haven't begun to cold-shoulder Mrs. Orr of late.Rather the other way."
"More friendly than usual?"
"I saw them driving in the park together only last Friday.Never saw that before."
Pointer hurried off. It was one o'clock. Gossip, even veryrelevant gossip, must wait until he knew whether it were reallywanted or not.
AN elderly-looking, round-shouldered man, whosestoop took from his real height, walked up to the gates ofThornbush half an hour later.
Pointer had looked out the hours of postal deliveries. He hadtimed himself so as to be on the drive when a postman overtookhim. He turned.
"Any letters for me—Marbury?" he asked pleasantly. "AndI'll take on any for the household at the same time."
The postman thanked him, told him there were none for him, andhanded him four for the house.
Though Pointer looked a typical civil servant from his neatly-trimmed beard to his neatly-adjusted spats, he knocked at thefront door with the four letters—three for Julian Clifford,Esq., and one for Mrs. Clifford—in his pocket. He might re-post them after the briefest of delays—or he might not.
"I telephoned to Mr. Clifford just now, and was told that heis not at his home." The very way in which Pointer felt for hiscard-case suggested near sight and a certain precisefussiness.
"Mr. Clifford is away, sir. But will you see Mr. Hobbs? Mr.Hobbs said he particularly wanted to see you, sir." The butlerled the caller into a room near by. A young man rose civilly.
"Mr. Marbury? From the Home Office?"
"I called to inquire why Mr. Clifford failed to keep anappointment he had this morning with the Home Secretary. Can Isee him a moment? The matter is connected with the MetropolitanSpecial Constabulary Reserve, and is very urgent. We are drawingup our lists."
Hobbs seemed puzzled. "Did Mr. Clifford have an appointment? Ithink there's some mistake."
"Exactly!" Pointer broke in. "I'm sure there is. Kindly let meknow where I can reach him on the 'phone."
Hobbs stroked his smooth black hair. Then he stroked hissmooth blue chin.
The Chief Inspector was by nature and training a remarkablyastute reader of faces, but he was looking at one nowwhich—like his own—hid completely the characterbehind it. Like himself, Adrian Hobbs looked about thirty, moreor less. Like himself, too, he suggested an out-of-door man. Likehimself, Hobbs was exceedingly neat in appearance. From his hairto his well-shod feet he satisfied the most fastidious eye. Hismind, again like Pointer's, was clearly a tidy mind. But beyondthat even Pointer could not size him up. The eyes were large andwide apart. Were they frank or merely bold? The nose was long.Was it predatory or merely self-assertive? Was the large mouthfrank? Or was there something just a shade sinister to it when hesmiled?
"I really can't understand it," Hobbs said finally. "I had noidea that Mr. Clifford took any interest in thematter—"
"That is precisely why I must trouble you for his address. Ora telephone number that will reach him," Pointer again put inswiftly.
"Sorry," Hobbs smiled slightly, "impossible to give youeither. Mr. Clifford has gone off in search of local colour, andwhere he gets it is always his own closely-kept secret. He leftno address. He never does. In good time—a day, a week, twoweeks—he'll be back."
"But a man doesn't make an appointment a week ahead with theHome Secretary and not keep it!" Pointer ejaculated; in the toneof a man whose patience is wearing thin.
The truism seemed to worry Hobbs. He nodded, but saidnothing.
"I feel sure that he has left some word with some one. He musthave!" Pointer urged.
"Mr. Clifford's engagement-book shows nothing for thismorning," Hobbs said finally.
"When did he leave?"
"This morning. I got down to breakfast to find that he wasgone. There was a note for me to say that he had left to exploresome Chinese haunts. Liverpool rather than London, I fancy."
"Incredible!" Pointer murmured. "But"—an idea seemed tostrike him—"would you ask Mrs. Clifford to spare me a fewminutes? I must try and get this straightened out."
"Do you mind seeing if Mrs. Clifford's in the garden?" Hobbsturned to another man who was writing at the farther end of thelarge room where he and Pointer were talking. A man whom Pointerknew, by Ward's description, to be Newman, Julian Clifford'sprivate secretary, and whom he had been secretly watching. TheChief Inspector had purposely lowered his voice so that what hewas saying should only be partly audible to Newman. He noticedthe intent look on the secretary's face, not when he entered theroom, but when he spoke of Julian Clifford in a purposely raisedvoice. The look that came then, was that of a man straining hisears. Ordinary curiosity might explain this with many men. ButPointer did not think that curiosity was a trait of the darkyoung man with the close-shut mouth, and the deep-set, reservedeyes. Newman's ordinary interest, or he misread him greatly, wasconcentrated in some inner life of his own. A life so interestingin its close seclusion that he lived there almost exclusively.True, he would, he must, come out into some other court forbusiness purposes, to buy and sell. The many who penetrated thusfar, might indeed think that they had the run of all that therewas to the man. But Pointer felt sure that there would be walledcourtyard within walled courtyard and lock after lock behindwhich the real man stood on guard.
"Perhaps I'd better go myself," Hobbs said, after asecond.
Alone in the room, Pointer thought over the two men,especially the secretary. There were great potentialities in thatface. Newman had lost his memory in the last year of the war,Ward had said. But was the face at which the detective officerhad just glanced, so apparently casually, the face of one with nomemory reaching back beyond 1918?
Pointer had seen men who had lost all recollection of theirlives up to a certain point. In the eyes of each had been a lookimpossible to forget or mistake. A piteous, searching look. Thelook of those who feel that they are the consequences of daysthat they cannot remember, that in their characters they arereaping what, as far as their surface intelligence is concerned,they have not sown. But Newman, strange though the effect wasthat he produced on Pointer's keen scrutiny, had not that look.Those watchful eyes...the iron reserve of the face...Nothingcould give that last but year on year of rigorous self-control. Aself-control that was never set aside for a moment. Greatbusiness men sometimes have it, statesmen occasionally. Pointerhad invariably seen it on those privileged to attend onroyalties.
His thoughts passed on to the effect which his questions aboutClifford had had on the men. Hobbs, Clifford's literary agent,had shown no emotion. But Newman? Newman was startled. Pointerknew that as well as though he had been one of these moderninstruments which record heart beats. The man's rigid, suddenimmobility had but one cause.
Yet, though Pointer could jump to conclusions when he couldalter them, he was a very wary man when, as here, his conclusionswere fundamental—were the basis on which he must build.
At that moment the door opened. Though Pointer did not knowit, it was Julian Clifford's librarian who now looked in. A youngman called Richard Straight, who, wandering rather aimlesslyabout the house, collecting missing volumes from library sets,had just met Hobbs. He had turned and stared after the literaryagent. Hobbs' face was strangely set. Straight promptly poppedhis head into the room which the other had just left. He sawnothing to explain Hobbs' look. A stout, elderly man was tryingto disentangle his glasses from his watch-chain. At sight of thelibrarian, the elderly caller rose.
"Mr. Newman, isn't it?"
"No." Straight came on into the room. "No, but can I be of anyuse? I'm the new librarian here. Very new, I'm afraid. I onlyarrived yesterday—from Melbourne."
"I called," Pointer explained wearily, "on a very urgentmatter. I must get into touch with Mr. Clifford. I'm from theHome Office, I should mention, and Mr. Clifford was due at ameeting to discuss the lists of the Metropolitan Special ReserveConstabulary. We want him on the committee." He lookedquestioningly at Straight, who looked questioningly back at him."Mr. Clifford is absent, it seems. The Home Secretary iswaiting!" Pointer's tone was inimitable as he pronounced thosefive words.
"Where is Mr. Clifford?" Pointer went on irritably, "kindlylet me have his address, and I will do what I can to straightenout this most deplorable mistake."
"I haven't it," Straight said promptly. "Mr. Cliffordapparently never leaves it when he goes off to collect newmaterial for his work. He only left this morning."
"This morning!" Pointer's tone suggested that here was indeedthe last straw. "Why, the appointment was for today!"
Straight merely smiled and shook his head, as though to saythat he was not responsible for his employer's habits.
Hobbs returned. He shot a swift glance from Straight toPointer. An inquiring glance.
"Mrs. Clifford knows no more than I do, but if you feel thatyou would like to see her, she is willing to give you a fewmoments, Mr. Marbury."
Hobbs showed Pointer into a large quiet room with bookshelvesshoulder-high running around it. A big writing table stood by onewindow. A Koran stand, various old carved reading-desks, andlecterns, and broad tables such as architects use, were here andthere. It was Clifford's own room, and admirably suited to itspurpose of writing. The men stood desultorily talking of theweather, which, after having given a selection of winter airs forthe past week, had remembered that July was the tune which it wasbooked to play, and seemed at last endeavouring to providesomething suitable.
After a minute or two the door opened. Pointer had never seenany one quite like Alison Clifford. He had expected beauty, forJulian Clifford had written of many a lovely heroine. But thiswas not beauty as he understood it.
She was very tall, very slender, and very pale. Lint-white theshort, soft hair, so fine that, as she turned to shut the door,it stirred above her head like thistledown. With every movement,with her very breathing, it seemed to rise and fall like the hairof a spirit. Her skin was white too. White and smooth, with asheen as of a lily's petals. Even her lips were but a hint ofcolour. Her eyes were a clear aquamarine, veiled by lashes sowhite that they looked as though thickly floured. Something aboutthe face made the Chief Inspector think of a face seen underwater, or through a veil.
Pointer explained again about the meeting at the HomeSecretary's.
"So sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Clifford, but I thought thatperhaps you might remember some trifle which would help to locateMr. Clifford—"
Mrs. Clifford regretted that she could be of no use. "Myhusband often disappears for a short time. Generally, of course,he lets me know where he will be, but not always. And I'm afraidhe has a very poor memory for engagements."
"Sometimes he's writing, or dictating, and gets to a passagewhich needs local knowledge," Hobbs put in, "when he'll stop,think a moment, and without a word leave the room, take down hishat and topcoat, and be off. To return with the necessaryinformation and atmosphere perhaps after a week."
Mrs. Clifford smiled acquiescence. "I'm afraid we must possessour souls in patience. He left me a note saying that he might bedelayed until Friday."
"Delayed?" Pointer wondered at that word.
"I've heard, of course, of your wonderful powers," he went onpolitely. "Couldn't you ascertain by means of them where Mr.Clifford really is?" It was a test question. What would thewoman's reply be?
"I've been watching him in my crystal off and on all morning,"she said at once, smiling faintly with down-droppedlids—lids so thin that Pointer could see the colour of theiris through them.
Even as she spoke she touched the antique silver clasp of asmall black velvet bag beside her. Within it Pointer saw a ballof what looked like glass. Bending lower she looked into it. Hewatched her. Seen like this, with the light on her silvery hairand amber frock, he saw her charm for the first time. There wassomething very alluring about the picture which she made. Shelooked like a tree sprite talking for a few moments to amortal.
"There he is now!" she exclaimed suddenly. "I can always getresults quicker if I am with some one who wants to see what I do.Yes, there he is!"
She half turned a shoulder so that both Pointer and Hobbscould look. Pointer saw but the shifting light beautifullyreflected in the ball. Hobbs had stalked to the window, and stoodwith his back to the room, disapproval in every line of hisbody.
"What is Mr. Clifford doing? Where is he?" Marbury asked,gaping. Was the faint smile that curved her pale mouthmischievous or malicious?
"I'm afraid there's no address given in a crystal. I only seea street...a very winding street..." She was staring into theball with what looked like concentrated attention, turning it nowand then in its nest of velvet.
"Gables," she went on, "built like steps running up intoheaven, are on both sides of him. Now he's lighting a cigarette.He's pulled out his watch. Now he's gone!"
"Gables built like steps running up into heaven?" Pointerechoed. "What sort of houses would they be on?"
Mrs. Clifford shot Hobbs a glance from under her lids as sheshut her velvet bag. Pointer fancied that she regretted thosewords, and hoped that her cousin had not heard them.
"Oh, just irregular gables," she said hurriedly.
"Wonderful!" Marbury fairly gaped; "really wonderful! Thankyou so much. And when Mr. Clifford returns, will you ask him tohave a message sent me? We may clear up the mystery then. For Iconfess I find Mr. Clifford's unexpected absence a mystery."
His rather yellow eyeballs—there are drops, verybeneficial to the eye, which yellow the balls for the rest of theday— turned vaguely towards the figure of a young woman whohad just sauntered down the gravel path towards them past theirwindow. At his words, spoken very clearly, even though inMarbury's little staccato voice, it stopped with the small head alittle forward on the long neck, the large eyes glancing into theroom at Mrs. Clifford—at Hobbs—at their visitor.Dwelling on each in turn for a length of time that meantuneasiness to Pointer. By what, or by whom, was the uneasinesscaused? "Is that Miss Clifford?" Marbury asked, taking a steptowards her, "perhaps she—"
"There is no Miss Clifford," Alison said, while the girloutside stood still. No one made any move towards mentioning hername.
"What! No help towards solving the puzzle of where Mr.Clifford is! Dear, dear!"
Mr. Marbury dropped first one glove then the other. The girloutside in the garden had stiffened where she stood. Now shepassed on.
"That's a Miss Haslar, a niece of Mr. Clifford's," Hobbs saidquickly, and turned towards the door.
Diana Haslar walked on as though deep inthought—unpleasant thought. Tall and slender, she looked amere girl, but she was close on thirty. She had a fascinatingrather than a pretty face. There were subtle lines in it. Therewas both mockery and mischief in her smile. And her large eyeslooked as though few things would escape them. Had there been agreater warmth in it, her face would have been more universal inits charm. Yet there were hints of fire in the tawny eyes, in thebeautiful lustre of her close-clipped, wavy hair, in some tonesof her rather deep voice. At last, still apparently lost inthought, still unpleasant thought, she stepped into one of therooms, and laid a hand on the young librarian's shoulder.
Richard Straight, as he had told Marbury, had only landedyesterday from Australia. He had been head librarian in a largeMelbourne civic library. Julian Clifford had met him while on aworld's lecturing tour, and had been struck with his originalviews on how private libraries should be, and could be, run. Onhis return, the author had offered him the post of his librarian.A small position, but one that could bring Straight into contactwith many people worth meeting. Straight had thought it over fora month, and finally accepted it. Had he known what Diana Haslarcarefully did not tell him until his decision was made, that thegreat writer was a connection of hers, Straight would not havehesitated for a day. He had been a constant visitor at the bigHaslar house in Melbourne. A friend of Arnold Haslar's, it wasnot his fault if he was not by this time his brother-in-law. Asit was, he still hoped to win Diana.
"Dick!"—the two were about the same age, and Christiannames come easily in Australia—"tear yourself away fromfirst editions, isn't a man from the Home Office the same as fromthe police?"
Richard Straight tore himself away from books very promptly atthe tone in which that question was put. He looked at her insurprise.
"You'll be had up for slandering the Force if you mean thatbenevolent old dear in the morning-room. He certainly can't bethe same as a policeman. Why?"
Diana seated herself on the table and ruffled the pages of abook in a way to set a conscientious librarian's teeth on edge.Dick did not seem to mind.
"He came about Uncle Julian...I heard him say his absence wasa mystery..."
"Well?" Dick asked easily.
Diana looked at him a moment in silence. Then she turned away.Straight knew that a door had been gently shut in his face.
"How do you think you're going to like your work atThornbush?" she asked, after a moment.
"I think I'm going to like it very much here." This was highpraise from Straight. He was an ugly, clever-looking young manwith a certain air of quiet self-possession. An air which stillannoyed Diana Haslar exceedingly at times. "I should like anyplace where I could be near you," he added rather fatuously.
She gave him a rallying smile.
"Any place? I really can't imagine your likinganyplace, Dick. You're rather a particular young man. Besides, whenUncle Julian has finished his Life of my grandfather, I'm off.It's only the fact I can check the family dates better than anyone else can that keeps me here, though I like the work." Shefinished thoughtfully with a certain critical note in hervoice.
"But not the house?" he asked, quickly looking up.
"We're so frank 'down under,'" she said a little wistfully,"dreadfully frank, you used to think when you first came out. AndThornbush—" She seemed to seek for the right word.
"Thornbush isn't?"
"Not frank. No. Not lately. I seem to be always interruptingpeople in most private conversations. I think I shall be gladwhen the Life is finished and I'm free once more. Though I lovebeing with Uncle Julian."
"He's a splendid chap, isn't he!" Straight said warmly. "Hiswelcome to me was kindness itself."
"He is kind. Yet he can be hard. When it's a question of hiswork."
Again there was a tone to her voice that intrigued him.Straight was fond of conundrums.
"Your uncle said in the notes he left each of us this morningthat he had gone for local colour. Is it possible that you think'local colour' should be spelled Mazod Orr?"
This time it was Diana's expression that puzzled Straight asshe looked at him. She was far too modern a young woman to beshocked at the suggestion. Yet there was a something in hereye...
"I see that Arnold has been repeating the silly tittle-tattlewhich is going the round in some quarters," she said scornfully."Why, Alison and Mazod Orr are tremendous friends—she isseeing her off herself for Paris this morning."
There was a pause.
"And how's Arnold?" Straight asked; "was it anything serious?"The name of Mrs. Orr had suggested that of Arnold Haslar to him,for Diana's brother was madly in love with the widow. Straightknew that Diana had had a telephone message early this morningthat had made her hurry home, a message about Arnold having beenfound beside his breakfast table in a state verging oncollapse.
"The doctor says it's trying to be 'flu. I wanted to stay, butArnold's not to see any one. If he remains in bed and keepsabsolutely quiet, the doctor thinks he may escape and be up to-morrow."
"Odd if Arnold should catch 'flu," Straight thought. "Healways seemed to be immune. He looked all right last night."
"The doctor says he must have had a shock of some kind, orsome great excitement. Do you know of anything?" She looked atStraight rather narrowly. He did not, and said so.
"Must have happened when he was called out of town lastnight," he suggested. "It was a business call, he told me, elsewe had planned to celebrate my arrival, as you know, by somecrimson paint. If it isn't due to business worry, then it may beremorse at his having cut me dead this morning. Absolutelydead."
"Where was this?" she asked sceptically.
"Just outside a huge building on the corner of a main roadnear here. I got lost trying to take an after-breakfaststroll."
"Heath Mansions." Diana tapped her fingers on the tablerestlessly. "He didn't see you evidently," she went on in arather absent-minded, ruminative voice.
"That's just it," he retorted. "Arnold shouldn't moon bydaylight. I waved a friendly paw, and he fled as though it held awrit. Probably he was feeling ill. He looked perfectlyghastly."
Once more an odd look crossed Diana's face.
"And he left you early last night?" she asked, as thoughworried by that fact.
"Nearly as soon as I got there," Straight said, with a smile."But in response to a telephone call, which made it less of asnub direct."
She did not smile. A silence fell on the room.
Suddenly Diana drew back farther into the shadow. Newman, heruncle's secretary, was walking past the open window outside. Helooked up. Their eyes, his and hers, met. Newman's cigarette-casedropped with a sharp tinkle, as though something in her glancehad startled him. He retrieved it instantly, and passing on, lita cigarette rather hastily.
His movements were singularly free from hurry, as a rule. Likehis face, they suggested plenty of reserve power. There wassomething foreign about his appearance: a little in his easygrace, more in his seldom-seen, faintly ironic, smile, most ofall in the melancholy of his dark, brooding eyes, which rarelylooked up. Newman had a habit of carrying on a whole conversationwith his eyes on his cigarette, or looking out of the window. Inbuild he was exceptionally lean and lithe, with small, strongbones.
"I must ask Newman about these Spanish books," Straightmurmured. "Mr. Clifford told me in that talk we had last nightafter dinner, that he's making himself into quite an authority onSpain."
Diana said nothing.
"Mr. Clifford seemed to think him very clever, but—"Then Straight too decided to say no more.
"Oh, he is!" Diana spoke with a certain grimness, "so cleverthat one wonders why he remains content with life at Thornbushyear after year. There's some reason why he refuses every offer,and he's had some good ones. Just as there's some reason why hecultivates Arnold as he does. Mr. Newman does nothing without areason."
Diana spoke half under her breath.
"You sound afraid of him!" Straight gave her a very sharpglance.
Diana's laugh failed to achieve carelessness.
"I loathe him. I can't think why he should try so tremendouslyto ingratiate himself with Arnold, who, unfortunately, has takenthe most tremendous fancy to him."
"Perhaps the fact that Arnold's your only brother," Dicksuggested.
"Mr. Newman and I feel alike about each other," Diana saidshortly, "mutual dislike. On my side, distrust as well. Profounddistrust."
"I must keep out of his way," Straight said lightly.
"On, he won't bother you! You're of no importance to him.There's nothing to be gained by cultivating you"—sheflushed at her own rudeness and added hastily, "except the bestof pals. And possibly Mr. Newman may scent the rising man in youthat you are, Dick. However, even so, you'll be safe. I can'timagine any one pulling the wool over your eyes."
"I'm done brown quite often," he murmured sadly.
"Not you!" she scoffed. "I always know that if ever any of usgets into a hole you'll get us out." She bit her lip, as thoughthe words had slipped out. "Edward Clifford thinks the paper yousent in to the Libraries Association a masterpiece. He said hewas going to keep an eye on you."
"A benevolent or a watchful eye?"
Both laughed. Straight looked down into her face not so farbelow his own.
"Were you pleased?" he asked abruptly.
"For your sake—very much." She laughed again, butStraight did not laugh back.
"Can't you manage to love me, Diana?" he asked, with a suddenpassion in his voice.
"I thought we talked that over in Melbourne." She turned away,not shyly—Diana was never shy—but with somethingalmost of impatience in her big eyes.
"Love!" she repeated under her breath. "Who does love, really?What is it? How does it come? How do you know when it's real,when it's not? I like you, Dick. I respect your characterimmensely—"
"Then give me a chance Give me a try-out!" he urged again.
Diana only shook her head.
"I'll make you love me"—he spoke as though vowing a vowunto himself—"with the real love. The love that stands by aman when all else drops away. You have it in you, that I'llswear. Youcould love, Diana!"
Diana was very pale.
"Not with the love that calls the world well lost." There wasa note of contempt in her voice. Was it for herself? or for thesubject of their talk? It was hard to tell with Diana.
"I haven't that in me. For your own sake, make no mistake! Butapart from that, I could be a good helper to an ambitious, risingman. If ever I do agree to marry any one, I'll back him upwell."
"But you won't agree to marry—any one—now?"Straight asked in his usual, rather measured voice.
"Not yet. Perhaps I shall never have any better answer. Itwon't be any loss, believe me. I'm not deep. I'm shallow.Shallow, and pleasure-loving, and greedy for good things." Hertone was trivial again. "And now, let's talk of something else. Imean it." Her eyes warned him not to press her for thepresent.
"Well, then, let us discuss whether the Foreign Office secret-service men will catch that chap Sir Edward talked about so muchyesterday at dinner. The anarchist with the odd name..." Straightlooked to Diana to help him out. She did not glance up.
"Et—Etch—Sounds as if I were sneezing!" he saidcrossly. "Etche—Whatwas it?"
She made no suggestion.
The door opened. A girl looked in. It was Maud Gillingham, agreat admirer of Alison Clifford's.
"Di—but how white you are! Or is it that frock? Mrs.Clifford has a message for you. A very important one. She's outin the garden."
Maud Gillingham slid an arm through Diana's, and the twosauntered out on to the lawn to where, under a cedar tree, Mrs.Clifford lay in a long garden-chair looking more like the sketchof a woman than actual flesh and blood. She lifted her strangeaquamarine eyes as the two came up to her.
"I have a message for you from your grandfather, Diana." Shespoke as casually as though she had just met the dead man in thestreet. "From Sir William Haslar. It spelled itself out on myOuija board. I would have sent for you at once, only sometiresome person came in about an appointment of Julian's...Butthis message—'Tell Day' it began. Evidently you areDay."
Diana started. That was her grandfather's name for her, notheard for many a long year, and certainly not known to AlisonClifford.
"...not to mind whatever it is that you are minding," Mrs.Clifford went on. "That it will all come right. That he could seethe end, and it will all come right."
She signalled to Newman, who was standing watching them, tocome closer.
"Come along, Maud!" Diana turned to the girl beside her,"let's take a stroll around the rosary. You know"—Dianabegan when they were out of earshot—"there are times when Ican't bear Alison. Spiritualists can be so smug, and generallyare!"
"It's like talking to a woman from Mars sometimes," Maudagreed, "but she can be wonderful. With Mr. Newman, for instance.But I forgot—you don't like your uncle's secretary."
"I'm sorry for him," Diana said rather reluctantly.
Maud Gillingham nodded. "Naturally. Anybody would have to besorry for a man who lost his memory in the war. But instead ofpitying him, as we all do, Mrs. Clifford makes him feel that whathe's lost is so tiny a thing in the immensity of our eternal lifethat it really isn't worth while fretting over."
"Yet don't you think she'd fret if she losthermemory?" Diana checked herself. "Maud, I never can quite make upmy mind about Alison. Is she posing, or is she quitesincere?"
"Heavens, Di, if she weren't sincere she'd have to be an utterliar. Surely you don't think that of her?" Maud was aghast. Shewas an honest soul who knew no half-tones. You were white or youwere black to Maud.
"N—no. No, of course I don't think that." Diana spokerather as though dropping a trap-door on something within herselfthat wanted to peep out. "No, of course not. Every one knows thatAlison, however mistaken, has a beautiful mind. But that messagefrom my grandfather..." There was a pause.
"Did he call you Day?" Maud asked curiously.
"He did. But..." There was another pause. "This message fromhim for me: Maud, doesn't it ever strike you that Alison alwaysgets the messages from the other world that she wants to get?Hears the things she wants to hear?"
Maud reflected a moment.
"I think there's more than that in it, Di. Oh, much more! Lookat this last Saturday afternoon. But I don't think you were inthe room. Mrs. Orr was here, and was scoffing as usual in herlaughing way at something I said about Mrs. Clifford's powers.But I stuck to it that she could 'see'—sometimes—withher hands. Mrs. Orr whipped out a letter from her bag, folded it,and held it folded on Mrs. Clifford's knee, and said, 'Read this,then, Alison darling.' And she did! Mrs. Clifford did! Shepressed her hands hard down on the letter and read out a wholesentence. 'If you keep your end up, no one will suspect us.' Shewould have gone on, only Mrs. Orr put the letter back into herbag. It was from a friend on her honeymoon. Even she lookedstartled. And no wonder! If that wasn't white magic, whatis?"
Now Diana had been in the room; had heard and watched thewhole strange little scene. But what had struck her most had beenJulian Clifford's face as his wife beganslowly—laboriously— like some one reading a distantsignpost, to almost spell out the words. If Mazod Orr had lookedstartled, so had he. Diana thought that his hand had palpablytwitched to snatch the envelope with its contents from under hiswife's fingers. He and Mrs. Orr had drifted on into his study tolook at some new prints which he had bought, and Diana saw againMrs. Clifford's equable smile as she looked after them. Yet therehad been a new element in her expression. Diana's perceptionswere very quick. In Alison Clifford's eyes was a look almost ofsarcasm. It was the smile with which skill might watchtransparent make-believe through which it sees absolutely, butfrom which, for reasons of its own, it prefers not to tear thecloak away. It was not an unkind smile—Alison never lookedunkind—but it had made Diana wonder. The two girls wereback again by the cedar tree now. Mrs. Clifford was talking toNewman.
"But even so, why not let me get into touch with yourforgotten memories? They're not important, but still, why nothave them? I might be able to lift the veil for you."
Newman flicked the ash off his cigarette with an impatientgesture which had something almost of contempt in it. There was acertain haughty, hawk-like look about his whole face.
"I'd rather not. Thank you immensely for caring, Mrs.Clifford. But I have a very definite feeling against having theveil lifted that way. Your powers are very wonderful, butsomething tells me, warns me, if you like, not to use them forthis purpose."
Diana gave him a long, long look. It amounted to a stare. "Ishould never be able to resist the chance if I were you!" pantedMaud.
"You mean ifI wereyou," Newman said looking ather under his heavy, brooding lids—lids that lifted slowly.There was something watchful about his gaze always—notsuspicious—just watchful.
Dick Straight joined the group, and when they moved towardsthe house, sauntered after them with the secretary, of whom heasked a question or two about a couple of old Spanish works onthe shelves. They were soon discussing Spanish bindings, andStraight found that his companion was indeed well up in thesubject. Diana passed them again.
"I'm off to see how Arnold is, though he hates me to fuss overhim." She made her remark exclusively to Dick Straight.
"Interesting girl, Miss Haslar," Dick said casually as shewalked on.
"Most girls are," was the equally casual reply. Newman's darkeyes glanced for the barest second at Straight's face; that facewas not usually considered a tell-tale one, yet Dick felt certainthat the man beside him was aware from it of the state of affairsbetween himself and Diana.
Straight took an instant dislike to the man.
"Dago blood of some sort," he told himself, as Newman left himwith a civil excuse, and turned off into the hall.
POINTER meanwhile, on his way back to ScotlandYard, had opened the four letters handed him by the postman onthe Thornbush drive. The three to Mr. Clifford could have nopossible connection with the case. The letter to Mrs. Cliffordwas different. It was from town, dated yesterday, andran—
Dear Allison,
A linelette to say that should you be askedquestions, be sure you know nothing. Remember we count on you toput people off. Miles off. Till to-morrow morning.
In great haste,
Mazod Orr.
That letter was put back in the Chief Inspector's letter-case. The others were fastened up and dropped in the nearest box."We count on you to put people off," he murmured. "Not always soeasy, my lady!"
Back at New Scotland Yard, during a belated lightning lunch,Pointer asked Mr. Ward to be good enough to come into his roomagain for a moment.
"Ever heard of Mr. Clifford's new librarian? A young mancalled Straight?" he asked briskly.
"Librarian? I thought Newman had that job. But as Hobbs isgoing for a six months' big game shoot in the autumn, I supposehe's going off duty now—he has some private means, as wellas a whacking salary and commission—the new librarian maybe a sort of stop-gap. First I've heard of him."
"And who could a tall young woman be with handsome, ratherbitter eyes, and a face that should be beautiful but isn't. Shelooks a lot younger than her years, I fancy." Pointer went on todescribe her colouring. He wanted to verify the name that Hobbshad murmured. "I have a snapshot of her in my glove button, but Ican't develop it for the moment."
Pointer's glove stud, a thickish stud, furnished a completeminute roll of films, and was a perfect tiny camera by the touchof a nail on the edge.
"That'll be Miss Haslar, Clifford's niece. She's helping Mr.Clifford with his Life of her grandfather, Sir WilliamHaslar."
"Very fond of gossip, isn't she?"
"Diana Haslar? Not half as fond of it as I am," chuckled Ward."No, she's rather a high-brow."
"Is she attached to her uncle? Mr. Clifford would only be heruncle by marriage, of course."
"Worshipped him. Absolutely worshipped him."
"Is Mr. Arnold Haslar an electrical engineer in a big way, thehead of the Wellwyn Company of Melbourne, a relative ofhers?"
"Only brother. Only relative, as far as I know. Her father'sdead."
"And this brother, was he by way of worshipping Mr. JulianClifford too?"
"Until he and the widow got so friendly. Mrs. Orr isabsolutely ripping, you know. If rumour tells the truth she hasripped through a good deal in a fairly short time, but she'sconnected with all the peerage that counts, royal god-mother, andso on. So what would you? It'll take a lot to sink her littleboat definitely. Haslar is tremendously in love with her. He's ofno family, but he's wealthy. She can't do better. Wonder is, shecan do as well. For he's the last chap to stand some things. Yetthey say it's she who's lately holding off. No one can understandit. Clifford's interest is purely academic. She's a type to him.That's all. But why Mazod the Fair should be apparently turningHaslar down is the mystery. Clifford can't marry her even if hewanted to, which he doesn't. Haslar wants to. Unless she trieshim too far. He's not the sort to make a good dupe. The womancan't have lost her very alert wits..." Ward ruminated over theproblem.
"What sort of man is this Arnold Haslar?" Pointer finallyasked.
Ward pondered.
"Well, not the sort of chap I should select with whom to wipethe floor. Not without a tussle. All correct to the outward eye,of course. But there's wild blood in his background. Botany Bay,in fact. Not for anything terrific. Well-deserved manslaughter weshould call it nowadays—at least I should." Ward correctedhimself hastily. He and the Chief Inspector had crossed swords onthat point before. "You know the retort his grandpa made whenLord Boodle wrote an article during the last election hinting athis family's past? Old Sir William, as he was later, wrote backthat it was quite true. His ancestor had been deported for notenduring what his, the honourable writer's, ancestor had beenennobled for standing. To any one who knew the Boodle pedigree itwas a bit sledge-hammer, but very amusing. Australia crowed."
"So that there's ill-feeling between him and Clifford overMrs. Orr?" Pointer repeated meditatively.
Ward nodded. "Said to be."
"Does Miss Haslar know of the attachment between her brotherand Mrs. Orr?" This Ward did not know, but he felt certain thatif she did so, Diana would very much object.
Pointer stood with bent head, hands deep in his pockets, eyeson his shoes. It was a favourite position of his when deep inthought.
"What about Sir Edward Clifford, Mr. Julian Clifford'sbrother? What is his reputation among his own set?"
"None better," was the expected reply. "A stickler forconventions, but that's all to the good in a man of hisposition."
"Were the two brothers on friendly terms?"
"On the very best. Always. Even though both wanted to marrythe same young woman, and though Julian Clifford carried off theprize, it made no difference in their friendship. I'm speaking ofthe present Mrs. Clifford."
And that finished Ward's information.
Pointer pressed a knob. A light shone out on the table of oneof his constable clerks in the next room. The man came in.
"Get me the address of the Wellwyn Company's London warehouse.Find out if it has any others in Great Britain."
In a few minutes Pointer had an address in Thames Street. Theonly warehouse, or office, of the great Australian firm in theUnited Kingdom.
To it Inspector Watts was sent, to find out by dexterousquestions whether any parcel or package had arrived there sincelast night, except such as were to be handled and opened in theusual way of trade.
Next, a woman detective was sent to call on Mrs. Orr for asubscription to a quite genuine orphanage, and incidentally tofind out from whoever would be in the house where that lady hadbeen last night.
That done, an inquiry was put through to Mr. Arnold Haslar athis office in Thames Street. Warehouse and office were in thesame building. The inquiry was intended to lead up to a politerequest to allow Mr. Marbury to come and see him with a view toadding his name to the same M.S.C. Reserve in which, apparently,Mr. Julian Clifford had been so interested. Pointer learnt thatMr. Haslar had not been at his office all day—that he wasdown with influenza. And from the butler at his house inHampstead, Pointer heard that complete quiet had been ordered himand a day in bed. Yes, the attack had been very sudden. Mr.Haslar had been all right yesterday. He had come down ill thismorning.
This morning! Pointer was interested. So much so that a plainclothes man was despatched to keep an unobtrusive eye on theinvalid's house. And an order was left that the telephones of itand of Mrs. Orr's house, and of Thornbush were to be allconnected with New Scotland Yard.
As for Thornbush, just a little over an hour after Mr. Marburyleft it, a red-haired, very freckled, lantern-jawed man from thegas company was knocking at the back door.
They were installing meters farther down. Something had blownout. The pipes here must be looked to, or there might be trouble.The butler was dazed by a string of the latest bye-laws—soPointer called them—rattled off at to speed, and promptlylet the man make a tour of inspection.
The gas man was very thorough, even though he worked amazinglyswiftly. Every cupboard was opened and swiftly scanned. The topglanced over. Every movable article was lifted quickly. Pointerhad found out at the Yard, before he started, the average weightof a dead man's head. He had had that weight dropped into aseven-pound biscuit tin, filled with plaster of Paris, and liftedthe whole several times, registering the weight.
He found few packages or parcels at Thornbush heavy enough forwhat he wanted. These few were carefully inspected. He even tookone swift turn over the roof. And besides being keenly on thewatch for biscuit tins ostensibly filled with plaster, he kept alook-out for weapons of any kind. He drew a blank in bothrespects. But within ten minutes he found what he was primarilyafter. Finger-prints on a dozen articles of Julian Clifford'swere unmistakably the finger-prints of the man in themortuary.
Pointer was outwardly unmoved, but his pulses beat quicker. Hehad won the first round. In vain had the head of the murdered manbeen cut off, the clothes taken away. No longer could a doubtersay that the man whose hands Mrs. Jansen had photographed atCannes, and the man who had come to her office in town, though hecalled himself Julian Clifford, might be an impostor. Here wasthe proof that the author and the murdered man were one and thesame.
As for the rest, neither Clifford's room, nor his wife's, norHobbs', had anything important to tell the Chief Inspector. Nor,strictly speaking, had Newman's. Yet in one way the secretary'sroom interested Pointer greatly. Newman had lived many years nowwith Clifford, yet the bedroom and his working room were as bareof personal effects as hotel rooms. There was not so much as acalendar which seemed the personal choice of the secretary. Theonly books were from a circulating library unless they belongedto Clifford.
Pointer stood looking about him, his bag of tools in his hand—intentionally bare. Intentionally devoid of all marks of individuality was his verdict. Nothing here to help anydetective. Choice or necessity? Newman was a conundrum.
A chat in the kitchen told Pointer that Mr. and Mrs. Cliffordwere considered a most devoted couple by their servants, and thatthe latter were not in the least surprised at only one more oftheir master's many short disappearances.
"It's just his way," one maid said airily. "He goes off likethat all of a sudden, when he gets fed up with writing. Mr.Trimble here he says that Mr. Clifford goes to find out more towrite about, but is that likely?"
A few questions about last night, when the gas man thoughtthat he had seen Mr. and Mrs. Clifford at a restaurant in companywith Sir Edward Clifford, told Pointer that the dinner atThornbush, where Edward Clifford and Maud Gillingham had been theonly guests, had been a cheery meal; that the two guests had eachleft immediately after the meal, and that as far as the servantswent, Mr. Clifford had not been seen after the butler took him ina glass of iced barley water about ten. Mr. Clifford had told himthat "that was all"—his usual words of dismissal for thenight. Back on his Yard-bound 'bus, Pointer thought over thehousehold— over Julian Clifford, who had gone to Astra's tohave his fortune told, as he might have gone to a gipsy.
He had gone recently. And he had asked the palmist to tell himif danger was marked in his hands. A strange question from a manwho apparently within the month had passed to where that word hasno more meaning.
Yet if it was his body that Pointer had seen, as the ChiefInspector believed that it was, he had not investigated thatflat. He did not seem to have noticed the fastened back lock ofthat door. It looked as though he had had a definite idea ofwhere the danger lay, and did not expect it to meet himelsewhere.
What was the best course now? Open or secret?
As a rule, an inquirer in a murder benefited by the rarechance of the murderer thinking his crime was still undetected.But here? Dared Pointer let him think himself safe? If that cut-off head was cut off with the idea of blocking the investigation,then it and those carefully laid trails by the Basque anarchistlooked, Pointer believed, as though something was brewing whichthe knowledge of Clifford's death would spoil. Some businessseemed to be on hand which must stop if it were known who it wasthat, on this last night, had been lured to a strange address,there murdered, and stripped and beheaded. They might not allbelong together—the murder, the beheading, the stripping.But some vital necessity must have ruled to make a man risk any,or all, of them. No one goes to such terrible lengths unlessdriven. What was it which necessitated, perhaps, the killing ofJulian Clifford, but certainly the remaining unknown of the factthat it was he who had been killed?
Back at Scotland Yard, he arranged for a couple of his men tobe installed in a road-mender's hut just outsideThornbush—men who understood tapping a telephone wire. Theywere instructed to do as little damage as possible with themaximum amount of effect. The point was that one or other was tobe permanently on guard. And a message was sent to the policestations concerned which would be passed on at once to everyconstable on his beat, that any oddity noticed at the houseswhere lived Sir Edward Clifford, Mrs. Orr, Arnold Haslar, andJulian Clifford was to be at once reported directly to the ChiefInspector at New Scotland Yard.
Then he went swiftly to the Assistant Commissioner's rooms.Tindall, to whom he had telephoned, was just entering. Without aword, Pointer laid before the two men a sheet of paper with somered finger-prints on it. He had obtained them by droppingcollodium in thin films over the fingerprints on a metal tube oftooth-paste in Clifford's dressing-room, then carefully peelingthem off one by one when set, leaving them awhile in a red-tintedhardening solution, and finally pressing each carefully out on tounglazed paper.
"You agree that they're the same as these?" he asked. "These"were prints taken from the hands of the dead man, and enlarged onsquared paper.
"They're identical," Tindall agreed, after very carefullycomparing the two. Major Pelham said the same, and the AssistantCommissioner was an authority on finger-prints.
"How on earth—where—whose?" Tindall was all butinarticulate.
"I got these red prints from marks on Mr. Julian Clifford'stube of tooth paste. Equally clear are those there taken off alamp switch beside his bed. The tube of tooth-paste I have withme. And here's some of Mr. Clifford's manuscript paper. It'sesparto grass paper. In other words I'm sorry to say that themurdered man in Heath Mansions is Mr. Julian Clifford the well-known author." Pointer detailed the somewhat odd steps of hisinvestigations.
"Sir Edward's brother!" Tindall murmured, as one halfstupefied. There was a long silence. Tindall strode to the windowand back. Then he wheeled.
"These prints, of course, absolutely settle the question. SoEtcheverrey was the killer this time, and not the killed! But whyshould Etcheverrey kill Julian Clifford? What took Clifford intothat most dangerous man's inner circle? However, let mecongratulate you, Chief Inspector. This was good work.Marvellously good. Considering how you at the Yard are so boundby red tape. You need a royal warrant or an Act of Parliamentbefore you dare step an inch off the beaten track. With us, ofcourse, it's different. But frankly, I can't think how you getthe results that you do."
"We have to rely more on routine," Pointer agreed sadly, andlet it go at that, while Major Pelham wrestled with a refractorycough.
Tindall bent over the finger-prints again.
"And to think of a Scotland Yard man going to a palmist!" heall but chuckled.
"Astra isn't what's generally meant by that word, or wewouldn't let her alone as we do," the Assistant Commissionerreminded him. "She's not a fortune-teller."
"It was a most amazing piece of luck that she had photographedClifford's hands," Tindall said almost grudgingly. Pointernodded. It was.
"It wasn't good luck that made the Chief Inspector go to her,"Pelham pointed out.
"What would you have done if she'd never seen Clifford?" theForeign Office man asked with real curiosity.
"I think she might have been as good at placing him, or hisinterests, as she was with mine. I tried her with my own handsfirst. If so, what with her suggestions, and the clue furnishedby his fingernails, I think we should have run him to earth intime."
"I wish you were wrong for once," Tindall pushed the sheets ofprints away. He spoke with genuine emotion. "Quite apart from myhaving been a little off the true, I wish with all my heart thatyou were wrong. Why, his coming novel is said to be one of thefinest things even Julian Clifford has ever done! It's notfinished yet. I must be the one to break the news to Sir Edward,of course." Suddenly he straightened. "I wonder! Ishe thelink between Julian Clifford and the Basque? There's no mankeener on having Etcheverrey caught than our Chief. And there isa great resemblance between the brothers. But first of all, Imust hurry to the French Embassy." He glanced at his watch. "Fouro'clock. I've been there until now. Etcheverrey—"
Pelham stopped him.
"Just a moment, Tindall. We must lay this before theCommissioner. I've told him the facts as far as they went."
He took the two into another room. The prints were laid beforean elderly, shrewd-faced man with singularly steady, piercingblue eyes.
"You think, Tindall, that Julian Clifford may have been killedbecause of Sir Edward's inquiries, or because the younger wasmistaken for the elder brother?" General Brownlow askedfinally.
"I can see no other possible link. No other gap to cross sucha bridge as that between a Basque revolutionary and JulianClifford."
Tindall looked at Pointer. All three looked at Pointer, wholooked at his shoe-tips.
A silence fell on the room. Then General Brownlow spoke.
"I don't for a moment doubt your result, Chief Inspector. Noneof us do, or can. But it rests for identification of the bodyonly on palm and finger-prints. Juries and coroners don't likethat kind of evidence. We must go step by step. I think we mustkeep back from the public our belief, our certainty rather, thatthe murdered man is Julian Clifford until we get the usual proof.I mean until we get the actual head. As to the family—thatmust, of course, depend on what Sir Edward says; or on the courseof events."
Again there fell a silence.
"'We count on you to put people off. Miles off,'" Pelhammurmured suddenly. Pointer had given every fact, as known to himso far, with the most meticulous care. It was only hisconclusions that he had kept to himself. "That's a mostextraordinary letter under the circumstances!"
"I don't know about Mrs. Orr, but Mrs. Clifford is absolutelyincapable of murder," General Brownlow said firmly, "or of beingconnected with a crime of any kind. I've known her off and onsince she was a child. Nor is there the slightest motive here.She has a life interest under her father's will that must bringher in a clear thousand a year. A thousand to Mrs. Clifford islike five thousand to most people. More than ample for her needs.You might as well suspect Sir Edward of having had a hand inJulian Clifford's horrible end."
And with that the conference broke up.
Pointer's next objective was the Hampstead branch of the St.James Bank. Before leaving Scotland Yard a few inquiries over thetelephone at all the branches near Thornbush had told him thatMr. Clifford had a town account there. And Pointer was alwaysinterested in the banking account of men who died suddenly, letalone of men who were murdered.
The reason for that cut-off head might lie quite near home.Clifford was not a racing man, or Pointer would have thought of ahorse. But was there any large cheque outstanding of his whichhis death, if known of, would have invalidated, or at least heldup?
In that case, since Julian Clifford was killed last night, anysuch cheque would have been presented to-day as soon as the banksopened. This did not oust Etcheverrey from his place in the heartof the mystery surrounding the death of the great writer, butPointer believed that mystery to be complex, not single.
Pointer had his private doubts as to whether it was quite fairto the bank manager to let him cash a dead man's cheques, forothers might be presented, innocently or not. But the ChiefCommissioner had decided that nothing should be done for thepresent which would let the world at large know that England'sforemost author was dead. Pointer rather deprecated thatdecision, but it had been made. Though by now it was past bankinghours, a telephone message to the manager had found him still onthe premises, and Pointer was shown in at once on his arrival.Detective Inspectors do not ask for appointments every day.
"Do you mind if my chauffeur waits outside in the passage?"Pointer asked, as he shook hands. There was only the onedoor.
The manager was too full of anxiety to have any room forobjections.
"A man's body has just been discovered," Pointer began, "incircumstances that suggest foul play. He was an acquaintance ofMr. Julian Clifford's. We have discovered some notes among hispapers which make us think that he had in his possession a largesum of money of Mr. Clifford's. That he was only just inpossession of it. A business venture pure and simple, but on alarge scale. Mr. Julian Clifford is out at his home. Now this isthe point. Was any large sum paid out very recently by Mr.Clifford? We think the payment of which we're speaking wasoriginally by cheque, and probably was presented to you earlythis morning as soon as the bank opened."
The manager reflected a moment. He had started at the lastwords.
"It's in strictest confidence, of course?" he asked.
Pointer had to tell him that as the sum might possibly be themotive for an attempt at murder, it was not possible for him topromise secrecy.
The manager reflected a little longer.
"You say Mr. Clifford's away from home?"
"His family tell me he's off on one of those expeditions ofhis when he leaves no address. Getting up facts for his nextbook," Pointer said promptly.
More meditation on the part of the manager.
"Well, I'm in rather a difficult position," he murmured. "Whydon't you get into touch with Sir Edward Clifford?"
"He's out of town. Also un-get-at-able."
"A depositor—and such a large depositor as Mr. JulianClifford," murmured the manager uncertainly.
"Still—murder, you know!" Pointer threw in. And themanager made up his mind.
"Well, a very large cheque of Mr. Clifford's was presentedearly this morning," he said slowly.
Pointer nodded. "For how much?"
"Seventy thousand pounds."
Having said that much, the manager made up his mind to bequite frank.
"Mr. Clifford had spoken to us of that cheque. About a monthago he had us make the necessary arrangements to pay a hundredthousand into his current account. He told me that he would drawon it by a very large cheque, and that he wished the chequecashed without any further formalities or delay."
Pointer nodded.
"This morning, as soon as we opened, Mrs. Clifford presented acheque of Mr. Clifford's drawn to a Mr. Selfe for seventythousand pounds. It was duly endorsed, and of course we cashed itat once. That is the only large sum which had been paid out ofMr. Clifford's account lately."
"Mrs. Clifford. I see. Was she alone?"
"No. A lady was with her in her car. I happened to be comingin at the moment the car drew up."
"Did you recognise whoever was with her?"
"It was Mrs. Orr."
"You know her?"
The manager hesitated again. "No," he said finally, "butseeing it's you, I don't mind passing on a bit of gossip. My sonGerald is a barrister. Junior to Mr. Robinson. He tells me thatthey're briefed in a case coming on shortly. Smart societydivorce. It's to be heard as soon as the courts open. Mrs. Orr iscited in it by name. No chance of a defence. The wife intends toget her knife into her. Gerald showed me some photographs of Mrs.Orr. That's how I recognised her at once. Odd companion for Mrs.Julian Clifford."
"May I see it? A Selfe is a sort of partner of this man whowas shot."
"I see. You think—?"
"It's too early to think yet," Pointer returned, as thoughthat were with him always the last resort. "But of course I musthave a look at it. If only in the way of routine."
He was shown the cheque. It seemed in perfect order. It wasmade out to R. Selfe, Esq., and endorsed R. Selfe. The date waslast Thursday.
"I must ask you to let me have this for an hour or so."
The manager agreed, provided that it be returned next day.
"I don't want to talk over the finding of this body more thanI can help with Mrs. Clifford. It's a harrowing subject,especially if we're wrong, and this money has nothing to do withour case. How did she take the money?"
"In notes of a hundred pounds. Here is the list of thenumbers. Mr. Clifford had requested that the money should be heldready for him in just that way. They were handed to Mrs. Cliffordin seven packages of a hundred notes. The cashier asked, ofcourse, if she shouldn't send it out to her car by ourcommissionaire, or lend her the man's services, but she declinedboth suggestions."
Pointer thanked him and left. He had much to think over. Acheque for a fortune...an uncrossed cheque...a cheque to R.Selfe...and cashed by Mrs. Clifford as soon after her husband'sdeath as it could be presented...with Mrs. Orr waiting in the caroutside...a cheque which Julian Clifford had expected to bepresented, and which he wished paid without any trouble beingmade to the person who should present it.
Not a simple case this...complex...very.
Pointer had the cheque photographed, and the photographenlarged. Then he saw what he expected to see. The finalewas not continuous with thef ofSelf, but had beencarefully added. So carefully, so exactly, that only the enlargedphotograph showed the break and slight overlapping of thestrokes. The endorsement on the back presented no breaks. ThereSelfe was one word, written swiftly and with a dash. Underthe camera too the initialR on the face of the chequeshowed a certain waviness of line due to slow and carefulwriting...so did theEsq. On the back the initial wasswiftly penned. In other words, the camera showed that, asPointer had suspected, the cheque, originally made out by JulianClifford—for the signature was his without a doubt, hastilyand carelessly written—had been toSelf...to JulianClifford. Some one into whose hands it had fallen, hadingeniously altered it to a not uncommon family name. And thealterations had apparently been made with Julian Clifford's ownpen and ink. There was a little peculiarity about the nib usedwhich showed throughout.
Pointer docketed these new and most important facts, then hereached for the telephone. He mentioned to Sir Edward's valetthat it was "Mr. Marbury of the Home Office" who wasspeaking.
"I understood that Sir Edward left yesterday evening to join acommission at Chequers on the Sudan Cotton Areas, but I find hehasn't been there. Do you know where I can reach him over thetelephone at once?"
"I am sorry to say, sir, that there is no telephone at SirEdward's cottage at Weybridge, where he is spending the day."
"His cottage"—Marbury seemed perplexed—"are yousure? When did he leave town?"
"Sir Edward left about nine yesterday evening, sir. He changedinto tweeds, and took nothing down with him but a gun andcartridges. That always means the cottage, sir."
"Do you know which gun, and what number cartridges?" Pointerasked in the sudden tone of a man who has a clue.
"He took his old 12-bore gun, sir, and a bag of Numbers 4 and6 cartridges."
"Did he drive down himself?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, that certainly seems to settle it," murmured Marbury."When do you expect him back?"
"In time for dinner, sir. Eight o'clock."
Marbury rang off, after thanking the man. It was now justafter five. A wire would be useless. Sir Edward Clifford,Julian's only brother, had taken a gun and a bag of cartridgesaway with him yesterday about nine o'clock...easily identifiableshots in some circumstances...under a loose ulster a gun could bestrapped to the body with comparative ease, if a man drove hisown car...
Pointer hastily got into his gas-man make-up again, lookedaround for his tool bag that contained other things beside tools,pushed his cap a little farther on one side, touched it to asergeant coming in at the main entrance, and swung himself onboard a Hampstead bus.
The Haslar's house was a bare five minutes' drive from that ofJulian Clifford. When the latter had married Catherine Haslar,Sir William Haslar had built the two houses, and given the largeras a present to his new son-in-law.
An inquiry of the gas company had told Pointer that on theprinciple of the shoemaker's barefoot children, the Haslars hadgas fires in all their rooms.
Bag on shoulder he lounged up to the basement door.
The butler was appealed to. "Certainly not!" he announced."You can't go making a noise just now. There's illness in thehouse."
"Well, of course, sir, if you want to be all blown up by ablocked pipe, carry on!" The man spoke nonchalantly.
"You won't make any noise?" The butler was no keener onexplosions than are most people.
"Not so much as a mouse nibbling cheese." Pointer came in andlooked about him. He chatted as he sorted out his pliers. Chattedof a gas explosion farther down early this morning which he wassurprised to learn had not brought in any complaints from Mr.Haslar.
"Ah, well, of course if he came in abaht four in the morning,he couldn't have heard it. It was at three." Then he went on totell of Mr. Clifford's house, where he had just been. Mr.Clifford had lost his umbrella. One of the servants at Thornbushhad said in Pointer's hearing that he must have left it at Mr.Haslar's house last evening...an insinuation which was loftilyrepudiated by Wilkins. Mr. Clifford had not been to the house fora month past.
Pointer, who wore the full uniform of the gas company, wasallowed to roam the house by himself. He went first of all toArnold Haslar's bedroom. There he knelt for the briefest ofseconds by the hearth, staring at the bed where lay a young manwith his eyes closed. Haslar looked very white. But was he reallyill or only keeping out of the way? On the mantelpiece was amuch-used New Comfort pipe. In a rubber-lined pocket of awaistcoat hanging in the dressing-room was some tobacco of thekind which the head porter at Heath Mansions had noticed wassmoked by Mr. Tourcoin last Friday evening.
Pointer tiptoed to the wardrobe and opened it noiselessly. Theman on the bed had not seemed to pay the slightest attention. Buthe suddenly turned over and barked:—
"What the devil are you doing with my clothes?"
"Gas smell, sir," Pointer said, immediately coming up to thebed and taking a good look at the man in it. "There's a gas leaksomewhere. We can't locate it. But if it leaked last night say,and the wardrobe was open, you'd smell it when it was suddenlyopened, and think something was wrong again. It smells prettystrong."
He put his head into the wardrobe and sniffed several times.There was an ulster, or some coat of similar texture, hanging onthe last hanger. Pointer put out his hand as though to steadyhimself, and sniffed again. The last coat was an orange and browncheck tweed. Without an apparent glance at it, he shut the doorand sniffed in a farther corner of the room, working down to thefloor in a most convincing way.
Haslar seemed to fall into a heavy slumber. Pointer stood amoment photographing the face on his mind. He noted the bigframe, the masterful, rather overbearing jaw, the eyebrowsmeeting over the bold nose—secretive eyebrowsthese—and the mouth firm yet passionate. Then he meltedfrom the room and slipped downstairs to the ground floor. Here hefound a telephone in what was evidently Haslar's own particularroom. One end of the large library shut off by folding doors fromthe book part proper.
Pointer asked for a number that would have meant nothing to alistener. But it was the secret number used by the officers ofNew Scotland Yard, and insured instant connection andprecedence.
The Chief Inspector murmured a few short sentences. Decodedthey meant that one of his men, got up as directed, was to askthe "watcher" outside Haslar's house for a card. It would be oneof Arnold Haslar's own cards, that Pointer had just taken from adrawer in the writing table. It was to be used according toinstructions.
Pointer wanted that brown and orange ulster at once. If Haslarcontinued to sleep well, it might be at the Yard by sixo'clock.
Then he took up his own work of going swiftly but carefullyover the house.
WHILE the Chief Inspector was roaming ArnoldHaslar's house, Julian Clifford's new librarian and Diana hadbeen looking at some rare books at Sotheby's. Straight wasexpressing his disappointment at Julian Clifford's absence.
"He has left me neither instructions nor a free hand. Hobbs istoo busy to question Mr. Clifford's preferences. He certainly isa worker! And Newman, apart from your warnings, dislikes me.Jealousy, I suppose. No man likes to be supplanted."
"Supplanted? Newman?" There was joy in Diana's tone. She hadbeen looking rather bored by Straight's little outburst.
"So Mr. Clifford hinted in our after-dinner talk last night.He's thinking of letting Newman go. But that's in strictestconfidence. What concerns me at the moment far more is when he iscoming back. I—"
A passing newsboy waved his papers at them.
"French anarchist killed in Hampstead flat! Headless man inHampstead!" he shouted.
"Hampstead?" Straight bought two papers.
"Why it's Heath Mansions! The building near us!" Diana said,aghast as she caught sight of a photograph on the front page.Straight said nothing. He was reading. Suddenly Diana gave a lowcry. She went livid.
"Here! you're ill!" Dick said solicitously.
"A taxi," she murmured. "I'm all right. Don't come withme."
"Certainly I'm coming with you." He signalled to a taxi, gavethe man her home address, and jumped in beside her. But Dianasprang to her feet.
"No! I want to be alone. I must be alone." She spoke in astrange, wild voice. She looked around for another taxi. Therewas none.
"Dick, I want to be alone. You can't come with me." She seemedunable to find other words.
"Sorry to force my society on you," he said quietly, "but I'mcoming. You've had a shock."
Diana looked at him with dilated pupils. Her eyes suddenlylooked enormous in her pale face.
"You must keep out of this, Dick," she said again in the samefirm tone. "You of all men. I know how you would hate to be mixedup in anything disagreeable."
"No more than the next fellow," he assured her. "And whenyou're in trouble, you don't suppose blows would drive me fromyou, do you? What frightened you in that paper?"
"You're quick," she said in a low tone; "I'm glad no one elsewas with me. Dick, something awful has happened. I knew evil wasbound to come of—I must go home at once. I mug seeArnold—" She pulled herself up.
"Exactly!" Dick reminded her. "What was it the doctor said? Hemust have no shocks. So Arnold being out of court, suppose youface the fact that you're driven to turn to me?"
Diana passed a hand across her eyes. She shivered.
"Murdered like that! Decoyed, and then butchered!" she saidunder her breath. "Give me the paper again!" She took it from himhurriedly, and read as though every unnoticed punctuation markmight make a difference.
Straight, too, dipped into his sheet. There was enough and tospare to hold his attention in the columns. When he came to thedescription of the man who had taken the flat, he gave a start.The house agent had remembered something more than he had toldthe police. He had now remembered and described to a reporter anunusual ring which the man had been wearing on the little fingerof his right hand—a black opal very highly rounded. Twogold snakes were coiled about it, their coils making the ring,their heads apparently holding the stone in place between them asthey nearly met across it. The serpents were carved in greatdetail and in the round.
At first the house agent, though he had remembered the ring,had not placed the man who had worn it. He was now sure that ithad been on the hand of the mysterious Tourcoin. His clerk, too,remembered it, as well as the check ulster which the man hadworn.
Straight felt Diana sag in the corner beside him as she cameto the description of the ring and the overcoat.
"We both know a ring like that, but has Arnold such an ulsterby any chance?"
"A ring like that...Such an ulster...!" she repeated under herbreath. "It is Arnold's ring and ulster that are described here.As to the ulster—." She drew in her breath sharply, with ashudder.
"It's a damnable business," Straight said, after a moment'sdeep thought. "All we can do is to keep our own counsel—aslong as we can," he added grimly. "What about the name? The nameof Tourcoin?"
"Some one in a French town of that name, or Belgian, I don'tknow which, asked him to advise them about some new electricalplant not long ago. The name would still be fresh in hismind."
"But why in the world should Arnold have given a false namewhen looking over the flat? What possible connection is therebetween him and a Basque communist?" he asked, lookingbewildered.
Diana sprang to her feet, rocking with the speed of thetaxi.
"I can't stand it! I can't stand it!" She turned a distortedface on Dick. "There's another taxi!" She waved to it. "I can'tendure to hear it talked about. To speak of it!" She motionedagain. But the cab had it's flag up and passed on. Diana sankback into her seat as though her legs gave under her. Straightbit his lip. The incident showed him how little he counted withher in Diana's inner life. "You saw him yourself this morningcoming out of the place—Heath Mansions," woman-like Dianacould talk of nothing else. "Others may have seen him too!"
Straight looked at her warningly. "Forget that, Diana! I have—completely!" A newspaper boy with a later edition than the one which they had seen ran past. Straight got a copy.
"WHO WAS THE MAN WHO TOOK THEFLAT?" was now the heading. Diana and Straight, headstogether, scanned it. The description, pieced together by an ablereporter, fitted Arnold Haslar with appalling closeness.
Neither spoke until they turned into Arnold's garden. Newman,Clifford's secretary, was just being admitted. Diana gave asudden cry, a cry of sheerest terror, and clutched Dick's armwith fingers that hurt. Her hands were colder than he hadimagined living hands could be. He thought that she had fainted.Her face with its eyes closed looked so white. But in a secondthe lids lifted. She squared her shoulders as the cab stopped.She seemed to pull herself together with a great effort. Shelooked more like sinking to the ground where she stood thanwalking up the steps, but she went forward very steadily,refusing help. Wilkins came out hurriedly. "Are you ill, MissDiana? Let me call Alice. Let me assist you—"
She paid no attention to him. Newman had gone on into thehall.
"Mr. Newman?" she asked quickly, imperiously.
"Mr. Newman is here, Miss Diana. He insists on being allowedup to see Mr. Haslar for a moment. I told him that the doctor'sorders were to the contrary." Wilkins had obviously not yet heardof the murder, nor of the man with the black opal ring and thecheck ulster.
Diana stepped in swiftly, and laid a hand on the newel post.She still looked as though she needed its support.
Newman turned at her entrance; he was just mounting thestairs. He, too, was very pale. The eyes were far back in theirsockets, but they were still as unreadable as ever. He and Dianafaced each other in absolute silence for a long minute.
"I didn't expect to see you," she said in an oddly shakenvoice.
"I'd like to go up and speak to Arnold for a moment," was hisonly reply.
"No one can see him," Diana said in a firmer voice. Newmanseemed to hesitate.
"He's feverish, I understand. Is he light-headed?" he asked ina lower tone, though Wilkins had already gone on down thehall.
Diana did not reply at once. Then she asked—
"Why should he be? You've seen the evening papers?"
Newman nodded.
"Hadn't we better talk in here?" He glanced towards aroom.
Diana' did not seem to hear him. She was speaking in a verylow, very stony voice.
"You saw about the murder in Heath Mansions?" she askedagain.
Once more he nodded.
"Did you read the description of the ulster the man waswearing? Of the ring?"
"I read them. Yes." Newman was standing with his head bent.His eyes only were raised and were fastened on Diana. As before,Straight could make nothing of their expression. Was it inimicalor merely intentionally blank? Then Straight looked at Diana.Never would he have believed her face capable of showing suchpassion. The girl seemed to be swept by a fury—a fury thatwas shaking her where she stood—a fury which was in spatebut which she was damming back.
"Why?" Newman asked gravely.
"Because Arnold has a coat and ring exactly like them."Straight frowned. Women were the most imprudent of beings.
"Because coats and rings can be borrowed, Mr. Newman."
"You mean—?" Newman still spoke very quietly, ratherthoughtfully.
"That my brother had no interest in murdering anybody. Butthat might not be true of—Sanz Etcheverrey." She spoke thewords in a low, tense whisper.
"The man who was killed?"
"No.Not the man who was killed."
Straight looked quickly from Diana to Newman, and back toDiana. What did this scene mean? Newman did not glance at hernow. He was looking meditatively at the black and white marblesquares of the hall.
Diana swept past him. Her brother's valet came down thestairs.
"Mr. Haslar's asleep, miss. He's been asleep nearly allafternoon."
"Good." Diana hesitated. Straight took a step forward. Couldhe slip up and get that ulster? He had looked in the cloakroomjust now, and it was not there.
"The tailor sent a man for an overcoat of Mr. Haslar's alittle while ago, miss. I got it out without waking him," the mancontinued. "He had a card of Mr. Haslar's, saying that his newcheck motor coat was to be handed to the bearer, miss. I didquite right, I hope? I didn't wake Mr. Haslar," he repeated.
"Quite right, Smith," Diana said rather faintly. She turnedsuddenly and came up to Newman, who was moving towards thedoor.
"A moment! I want to speak to you outside."
When they were clear of the steps she said in a low, bittervoice, "I think it only fair to warn you that I may have to tellall I know to the police."
"Warn me?" Newman asked, as though not understanding her.
"Arnold may have gone to that flat or you may have gone in histhings," she went on, "but I am convinced that in some way youare mixed up in the affair. I heard you tell Arnold only lastweek that that flat was to let. If Arnold gets drawn into thecrime I shall speak out. Please don't go on with the farce ofhaving lost your memory." She looked at him with eyes that seemedto scorch what they looked at.
He looked bewildered. "Farce? I only wish it were," he saidheavily.
"You have not lost it," she repeated firmly "I've known it allalong."
Now he gave her a measuring look. The look that a fencer givesanother when he steps forward, foil in hand.
"Have you told Mr. Straight as much? Not yet? I see. Notyet."
He nodded thoughtfully; almost, Diana felt, as though she, andwhat she was saying, had retreated into the background of histhought. Almost she could imagine that he was hearing some othervoice speak, and was listening to it rather than to her. Thefeeling chilled her.
Turning towards her, he made a gesture almost ofdismissal.
"Do what you feel you must do," he said coldly, and raisinghis hat, walked on past her.
For a second she stood with clenched hands, then she turnedback to the house. She went into the room where Straight stoodwaiting for her. It occurred to Diana for the first time, thatpossibly she had not appreciated Dick at his proper value. Therewas a certain measured, and measuring quality about the young manwhich had a little amused her, and a little chilled her, out inAustralia. Yet she felt suddenly very glad that he was inEngland, and at Thornbush just now. Dick was never spectacular,but she felt, a little self-reproachfully, that his was the kindof character to which one turns in moments of trouble. If only hewere not at other times something so perilously approaching aprig!
He closed the door behind her.
"What in the world?" he began. She raised her hand.
"That ulster has gone—taken—fetched! But by whom?"There was terror in her face now.
"We'll test it. Who's your brother's tailor? Rivers of SavilleRow?"
He rang up, and after a moment dropped the receiver back.
"No one was sent from there. But, of course, the fact thatyour brother gave a card looks as though it might have been somelocal presser...some regular man he employs."
"Dick, do you think it could have been Newman whom you mistookfor my brother this morning, coming out of Heath Mansions?"
Dick did not answer for a moment, then he said—
"Why should it be Newman, Di?"
Now it was her turn not to reply.
"Why did you connect him with this dead anarchist?" he askedagain.
She shook her head. Her eyes were closed. He had neverexpected to see Diana look so broken.
"I'm only groping," she said faintly.
"What do you know of your uncle's secretary that makes youlink him with this Etcheverrey murder?" he persisted. "You oughtto tell me, Di. If there's any chance of helping Arnold out ofthis unholy mess it will be that you and I pull together."
"I can't tell you, Dick," she said, after another long moment."I didn't mean to say as much as I did before a third person. Butit welled up. Nothing will make Mr. Newman speak out. Nothing!He's like some creature hiding in his lair. He knows that he'ssafe there, and won't come into the open."
A passion of hate sounded in Diana's voice. Straight gave hera very searching, not over-pleased look. No man cares to hear thewoman whom he hopes to marry speak like that of another. It takestoo much to explain it. Diana walked to the window and stooddrawing a deep breath.
"If things get worse, if suspicion falls on Arnold, I must goto the police and tell them—what I know. But not to you,Dick— not yet. If that's why Newman has seemed so strangelyfond of Arnold—" she stood biting her lip and quiveringafresh against the sharp light of the window.
"You won't tell me what the secret is between you and him,then?" There was an edge to his voice.
She did not reply. His face flushed.
"I had hoped that I could be of some use to you and Arnold,Di. I am sorry that I overrated your confidence in me."
"Oh, Dick"—she held out a quivering hand—"begenerous!"
He took it—a shade stiffly.
"Let me warn you for both your sakes, to think over every stepbefore you take it. In this affair, you can't accuse Newmanwithout involving Arnold. At least, I'm afraid so. The wholeaffair is really too grave." He went on in a kinder tone, "Yousee, it was Arnold whom I saw slipping out of what I now know isHeath Mansions this morning. And"—again he hesitated, butthe danger of a misunderstanding on her part was tooreal—"and the doctor thought he had just had a terribleshock, remember. What about the servants? Are they to betrusted?"
"The butler has been with us since father's days. So has thehousekeeper. I think they'd stop any of the servants chattering.But of course it's bound to leak out sooner or later. So manypeople have seen that ring."
She seemed about to leave him, but he detained her.
"Diana," Dick's eyes were very gentle, "I repeat that I thinkyou ought to tell me what you know about Newman. Evidently youknow something very important, very much to the point, in thisawful affair."
She looked irresolutely at him. Even though she felt sure thatRichard Straight was a good man to go to for advice, Diana wasterrified of a false step, for the waters were deep. Yet she knewthat the very things in his character which kept her from beingin love with him, as she thought, his caution, hisimperturbability, a certain coldness in his judgment of hisfellow men could be an advantage at times—at such a time asnow, for instance.
"I must think things over first," she said finally.
He made a gesture of "as you please."
"But be careful!" he warned.
When she left him Richard Straight paced the room. Had itmerely been Diana who had connected Arnold and that flat, allwould have been well. She might have turned to him, and Dickwould have had a magnificent chance of winning her enduring loveby standing between her brother and the result of whatever it wasthat he had done.
He had been proud to marry Diana Haslar as things were. Buthow long would it take for things to change? It seemed a far cryfrom Haslar to a Basque anarchist, but that brown and orangecheck ulster, that snake ring, might yet bring the whole policepack out in full cry after their owner. So Straight feared. Itwas an intolerable thought, that because Arnold Haslar shouldhave been such an utter fool as to wear them when taking theflat, because he had been such an utter idiot, Diana was to bemixed up in the business, if it ever came out. Why, he too,Richard Straight, might yet be dragged, through them, into theaffair.
This idea came like a blow to him. He was as good as engagedto Haslar's sister. He had arrived but a few hours before thecrime had been committed. The police said that the man in theflat had been murdered last night. He, Dick, had no alibi forlast night. He could tell people that he had been fast asleepfrom about ten till he was roused next morning, but would theybelieve it?
Dick did not share Diana's suspicion that possibly it wasNewman who had worn her brother's things and taken the flat. Yetit was maddening to think that if only Diana would tell him thewhole of what she evidently knew or suspected, about her uncle'ssecretary, it might be sufficient to free Arnold from all but theblame of a foolish fancy for taking flats under assumednames.
Diana came back into the room.
"Arnold's still asleep. I didn't wake him but I took his ringout of the drawer where he keeps it, and now I'm going toThornbush. I must speak to Newman again. What's that, Wilkins?Can a gas man come into the room for a moment? Certainly."
They passed a tall, lanky figure with a shock of dark-red hairas they went out. His bag was in their way, so that there was asecond's delay as he moved it more hastily than tidily, for halfthe tools spilled out, and in his very civility to pick them upPointer blocked the passage still more, and incidentally got twovery good photographs. Straight merely looked very worried, veryperplexed, and thoughtful, but Diana's face was a travesty of herusual one. Gone was that effect of radiant youth, gone the coolaloofness of her glance. She had recovered a measure ofcomposure, but in her eyes was something desperate, frightened,very nearly cowed. Neither Dick nor Diana spoke on the way toThornbush, where Diana learnt that Newman had not yet returned.Diana stood a moment thinking deeply, then went on to her ownroom with a heavy, dragging step. Dick decided that the bestthing for him to do would be to try and get some work done.
Outside, a couple of boys—they looked aboutfourteen—were hunting through the garden. "Sir RaymondTirrell's nephews," so they had explained to Trimble, had lost apet dormouse. The little chap, taken for an airing into thegarden, had developed an unexpected sprightliness. The tips ofhis ears had last been seen disappearing through Mr. JulianClifford's hedge. Might they search the garden? They would becareful of the beds. Sir Raymond was Mr. Clifford's nearestneighbour, so Trimble wished them good luck, and volunteered tokeep the cat shut up. The lads must have been very fond of thatdormouse. Inch by inch the garden was searched. Two spots whereflowers had recently been changed were noted, and reported lateron to the two road-menders outside. The boys went off finallywith their recaptured pet, so they told a servant.
Pointer meanwhile was looking through some locked drawers inHaslar's study. They yielded nothing of interest to him exceptsome letters of Mrs. Orr's.
Evidently there had been, if there was not now, an engagementbetween the two. She wrote as though she definitely counted onbecoming mistress of the Hampstead house, even though only tohave it sold.
Suddenly the telephone bell rang. A servant entered, makingtowards the instrument at a leisurely gait. But Pointer hadreached it at the first tinkle.
"'Alf a tic! It'll be for me. From the boss. Speaking from thehead office." He took the receiver and nodded. "It's 'im allright. Yes, sir. This is Mr. 'Aslar's."
"Who's speaking?" called a sharp voice: the voice of a veryangry, or a very excited man.
"Me, sir; Long."
"I want your master at once on the 'phone. Is he in?"
"'Alf a mo, sir." Pointer passed a hand over the 'phone. Heworked very hard at the trick. Inside the mouthpiece was nowanother one that blocked it completely so that nothing could passthrough to the ears listening at the other end. Nothing showed.The thin rubber mould fitted easily. "It's my boss all right,"Pointer turned to the manservant; "wants the foreman." A touch ofPointer's finger and the india-rubber lining to the 'phonedisappeared into his palm. "'E's not 'ere now, sir. 'E's out.What number shall I tell 'im to ring up?" was the next best moveto asking who was speaking.
"Westminster 1876? Oh, very good, sir." Pointer heard thereceiver slammed down at the other end, and continued, "You'll beat the works, I suppose, sir? And what about those three-quarterfittings? They don't seem to work quite right. Mr. 'Aslar 'ereseems to 've made no complaint, but farther down the road thesmell is somethink awful. Very good, sir. Yes, sir. At once!" andPointer turned away.
"I'll send along my mate to go on 'unting for that escape. Imust 'urry. The boss is on his 'ind legs." And Pointer made forthe nearest telephone outside the house.
Here he rang up Westminster 1876. He got the number at once.Pointer was a capital mimic, thanks to hard work and lessons fromthe best mimic on the London music halls. In a hoarse voice, aslike Haslar's as he could make it, he wheezed into the tube.
"Just got back with a damned bad cold. Who's at that end?"
"Me!" came in menacing tones.
"Who the devil's 'me'?" croaked the pseudo Haslar.
"Brown!" came in the same tone. "Now do you understand?"
Pointer coughed into the receiver by way of gaining time. Hewas doing double-quick thinking.
"I'm in a hurry," he croaked finally.
"What do you suppose I'm in? I want to see you at once.Atonce, understand!" Haslar might have been the mysterious'Brown's' slave. "Same place as before."
"I'm damned if I'll come," Pointer retorted.
"Oh, yes, you will!" There was an ugly menace in the voice."Oh, yes, you will! I know everything. Understand?"
Pointer did not reply.
"Now do you get me? Come at once. Same place as before."
"Can't. Not to the same place," Pointer saiddoggedly—and truthfully.
"Why not?"
"Dangerous."
"Where, then?" growled the voice at the other end.
"How about the grill-room of the Savoy?" Pointer asked, as afeeler in that hoarse whisper.
"How about the throne room of Buckingham Palace!" came theretort. "I don't think you quite realise what you're in for, myclever young friend. I've got you in a cleft stick. One shift ofa finger and you're crushed."
"I suppose you're aware that this is not an automaticexchange?" Haslar's voice asked roughly, thickly. "Either speaksense, or dry up!"
"I'll talk sense fast enough. Now listen. There's a Spanishfeeding place off Shaftesbury Avenue. Fuenta Castellana. I'll bethere outside the door at seven to the moment. And look here,Haslar, don't keep me waiting. If I got bored I might stroll intothat police station near by. Get me?"
"I've a mind to send Newman," Pointer hoarsely confided to thewire.
"You come yourself!" was the retort, "and don't forget yourpocket-book. You'll need it, by God! No cheques, mind."
"I shall get Straight to come too."
"What Straight? Run straight yourself!" The facetiousness didnot extend to the voice.
"Oh, all right. But I shall be in disguise. Aged man. Twocrutches. Look out for me." Pointer did not dare hang up for fearof the Brown at the other end ringing up the real Haslar. Hewaited till the other had expressed his burning opinion of suchmonkey tricks, and repeated the injunction to bring a well-fillednote-case with him. Pointer made for his own rooms at the Yard,and turned to his book of disguises.
"Old Gentleman—crutches" was Number Fifteen. In a slitof a cupboard numbered fifteen was the complete outer man of whatmight have been the Chief Inspector's great-grandfather.Pointer's difficulty was to give himself a touch of Haslar aswell. Also his disguise had to look like a disguise. The effectwas to be that of an amateur at the game. The bushy whiteeyebrows palpably put on, the Father Christmas beard obviouslyadded.
He finally took a taxi, driven by one of his own men, and gotout at the little bit of Spain indicated by the mysterious"voice."
He could almost have smelled his way thither.Gazpachoof true Iberian strength was evidently one of the dishes of theday.
Outside the door four men were waiting. One was thin. Thevoice over the telephone had not been that of a thin man. One wasyoung. Nor that of a young man. The third, though stout andgetting towards middle-age, was obviously Spanish. The manspeaking had not been a foreigner. The fourth was—goodHeavens! It was Cory! Major Cory of the Holford Will Case. A casefought out some dozen years before, where the major had beenaccused by the daughter of undue influence in causing old Mrs.Holford to leave every farthing to him and nothing to her onlychild, a middle-aged spinster. In spite of his expressed sympathywith the prosecutrix, the judge, as well as the jury, had had tolet the major bear off the spoils. Pointer had heard with greatjoy that they did the man no good. Racing and Monte Carlo hadhelped to run through the money in a couple of years.
Cory was one of those men in whom our police take an abidinginterest. For the Metropolitan Police have still a great deal tolearn when it comes to appreciating those who, like certain rareorchids, seem able to live on air.
So Cory had wanted Haslar on the telephone all morning. Corygave his name as Brown. Cory knew Newman, but did not seem toknow Straight. Humph...Pointer tottered out of the taxi andhobbled up to him.
"Here I am, Cory, where shall we go?"
Cory eyed him, as a dog eyes a man before biting.
"Think yourself clever because you're got up like an organ-grinder? Your voice gives you away, Haslar, though. I'd know youanywhere."
"Would you?" Haslar's voice asked in chagrin.
"Anywhere. But now—" The other, who seemed in a veryhigh and mighty mood, steered Pointer to a table in a corner. Heordered a bottle of 1896 port, mentioning gracefully that therewas no point in not having the best that the house kept, asHaslar would foot the bill.
"And now look here, Haslar," Cory began, as soon as they werealone. "I know all!All. Get me?" Cory bored a pair ofbold eyes into the old gentleman's. "Now, how much is it worth toyou not to have me—" Suddenly the "gallant major" stopped,shot one glance at Pointer that made the latter get his righthand ready, and slipped with extraordinary swiftness out of theplace.
Pointer looked about him. A man, a police officer by hissmart, alert bearing, had entered in company with a companion wholooked like a needy artist in search of copy. The two had taken atable not far from Pointer. The Detective Inspector wonderedwhether ever any of his criminals had more regretted meetingInspector Bradly than did he at that moment.
Pointer caught his eye and gave the signal of the C.I.D. as hethrew a match away. Rising, he handed a bank note to his waiterand said he would be back for the change in a moment. Bradlystrolled after him.
"Mr. Gaskell, I believe?" Bradly said politely, touching himon the arm, "Mr. Gaskell from Leeds?"
Pointer shook hands with the air of a countryman overjoyed tosee a familiar face in a strange town.
"You saw Cory leaving?" he asked under his breath.
Bradly nodded.
"Saw one of your men after him too, sir. Did I frighten himaway? Too bad! Mr. Tindall wanted to see if he couldn't find outsomething down here about a Spaniard who has been to the mortuaryto identify this Etcheverrey who's just been found killed. ThankHeaven, if I may say so! He said he couldn't identify him at all.Might be him, might not. But Mr. Tindall was told that he lookedat that foot as though expecting to find a scar on the sole. Mr.Tindall thought he might have come on here. So he might. But 'atall, slender, dark young man with a big drooping moustache'would fit a dozen chaps in that very room. Still, Mr. Tindallasked me to come along and point out a couple of dagoes who areready to sell any one to either side."
"You were in that Holford Case, weren't you, Inspector?"Pointer asked presently.
Bradly nodded. "Yes, sir. Before your time, wasn't it?"
"Ever heard the name of Haslar mentioned in connection withit?"
"Haslar?" Bradly thought hard. "I don't remember that namecropping up."
"Nor Clifford?"
"Oh, Clifford was one of the chief witnesses against Cory. Heall but dished him. Mr. Julian Clifford, the great author, Imean. He was a friend of old Mrs. Holford's. He maintained thatCory had stolen a later will and burnt it. Knew the very hour hestole it. But he couldn't prove anything. Though he saw to itthat every one knew what he thought, so that there should be nohanging on to clubs or society afterwards for Cory. It did megood to hear him in the witness-box."
Suddenly Bradly clicked his fingers. "Mr. Clifford's nephew!Australian boy. Yes, Haslar was his name. It was in the holidays,and he used to come into court with his uncle, Mr. Clifford, andask me no end of questions in between whiles."
"You're keeping an eye on Cory, I suppose?"
Bradly said that during the twenty-four hours about sixtypolice orbs were more or less focused on the major.
"He's evidently up to no good," the police officer went on,"he never is, of course. But I mean that he's evidently up tosomething he can get into trouble over, or he wouldn't have fadedaway like that when he saw me. I don't deny that I would give ayear's pay to jug him, and he knows it! That poor old MissHolford in an Institute sticks in my crop."
Pointer let Bradly return to Tindall, and walked off. Thattelephone message from Brown...the whole, tone of Cory'sconversation with the supposed Haslar...a previous grudge againstClifford...a boy, now a man, who knew of that grudge...
Pointer walked on deep in thought, leaving his change for someother time.
Clifford—Haslar—Cory...Linked, though but loosely,by the old crime of the stolen will. Clifford as principalwitness, Haslar as a young, eager listener, with the retentivememory of a boy for what interests him, Cory as the accused man.Were these three once more linked closely, for all time, by a newcrime, by the most terrible of all crimes?
Pointer returned at once to New Scotland Yard where he learntseveral things. No one could be found who had seen any strangerentering or leaving flat fourteen, where, according to the headporter, some silver ornaments had been stolen.
Nothing of any importance had been listened to along eitherMrs. Orr's, Clifford's or Haslar's telephones, except his ownconversation with "Brown."
The woman detective who had been sent to Mrs. Orr's housereported that that lady had an impeccable bill of health as faras last night went. This morning she had left for Paris by theeleven boat train from Victoria, and Mrs. Clifford had been amongthe little group of friends to see her off.
Inspector Watts sent in word that no packages of any kind hadbeen delivered at Wellwyn and Co.'s warehouse in Thames Streetafter closing time yesterday, until a vanload of wireless mastshad arrived this morning about ten. Detective-Inspector Watts hadbeen assured that no mistake was possible.
Finally came the account of a very pretty bit of wizardry thathad been performed in the office of the house-agent while theChief Inspector had been finishing his investigations amongHaslar's effects. Arnold Haslar's voice had been reeled off by atiny microphone phonograph which had been in the gas man's bag.The house-agent had identified the "What the devil are you doingwith my clothes?" as undoubtedly the voice of Monsieur Tourcoin,who had taken Marshall's furnished flat on Friday last. The sameperformance had obtained the same result from the head porter. SoTourcoin was now fairly well proved to be Arnold Haslar.
Was it quite true that no packages whatever had been left atthe warehouse? There could be no question of a "burglary" there.Every building in that street had its night watchman. Pointer'sruminations were interrupted by still another piece ofinformation. It was from the man who was trailing Cory. The wilymajor had taken a bus to some flats, had walked up to the thirdfloor, had shot down in a lift for one storey, and there caughtanother on its way to the roof garden, while Pointer's man wascovering the door nearest to the first shaft. After the roofgarden all trace of Cory was lost.
Pointer had given his man very strict instructions to lose himrather than let him see that he was followed. He did not want themajor to leave London. The police had half a dozen funk-holes ofhis on their list, to one of which he was sure to return once hebelieved that no one was trailing him.
IT was eight o'clock. Pointer began to thinkthat he might waste a few minutes of the case's time in eating adinner, when a message that reached him along his telephone wirewhisked that prospect away once more.
"Is that Chief Inspector Pointer? Police-Constable Caldicottspeaking. Acting in accordance with instructions received at thestation, I am reporting directly to you, sir, that Mr. Haslar hasjust been murdered."
Pointer's lips tightened. He had not expected this. Yet, atthe same time—
"I was called in by the butler at four minutes past eight,sir. Just two minutes ago"—P.-C. Caldicott was evidently anaccurate young man—"Mr. Haslar was shot in his study. Don'tknow yet how it happened, sir."
It was not many minutes later when Pointer was hurrying withthe speaker up the winding drive.
"Left a man in the house, I hope?" the Chief Inspectorasked.
"Yes, sir. P.-C. Bacon. I whistled for him at once."
Bacon stood in the hall waiting for them. The servants wereevidently battened down below hatches.
"Mr. Haslar isn't quite dead, sir, as we thought at first. Thedoctor found some signs of life. He insisted on having himcarried to his bedroom."
Pointer ran upstairs, and with one constable went thoroughly,but swiftly, over the house and through the garden. No one was inhiding. Then the Chief Inspector turned the handle of Haslar'sroom very gently.
A young man looked up as he entered without a sound.
"Medical man?"
Pointer laid his card on the table.
"You'll have to be quick, Chief Inspector," the doctorwhispered. "We've just sent for Sir Hercules Hawkins. Not that hecan do anything. Bullet went in here and is still in." He pointedto a spot just above the right ear. The injured man lay on atable pulled between the windows. Sheets had been spread on it,sheets covered him. Pointer did not waste more than one long lookat the head and face. The doctor had cleaned the wound toocarefully for him.
"Singed hair?" he asked.
"Singed hair and blackened skin," the doctor assured him."Revolver must have been fired pressed against the head."
"No hope of his speaking?" Pointer asked.
The doctor shook his head.
"I don't say that for some brief moment consciousness may notcome back. It often does just before the end. The final flicker.But that's the merest chance. Ah, here's Sir Hercules, with acouple of nurses!"
A gray-haired man entered hurriedly. Pointer slipped from theroom as silently as he had entered it.
"Who's he?" the surgeon muttered; "splendid-looking chap!Knows how to put his feet down. Boxes, I'll bet."
Downstairs Pointer went into the study, the room where theinjured man had been found. He stood with his back to the doorclosely eyeing the whole before he took a step forward.
Suddenly he heard the front door open. Stepping into the hall,he saw Diana come hurrying in. Straight was with her.
Both stopped appalled as they caught sight of the constablewho rose from his seat in the hall. Diana's face, already pale,grew ghastly. Then she saw Pointer at the study door. She took astep towards him. Something in its swift motion suggested thepathetic effort of a mother-bird between her nest and a robber.She knew at once that this man with the sun-browned face and thesteady, very clear, gray eyes was in command. As she looked athim, she felt a sudden sense of his power, of his ability tosurmount difficulties that would stop a smaller man. And withthat sense came a sickening knowledge of her brother'sdanger.
"Miss Haslar? I am Chief Inspector Pointer of New ScotlandYard. Can I have a word with you in the next room? This gentlemanis—?" He eyed Straight as though he had never seen him.
"Mr. Straight. My uncle's secretary," Diana said swiftly. "Hemerely accompanied me to the house when I could not make out atelephone message just now. But please don't wait." She turned toDick very resolutely. She did not intend to involve him in herbrother's disgrace, for she feared that an arrest had beenmade.
His answer was to open a door. The three stepped in.
"What is wrong?" Diana asked in a toneless voice.
Something in the grave kindness of the face looking at herfrightened her more than any words would have done. She readPointer's look rightly as profound pity. Pity for this young lifecaught up into the swirl of dark passions, she who should havebeen a creature of sunshine and happiness. Somehow, Pointer feltthat so far the lines had not fallen unto Diana in very pleasantplaces.
"Miss Haslar," Pointer broke the painful silence, "yourbrother has met with an accident. The doctor and a surgeon arewith him upstairs. He has been shot in the head."
"Shot!" Diana wheeled. She made for the door, but Pointerstopped her.
"No one is allowed to enter his room. They are trying toextricate the bullet."
"He's not dead?"
"Not when I was there a moment before the surgeon came. He'svery badly wounded, but he was not dead."
"Who shot him?" Diana asked, putting out a hand and graspingthe back of a chair. Whom did she suspect? The dread in her eyestold the keen eyes that barely seemed to glance at her that shesuspected some one.
"I know nothing about the case yet," Pointer said quietly."You probably can tell me who was Mr. Haslar's enemy?"
"He has no enemy. No open enemy," Diana said slowly.
"A so-called friend, then," Pointer said swiftly. He hoped toget some name out of her in her agitation. But she only turnedaway with a weary, yet resolute, gesture.
"He has a host of friends whom I don't know."
Pointer glanced inquiringly at Straight, who promptly passedthe look on to Diana. But she met his eyes stonily.
"Who sent for you?" Pointer asked, after a pause.
"I don't know. A telephone message just reached me at myuncle's, Mr. Julian Clifford's house, saying that something hadhappened to Mr. Haslar. I couldn't make out what."
She had not tried to. She had guessed an arrest, not a freshcrime. Whose crime?
"If you and Mr. Straight could wait for me in the drawing-room, I should like to come on up in a few minutes, and ask somequestions," Pointer went on.
She looked at him like a creature caught in a snare. Then shenodded, and followed by Dick mounted the stairs as Tindallarrived hot-foot. The Chief Inspector had telephoned him the newsbefore starting out.
Tindall, like Pointer, looked keenly about him. There was nosign of a struggle except that one chair had been pushedviolently back against the table behind it—a chair on thefarther side of the big writing table which only a couple ofhours ago had been the object of Pointer's own interest.
The Chief Inspector opened the door and said a word to theconstable. A moment later and Wilkins came in. He looked what hewas, a dependable, honest man. He was pale now and trembling.
"Who telephoned to Miss Haslar?"
"I did, sir. Just before you arrived. Or rather I got theconstable to telephone her something guarded."
"Where did you find your master's body? I see. You heard noshot?"
Wilkins' face twitched. His eyes filled.
"No, sir. But of course with the noise that cars makenowadays, one bang more or less—" Wilkins waggled a shakinghand helplessly. "I've been in service here since Mr. Arnold wasa boy at school, and to think that I sat reading the paper! Tothink that not one of us downstairs raised a hand to help him!Just up from a sick-bed too!" Wilkins quite broke down for aminute or two.
"And Mr. Haslar—was he tidy? careful about cigaretteends, matches, and so on?" Pointer asked to steady him."Remarkably so, as a rule, sir."
"Who are Mr. Haslar's enemies?" Tindall asked suddenly.
"Why, he hasn't any, sir." Wilkins spoke with dignity. "Whyshould he have? At least, he's none in England. I can't, ofcourse, speak for Australia."
That was all that was wanted of Wilkins for the moment. Assoon as the door closed behind him, Tindall wheeled.
"So Haslar was remarkably neat and tidy, eh? Just so. And Ithought you hadn't yet seen that burnt paper under the desk,while—Hallo!"
Pointer had lifted the flounce of a chair cover and both mennow saw a revolver lying under the seat near an open window.Holding it in place with one gloved finger, the Chief Inspectorran a chalk outline around it. Then he lifted it with thegreatest care. It was a .25 automatic. From some faint marks inthe barrel, Tindall thought that a very light silencer might havebeen used. They found no finger-prints on the metal. Two shotshad been fired.
"Two shots!" Both men looked carefully around the room again.They found no bullet or blood spatters.
"Went wide, probably out through that window, or the other manhas the bullet. Carried it away in his body, though that'sunlikely, as there's no blood trail. Look here"—Tindall wasdown on his knees—"that revolver was flung. Flung so as tolook as though the murderer had got out into the garden." Hepointed to a long streak on the polish of the parquet floor whichhad stopped at the little snub-nosed thing Pointer was nowwrapping in tinfoil.
"It wouldn't have been flung here, from where Haslar was foundlying. That disposes of any idea of suicide. Besides, two shotswere fired from it. No. Haslar must have fired the first at hisopponent, and then had the revolver wrenched from his hand andgot the second in his own head, practically killing him. Thatdone, the murderer stepped away from the falling body, and flungthe revolver towards the window from about here." Tindall stood'here.' "And then left, either by the front door or by the otherwindow. I believe there's a connection between this murder andJulian Clifford's. Uncle and nephew. What do you say, ChiefInspector?"
"A connection? Oh, yes; I, too, think there may be one.Probably a close one."
Tindall joined Pointer, who, after strolling around the roomagain, touching this, feeling that, even testing the earth arounda palm, and lifting the pot up and down in its brass jardinière,was now bending over a small heap of charred remains of paperwhich lay under the desk, a match among them. Both stood up aftera long scrutiny. Not even the magic of modern science couldreconstruct that black dust.
"Some one ground it into the carpet after burning it," Tindallmurmured.
"Haslar. His right heel shows it. I looked at his shoesupstairs," Pointer replied. He was down on his knees minutelyexamining the carpet in front of the pushed-back chair, running atiny but very powerful vacuum cleaner over it. The gadget wasbarely the size of his hand, but it did its work well.
Tindall watched him with secret impatience.
"The eyes of the mind, Chief Inspector, are the ones that seefarthest. As soon as you've done sweeping, I'd like to questionthe servants again."
"By all means." Pointer put the little patent back in hiscase. They called the butler in again and then the valet. Therest, of the servants knew nothing.
At half-past six this afternoon Arnold Haslar had rung: saidhe was fed up with bed, and intended to get up. He was in a verygrim mood; but he had been tending that way, for a fortnightpast, both men agreed.
The butler thought it was due to the coming attack of the'flu, but the butler, under Tindall's careful pressure, wasinclined to connect it with the arrival of a couple of letters bythis morning's post. Wilkins had a nephew who collected stamps,and he therefore kept an eye on envelopes from abroad. One of theletters, in a very odd, bold writing, had come from Spain. He hadnot noticed the other.
"Spain!" Tindall cocked an eye at Pointer. "What place inSpain?"
But Wilkins could not say. The butler connected that Spanishletter with Mr. Haslar's illness because, after breakfast, he hadfound a letter scattered over the table and floor, torn into tinyshreds, and his master sitting as though stunned beside thetable. He had had to be helped into bed, and the doctor summoned.No. The butler had not spoken of this to any one, not even toMiss Diana. He had "thought it better not." The later letterswhich had come from Mr. Haslar today had been sent down to theoffice.
The valet had more to tell. About seven, after saying that hewould dine out, Mr. Haslar had gone downstairs. About half-past,or perhaps a quarter to eight, he could not be more exact, Smithhad heard his master's voice in the north library, which was hisown study, raised as though in anger. The words, "You've got todo it, and do it at once!" reached Smith, but he was too far upthe stairs to catch anything but that one passionate roar. Onthat had come what he, as well as Wilkins below, had believed tobe a motor-cycle starting up its engine outside with a set ofterrific bangs. A few minutes later, Wilkins, coming into thelibrary to see if all was well with his young master, found himslipped to the floor by his writing-table chair apparently dead,a little red wound still trickling blood above his ear. No onehad seen or heard any one enter or leave the house. But Haslar'sfriends generally let themselves in and out with careless ease.The latch of the front door was caught back by day. Questioned asto strangers who had been to the house lately, Major Cory'sphotograph, among six others, was picked out unhesitatingly byWilkins as that of a man who, giving no name, had first come tosee Arnold Haslar last Thursday evening. He had come on Friday,and also last night, and had then for the first time given thename of Captain Brown. Wilkins' eyes met those of the ChiefInspector and the man from the Foreign Office with a certaindignity.
"I'm telling you the exact truth, sir. Things can't be worse"—which incidentally spoke volumes for Wilkins' idea of the police.
The man had arrived each time at about the same hour onThursday and Friday and yesterday. Somewhere around nine.Questioned closely, Wilkins said that there had been no signs ofany trouble between his master and the man whose photograph hehad identified, but he had noticed that on no occasion had Mr.Haslar offered to shake hands with his visitor, who had stayedover an hour on the first two occasions, though but a bare half-hour last night. On the first occasion, at any rate, theconversation must have been of a very private character, becausehe, Wilkins, had had some business that took him to the libraryat the same time, and had only caught a low murmur.
"A very unusual thing with Mr. Arnold Haslar talking in hisstudy, sir. As a rule, you have to hear every word, whether youwant to or not. It and the library are really only one room,partitioned off."
Pointer referred to some coolness between Mr. Haslar and hisuncle, Mr. Julian Clifford. But obviously the butler knew nothingof any such feeling.
Both he and Smith unhesitatingly identified the automaticfound by the window as Mr. Haslar's. More important still, thevalet swore that it had been in its usual place when his masterwas having his bath. He had opened the drawer to drop a penknifeinto it. Smith had an idea that he had heard Mr. Haslar come upand go into his bedroom while he, the valet, was tidying up inthe dressing-room. He must have taken the weapon then. As far asSmith knew, Mr. Haslar had never taken the automatic downstairsbefore.
"So Mr. Haslar expected trouble," Tindall mused. "Knew when itwas coming, and got ready f or it. Was he a good shot?"
"He was apt to get over-eager, and spoil his aim." And justout of bed, he, Smith, wouldn't be surprised if his master hadmissed the man entirely, worse luck. Smith knew nothing about anycaller last night, but he did know that about ten Mr. Haslar haddriven off in a great hurry, telling Wilkins not to let any onesit up, as he would not be back till very late. Smith had anidea, only an idea, that Mr. Haslar had rushed off in answer to atelephone message that had seemed to vex him very much.
"Any one in the house who knows more than you and Wilkins do?"Tindall asked, pulling on a glove.
"No. None of us knows anything really. It's tough!...notknowing...not being able to do something." And Smith leftthem.
"Strange case!" Tindall mused; "strange and deep. Etcheverreylike a spider in the middle of the web. I wonder what Sir EdwardClifford will say. He must be back by now. It's close on nine.There's the devil of a lot to do. To bridge the gap betweenClifford and Haslar, and link both with Etcheverrey!"
Caldicott, the constable, came in.
"Gentleman of the name of Dance to see you, sir. Mr. Haslar'smanager. Said you just telephoned him."
Pointer had.
Dance was a stout, frank-faced man with a strong Australianaccent. He was considerably older than Haslar. Just now he lookedconsternation personified. He was of no help, except that hescoffed at the idea of a business enemy of Arnold Haslar's.
"This has nothing to do with business," he maintained. "Searchfor the dame! Fortunately at the office Haslar's supposed to bestill ill with 'flu. He'll stay ill with it too. We're a goodfirm. A darned good firm. But shootings—whew!"
"There's a strong-room built into one end of this study,"Pointer said finally, "would you open it for us? I want to seeinside it." He did—very much indeed.
Dance hesitated.
"You know the code word?"
"Oh, yes, I know it. But—"
"The butler told me Mr. Haslar keeps no valuables on theplace."
"That's right. Still, you see, after all, a codeword—"
Pointer and Tindall stood with their backs to Mr. Dance who,even so, held his hat over what he was doing. Finally he calledto them.
"Door's open."
The opening showed a fairly large strong-room, large as a bigcupboard. Dance glanced at the shelves, on which dusty deed boxeswere stacked.
"Nothing's gone. Haslar keeps six-year-back accounts, andpapers, and so on, here. Like his grand-dad. The boxes areunlocked. There's nothing else in them."
Pointer found that there was nothing else in them. He lookedvery, very carefully. So did Tindall, catching his idea.
"And about a package," Pointer went on, after the door hadbeen locked with the same coyness on Mr. Dance's part, "a packagethat Mr. Haslar, or a friend of his, sent, or brought down, tothe warehouse late last night"—Pointer ran over thepossible times and sizes—"will you inquire for it and sendit along to me?" He gave his name and home address, for Pointerbelieved that Watts might have been deceived. "We think it willhelp us, give us a line about this affair. I should expect theparcel to be marked 'to be kept in a cold place.' You haven't afurnace, have you?"
To his relief he learnt that the warehouse was only a between-station for electrical parts and material on its way to or fromAustralia. There was no furnace.
Mr. Dance would obviously have liked a fuller explanation ofmany puzzling points, but this was a very busy evening with him,and as all Pointer's hours came under that heading, the meetingquickly broke up. Tindall too shook hands and hurried off.
Pointer looked at his boot-tips for a long second. Then he hadSmith in again, and offered him a cigar and a chair.
"There's a confidential question I want to put to you," hesaid slowly. He waited.
"Confidential it is," the ex-Anzac said cheerfully.
"What was the quarrel about between your master and Mr.Clifford?"
"Mr. Clifford?" For a second Smith stared as a man does who issuddenly, unexpectedly, wrenched around to face another way. Thenhe looked a little dubious.
"Though you may not see the connection, that quarrel may giveus a line on who it was who shot Mr. Haslar," Pointer said veryquietly.
Smith eyed him with respect.
"That so?" He straddled his chair and clasped the carved backin a medititive embrace. "That so," he repeated thoughtfully."Well, I don't know what it was about, but it was a pretty hotaffair. You're referring to last Wednesday evening, ofcourse?"
Pointer nodded.
"You didn't hear anything?"
"Nope. I never was much of a listener-in," Smith saidcarelessly, and Pointer regretfully believed him. He did not lookit.
"Only as Mr. Haslar flung the door open he nearly caught mytoe, and I had to step back to let Mr. Clifford pass out. Mr.Clifford looked very calm, I must say. Quite unruffled. But Mr.Haslar called after him, 'If youdo do it, look out foryourself!' That's all. Not much of a clue there, is there? Butit's funny"—Smith sat up straighter—"it's funny thatthen he threatened 'If youdo do it,' and to-day he wasshouting that 'You've got to do it!'" He looked keenly atPointer, who shook his head.
"No, Smith. It wasn't to Mr. Julian Clifford that he spoke to-day. I wish it had been," he added cryptically.
Smith got up rather sheepishly. "Of course, sleuthing can't beas easy as that, I suppose. And, of course, Mr. Julian Cliffordhad nothing to do with any shooting."
He went away to make other and more startling combinationsyet, of the two sentences, while Pointer went up to the drawing-room where Diana and Straight sat waiting for him.
Straight looked as though he very much wished himself well outof it all. Murders, or shootings, were not at all what he hadexpected when he had landed in Portsmouth only yesterday asJulian Clifford's librarian. Straight felt that he had agrievance against fate. Here he was, a plain, common-sense sortof young man, only desirous of doing well in the world, ofgetting on, being drawn into a very black, deep, and dangerousaffair. What was the reason for that bullet which had all butkilled Arnold Haslar?
"You have no idea who fired that shot at Haslar?" he had justasked Diana.
She only stirred as though in pain.
What did Arnold know? Had he learnt something? Did he guesssomething? Was it because of some incautiously shown curiositythat—these were the knives at which she was staring,wondering which of them was about to be plunged in her heart.
The door opened and Pointer came in.
"Did you ever hear your brother speak of a man of the name ofCory?"
She shook her head. Straight, too, shook his when Pointerturned to him.
"And you, Mr. Straight, have you by any chance ever heard Mr.Haslar speak as though there were any especial person with whomhe is on bad terms?" Straight never had.
Pointer next ostensibly asked each about the other persons atThornbush this afternoon. In reality he was obtaining from Dianaand Straight a time-table of their own actions.
They were simple. When Wilkins had telephoned to Diana theyhad ostensibly been having tea together. In reality Dick had hadthe tea, and tried in vain to coax Diana to have some.
After another careful glance in every room, Pointer drove awayfrom the house to stop and question his watcher at thecorner—a taxi-driver with a cab that would not go, tinkerthough he might.
The man had seen no one enter, or leave, Arnold Haslar'shouse, but he was not a picked man. The coming royal visitor keptevery good man busy combing through the aliens' quarters ofLondon. Also, nothing is harder than to watch a place for hourson end. Especially if, like this man, he had to pretend to attendto other interests as well. Doubtless he had done his best, yetPointer knew that at least one person—a manprobably—had come, and therefore gone, from Arnold Haslar'shouse. This person had left a plentiful sprinkling of yellow sandon the carpet in front of that dashed-back chair.
Now the paths in Haslar's garden were gravelled with redgravel. The roads and pavements around showed only the usual towndust. At Thornbush, however, the paths were all of yellow sand,rolled for the most part into compact ribbons. But one littlewalk, cutting off a corner of the drive—a corner thatshortened the distance to Haslar's house too, was freshly sanded,and soft as a country lane. It looked, therefore, as though aperson from Thornbush had been the man—or woman—whohad pushed back that chair.
Diana and Straight had been in each other's company. They wereout of the question. Mrs. Clifford was at a Spiritualist meeting.Hobbs was located in the Ritz dining with some South Americanfilm magnate. There remained Newman...Newman...Pointer had atheory of what had happened in that study. But his theories werealways subject to modification, should facts not fit them withouthaving to be twisted. Had Major Cory, after he had given histrailer the slip, made his way to Haslar's house? Pointer thoughtthat he had.
He himself drove to Thornbush and stopped in the garden. Inhis hand was what appeared to be a stereoscopic camera. It was anuncommonly good binocular. He chose a position against a planetree and donned dark gray gloves. His cuffs, too, were tuckedwell up out of sight. A casual eye from the house could hardlynotice him at this hour of gloaming against the snake markings ofthe trunk, as he carefully studied a certain open window facinghim.
Newman was bending over a well-lit table on which a papersprawled, by its ungainly size an English paper. He was readingit avidly. Pointer recognised a picture in it. Newman was readingan account of the "Heath Mansions Mystery," as it was now called.A moment, and he had tossed it to the floor and spread outanother from a pile beside him. Suddenly he stopped, turned hishead towards the door, and called cheerily, "Come in!" Pointercould hear his voice easily through the open window. As hecalled, Newman, working with noiseless speed, shoved the severalpapers into a drawer of his writing table with an amazingstealth. Not a crackle reached Pointer; not a crackle could reachthe door of the room.
Newman now called, "Oh, is it locked?" in a tone of greatsurprise, closing the drawer. All without any noise. Then with an"I'm so sorry, I'd no idea!" he strode to the door. A servantentered. Pointer went around to the front and rang the bell.
He sent in his name as Pointer, without prefixing hisposition. Newman saw him at once. Pointer introduced himself tohim as of Scotland Yard.
"I've come about the accident to Mr. Haslar," he began.
"Accident?" Newman started, or seemed to.
"He was shot at dose range just about the time you dropped into see him this evening."
"Do you mind telling me what happened?" Newman asked coolly,but his lips had a white line around them.
Pointer told him the bare facts.
Newman sat with his head leaning on one hand. He had anunusual power of absolute immobility.
"Miss Haslar must be in great trouble," Newman said, whenPointer had finished.
"She's not so much in trouble as she's keen on getting the manwho shot her brother. She thinks he was shot, you see."
"Don't you?"
"Not necessarily. Haslar might have meant to commit suicide.Might have all but succeeded," Pointer said, apparently notlooking at the man.
Newman's hand gave a little quiver before it steadiedagain.
"Why should he do that?" he asked without raising hishead.
"Ah, why! Can't you suggest anything?" Pointer asked. "Youwere the last person seen with Mr. Haslar."
"Was I indeed?" Newman seemed lost in thought. "No, I cansuggest nothing."
"What time exactly did you see him?" Pointer went on.
"Somewhere around seven, or a little after."
"Did you see any one coming or going to the house?"
"No one."
Newman did not mention that he had called earlier and had beenrefused permission by Diana to speak to Arnold.
"How about tome one having shot him who has a grudge againsthim? A man of the name of Cory, for instance?" Pointer suggestedidly.
"Cory!" Newman repeated reflectively. "I seem to 've heard thename before. But where—"
Newman was no fool; Pointer had not thought him one.
"And you think this same Cory—?" Newman queried, as oneat sea.
"One or two things were told us that show that he had a grudgeagainst Mr. Haslar. That he felt that he had been drawn intosomething," Pointer said vaguely. As a boxer, he watched alwaysthe feet of the person to whom he spoke. Newman moved no part ofhis body above the table, but his feet shifted now.
"According to what was told us," Pointer went on in his quiet,ruminative way, "this Major Cory was acting for Mr. Haslar insome way."
"Indeed!" Newman looked politely interested, but no more.
Pointer rose. He had met a wall. For the moment he thought itbest to retire. It would be sheer waste of time to ask this manof what he and Haslar had talked, or why he had called onhim.
At the nearest telephone he learnt that a message had justreached the Yard asking the Chief Inspector to come to Sir EdwardClifford as soon as possible. He also listened for a minute tothe report from one of his men concerning the same gentleman.Then he hurried off in his swift gray car.
IT was close on ten when Pointer was shown intothe room where Sir Edward sat talking in low tones to Tindall.The Chief Inspector found a man who, under his surface calm,looked as though he had had a tremendous shock.
For the rest, Sir Edward was a typical diplomat in appearance.That is to say, a man who kept his real self completely out ofsight. Urbane, courteous, non-committal, he was a pleasant talkerwho could speak for hours without betraying one privateopinion— a man who never made a positive statement inpublic in his life.
Pointer's police glance sought the man behind the arras. Heseemed to see a gentle and affectionate nature with a strongsense of duty, of right and wrong—not a man of hot blood,nor one given to swift action. Tindall was with Clifford. He hadbeen waiting for Pointer.
"Sir Edward has a very striking theory," the F.O. man began,as soon as Pointer had sat down. "He thinks that thoughEtcheverrey would not commit an ordinary murder, yet he might ifhe thought he was being spied on, or if, even more, Mr. Cliffordhad ever—say for some literary purpose in thefuture—got into his organisation in some way. You see? Youremember that while the Cliffords were at St. Jean de Luz twoyears ago, Etcheverrey's name was in every paper?"
Pointer nodded. The anti-royalist Basque had given a sort offree pardon to the ex-Empress Zita through the press.
And the effrontery of it had amused, or infuriated, the wholeof Europe.
"You think Mr. Clifford had some such literary interest inEtcheverrey?" Pointer asked.
"I do"—Sir Edward spoke heavily—"I do. I have forsome time past had a very definite idea that my brother wasrevolving the idea of using Etcheverrey as material, and in thenear future."
"Suppose Mr. Clifford had probed deeper than we know?" Tindallstruck in. "He had practically unlimited money, a most inquiringbrain, invincible courage, or he wouldn't have gone on a whaleras he did once, as one of the crew, too. Suppose he had actuallyjoined some band of Etcheverrey's agents, and been discovered?Betrayed himself in some way, and been murdered; or, asEtcheverrey would consider it, executed. Beheading is the methodof execution among the Basques, you know."
Pointer said nothing, he merely listened with closeattention.
"And as to Haslar," Tindall went on, "Haslar may have been ago-between between Etcheverrey and Clifford."
"And Major Cory?"
"Also a member of the band, I think," Tindall said slowly."Possibly he learnt that Haslar was weakening, might give theshow away, and shot him."
Pointer smoked on in silence.
"How do you account for Cory?" Tindall asked, with a touch ofimpatience.
"You F.O. men always want so much for your money," Pointerquoted gravely under his breath, though Clifford was obviouslynot listening.
"You're working on another line?"
"I intend to to-morrow. We were only called to Heath Mansionsthis morning. To-morrow will see a big step forward, or all thesigns deceive me. I don't think this is a case that can standstill. There's hurry in it, to my thinking. Did Mr. Clifford eversay anything to you, Sir Edward, on which you base your idea ofhis being particularly interested in Etcheverrey?"
Sir Edward roused himself from a deep reverie which was toodeep for Pointer's taste. Men do not usually go off into brownstudies when their own theory of their brother's murder is beingdiscussed.
"My brother. Julian never referred to Etcheverrey at Thornbushas if he had any personal knowledge of him. Though he seemed, Ioften thought, amazingly well up in his life story. But then, mybrother was well up in so many things." Clifford spoke in a voiceof deep regret.
"Who beside Mr. Clifford referred to Etcheverrey atThornbush?" Pointer asked. "Can you remember any one else whoever questioned you about him?"
"No one but Miss Haslar; and she merely because as a girl shehad heard a good deal of him during the war, when she once spenta summer at Hendaye."
There was a short silence.
Tindall rose and took a sympathetic leave. He had many newlines now to follow up. Pointer went with him into the street,and stood a second beside his car.
"How did Sir Edward take the sight of the body in themortuary? Did he identify it?"
"It was a frightful shock to him. Naturally."
"He recognised the body quite definitely?"
"He did. Quite definitely."
"Did he recognise it quickly?" Pointer persisted.
Tindall pulled at his beard.
"I pretty well insisted at the Commissioner's on being the oneto break the news of Julian Clifford's end to Sir Edward, and ontaking him to the mortuary afterwards..."
Pointer nodded.
"So I think I owe you the truth. I don't think Edward Cliffordparticularly wanted to identify that body. I think he wanted tobe not quite sure. Natural perhaps. It's a horrible end to thebrother you've been good friends with all your life. At any rate,he seemed unable, or unwilling, to be certain that it was thebody of Julian Clifford, since the head was missing. But Iremembered something he had told me himself apropos of one of myboys hurting himself while diving, that Julian had pierced hisfoot with a stake once while treading water. I showed him thatscar. Either that clinched it, or that decided him to recognisethe body. I'm frank with you."
There was a short pause.
"You may not have been the one after all who broke the news ofMr. Julian Clifford's terrible end to Sir Edward Clifford,"Pointer said in his turn. "Perhaps Mr. Hobbs did that. At anyrate, Mr. Clifford's literary agent was followed into the trainat Surbiton, the same train that brought Sir Edward up to town.He travelled up with him in the same compartment. They had it tothemselves. That means a long talk. At Waterloo, Mr. Hobbshurried back to Thornbush without a word or glance at Sir Edward,who got out of the train more slowly. By the way, Sir Edwardwasn't apparently expecting any one at Surbiton. He was buried ina pile of papers, so my man says."
"Hobbs! but surely you don't suspect—but I suppose likea good Scotland Yard man you suspect every one!" Tindall wasrather bored by such zeal.
"Whatever it was that brought Hobbs flying down to meet EdwardClifford has nothing to do with Etcheverrey, therefore nothing todo with me." He went on "I happen to know that Hobbs hadn't evenheard of the man's name, except as Sir Edward talked about him atThornbush. Of course all of us at the F.O. are full of nothingelse these days. No, what brought Hobbs would only be some familyworry. Or"—he stopped a moment—"I wonder! Hobbshinted once to me, not so long ago either, what one might callhis suspicions as to Clifford's reasons for leaving home everynow and then. But Hobbs had had a glass too much, and I thoughtnothing of it. But it's possible that he really thinks Cliffordis mixed up in some scandal. Or may be mixed up in some. And thatwould exactly explain Edward Clifford's manner by the coffin. Hedidn't want to rush things. He wants time to think them over. Hedoes, you know. 'Slow and sure' is said to be his motto. But it'snot mine!" And Tindall jumped into a taxi.
Pointer was shown in again.
"When you spoke to Mr. Clifford of Etcheverrey, was any otherperson present?' Pointer asked after a sympathetic pause.
"Certainly. I often spoke of him when all the Thornbushhousehold was there. And this last time—after dinneryesterday— only yesterday!" His voice shook.
"Who was there then?"
"The whole Thornbush household."
"Did you ever speak of Etcheverrey's diagram-signature, or ofthe name of his refuge in the Pyrenees?"
"Certainly not."
"Do you think Mr. Clifford knew of it?"
"That I cannot say." Sir Edward seemed to be thinking back."Tindall has told you, I suppose, of my general impression of mybrother being much more up in the facts of Etcheverrey'sactivities than I should have expected. A word or two here andthere—I did not notice them at the time—but by them,and by the questions which he did not ask, I now feel sure thathe knew more than one would have expected him to."
"Now about Mr. Clifford's will," Pointer went on, "do you knowif he had made one? And if so, where he kept it?"
"He made a will only a couple of years ago. It's at Thornbush.A copy is at his bank, I believe."
"I'd like to see that will. If possible I'd like to have 'alook at it to-night. My car is outside, may I drive you toThornbush?"
Sir Edward hesitated.
"It's a terrible position—to know what I knowand—However, I believe she is out to-night. Yes, I know sheis."
"She?"
"Mrs. Clifford, of course. You shall see the will, ChiefInspector, if it's still there and still addressed to me, and ifI can get it without letting Mrs. Clifford know. I understandthat she has no idea—"
"We've told her nothing," was the guarded reply.
"The shock may kill her. She and my brother were a mostdevoted couple." He led the way out.
"Have you any idea as to the contents of Mr. Clifford's will?"Pointer asked, when they were off.
"He read it to me. If it's still the one which he made twoyears ago, as I think it is, I'm sole executor and residuarylegatee. There are a few legacies to relative; ten thousand toHobbs; nothing to Mrs. Clifford, at her express desire."
"I've been wondering," Pointer said, "whether Mr. Clifford hadany unexpected valuables on him. Any large sum of money..."
Sir Edward seemed to sit rather still for a second. Pointerfelt as though in some way he had given the other a jar.
"My brother never mentioned such a thing to me," he saidfinally, with his eyes now intently fixed on the ChiefInspector.
"Can you hazard a guess as to any dangerous thing that Mr.Clifford was on the eve of doing?" Pointer went on.
"You mean those words of the palmist's—though it'shardly fair to call Mrs. Jansen that. I think Julian referred tosomething connected with Etcheverrey. Obviously, one might evensay."
"I'm always rather distrustful of the obvious," Pointer saidquietly. "You didn't see Mr. Clifford yesterday afterdinner?"
"No, I left Thornbush about nine and went to my rooms here,where I changed, and drove down to my cottage at Weybridge. Thewood pigeons needed thinning out if any of my blue peas were tobe saved."
Now Pointer was a country boy. The gun taken, the cartridgeschosen, were such as a man would choose for this purpose. But, asa rule, wood pigeons come and go between the hours of five andnine of a July evening.
"Did you shoot many?" he asked carelessly.
"You mean this afternoon? I forgot to take my long-distanceglasses down with me. I am as blind as a bat a couple of yardsoff. So, though I blazed away for half an hour or so, I onlysucceeded in hitting one of my own decoys."
"But did you meet any friends at your cottage, Sir Edward?"Pointert did not disguise the fact that he was questioning theother, asking for his alibi.
Sir Edward did not seem to notice what he must have known laybehind the questions.
"No, I never take friends down with me to Weybridge. I only goto my cottage when I want to be alone. Driving down a tyre burst.I had a spare wheel. By jogging along slowly I crawled to thecottage on the rim, getting to Weybridge nearer one than ten. Islipped in without waking my housekeeper or her husband, who actsas my butler-valet. Everything I need is always put up ready forme in the dining-room. Cold supper, electric kettle. So, as sooften before, I went to bed without any one in the house beingthe wiser, after leaving a note on the hall table telling them atwhat hour to serve breakfast."
"And the car?"
"My chauffeur put on a new wheel."
They drew up at Thornbush. Sir Edward Clifford rang the bell.Mrs. Clifford was out, he was told, with Mr. Hobbs. Mr. Newmanwas out too; so was Mr. Straight.
"That's all right, Trimble. I shall be in Mr. Clifford'slibrary with this gentleman." Sir Edward led Pointer quickly intothe room and tried a drawer. It was unlocked. From the back hedrew a sealed envelope addressed to himself. It was marked "TheLast Will and Testament of me, Julian Clifford."
"You think I had better open it?"
Pointer looked the envelope over with his glass. It had notbeen tampered with. He handed it back.
"Please."
Again a quiver passed over Sir Edward's face. It looked likeintense emotion as he read the address to himself. In otherwords, it was just the look that a clever man would assume atsuch a moment. And Sir Edward was considered clever in a quietway. He glanced it over.
"This is a new will. Made only some six months ago. I'm stillthe sole executor and residuary legatee, but the bequest of tenthousand which my brother told me he was leaving to Hobbs ishalved. Five thousand goes to Newman. And only five thousand toHobbs. To Newman 'if still unmarried' is the wording. A thousandpounds he asks Mrs. Clifford to distribute among the servants asshe thinks fit. He adds, after some very moving words ofgratitude to her, that he leaves her nothing at her express wish,as she strongly objects to inheriting anything from him on hisdeath, and is otherwise amply provided for."
He handed the will to Pointer, who read it through.
So Sir Edward was his brother's heir. And both he and the deadman were believed to have loved the same woman, a woman whom herhusband's death would set free...
Pointer did not suspect Sir Edward Clifford, but no position,however worthily won, no reputation for personal integrity, couldundo these facts.
"Five thousand seems a lot for Mr. Newman," was his onlycomment.
"Umm...I don't suppose Julian ever expected it would be handedover. There's not so much difference between them in years, youknow."
"There was no ill-will between Mr. Clifford and Mr. Hobbs, youthink?"
"None whatever. Simply Julian knew that Hobbs is doinguncommonly well out of his literary commissions, and so on."
"May I copy out the gist of the will?" Pointer asked. Hewanted to stay on at Thornbush until Mrs. Clifford shouldreturn.
Sir Edward nodded and sank heavily into a chair in a darkcorner.
Head on hand he sat there, apparently deep in thought. Pointertoo was thinking hard. He was busy with the will. So Mrs.Clifford was left out of the will, and knew it. She did notbenefit in a monetary sense by her husband's death. Not in theordinary way. But Mrs. Clifford had cashed a cheque for seventythousand pounds as soon after her husband's murder as the bankswere open. To that extent, merely going by the facts, she hadbenefited to the tune of a large fortune.
And the will gave Newman as well as Hobbs five thousandpounds. Seeing that that young man was, as far as was known,unmarried.
Curious proviso that. Yet both men lost their legacy, or couldnot claim it, as long as Clifford's death remained uncertain.Whoever had cut off Julian Clifford's head had believed that hehad rendered recognition of the corpse impossible. And Pointer,though he had not an ounce of vanity in his nature, knew thatwith nine out of ten detectives the ghastly device would havesucceeded.
He asked Sir Edward a few questions about the papers in thedesk as he looked them over. The other gave rather absent-mindedbut apparently carefully truthful replies.
It was not far short of eleven when a ring came at the frontdoor. A voice, it sounded like Straight's, but if so it was tensewith excitement, asked if by any chance Sir Edward Clifford wasat Thornbush. The servant showed him in, Straight's usuallyimpassive face was working. He looked intensely, painfullystirred.
"Can you get a message through to Mr. Clifford, Sir Edward?"he asked in the same eager voice.
"No," Sir Edward said dully; "no, I can't. Why?"
"Miss Haslar wants him fetched if it's humanly possible. She'sjust had an awful shock. Haslar's spoken. He's recoveredconsciousness. I've come from his house. I had walked over tofind out if anything fresh had been found out. They fetchedDiana, who had gone to bed early—" Straight seemed to beunable to continue.
"And what did Mr. Haslar say?" Pointer asked quietly, in thatsteadying voice of his. He guessed what the injured man had saidfrom the perturbation which Straight showed.
"I was in the room, asking the night-nurse how Haslar wasdoing, when he suddenly opened his eyes. 'Fetch Diana,' he saidquite rationally, only very feebly. The poor girl came on theinstant: she thought she was to receive some last word or messageof affection. But when she knelt clown beside his bed Haslar onlygave a fearful cry and struck at her. It was like a ghost tryingto strike. And he shrieked out, 'I did it all for nothing I'vekilled Julian Clifford! There's his head. Take it away I Buryit!' And with that he fell back dead. At least I think he's dead.I rushed off for you, Sir Edward. They told me at your flat thatyou were here. Diana insists that Mr. Clifford must come toArnold at once. She thinks it's the only thing that can save herbrother. Heaven knows why!"
Edward Clifford had risen and stood facing this unexpectedvisitor.
"Arnold Haslar! Arnold Haslar!" There followed a silence shortbut poignant. "Didyou know this?" he asked, turning onPointer. "Did you know that it was Haslar who had killed mybrother? But what reason? What motive?"
It was Straight now who jumped.
"Mr. Clifford isn't killed. Haslar was delirious." The newlibrarian at Thornbush looked as though the whole world had gonemad. Pointer eyed his shoe-tips for a full second.
"We believe that the body found with its head cut off earlythis morning in Heath Mansions is the body not of Etcheverrey,but of Mr. Julian Clifford," he said finally.
Straight collapsed into a chair.
"Then—then—!" He stopped and stared first atPointer, then at Sir Edward. "Iknew it was delirium!" hesaid, as though to himself. "For, of course, the man who murderedMr. Clifford murdered Arnold Haslar too!"
"There is a man who might have tried to kill both men,"Pointer agreed, "a Major Cory."
"Cory!" Edward Clifford recognised the name on the instant."He certainly hated Julian, and with reason. You mean, of course,the Major Cory of the Holford Will case. But where would Haslarcome in?"
"We know that Cory and Haslar knew each other," Pointer saidcautiously. "Here's his picture." He pulled it out of his pocketand handed it to Straight. "It was taken some years ago, but it'sa good likeness. Did you happen tosee this man at Mr.Haslar's last night?"
But Straight had not seen whoever it was that had beencloseted with Arnold Haslar in his study when he had walked overto Haslar's house after dinner at Thornbush. He explained thatHaslar had come out and asked him to wait a few moments, addingthat the caller wouldn't stay long.
After the man left, Arnold had spoken of going to a music halland a dance club afterwards, but he, Straight, thought his friendwas looking ill, and would be better for a quiet evening. AsHaslar was indignantly denying either looking ill, or anyintention of staying in, the telephone bell had rung. His friendhad gone back into his study—they were in thelibrary—and had listened to a rather long message. He hadhung up the receiver after saying grudgingly, "Very well; I'll bethere. But it's damned inconvenient." To Straight he hadexplained that a very urgent business summons would take him outof town for some hours. They arranged to postpone what had beenintended as a sort of welcome-back-to-England celebration forhimself till to-night.
"And to-night—" Straight began, when he turned to thedoor. They heard the swish of a car driving up. A minute more andDiana came flying in.
"Uncle Edward, where is Uncle Julian? You must tell me. I mustfind him. If you don't know, Alison must speak."
"Why, Miss Haslar?" Pointer asked.
"Tell him, Dick." For once Diana was not equal to a task.
"I have told them. They believe with me that the same—"He stopped short.
"Uncle Edward, Arnold's raving! But if we could only findUncle Julian and bring him to his bedside—There she is.That's Alison!" She ran out of the room again. Those inside,openly listening, heard the front door open, heard Diana's quick,feverish sentences telling Mrs. Clifford of what her brotherArnold had just said.
"Of course Arnold was delirious. He was shot just afterreading that awful account in the paper about the headless manfound near us, and Uncle Julian being away, he has confused thetwo all up as one does in a nightmare. But if Uncle Julian comesat once—"
"Diana dearest!" Mrs. Clifford was speaking in a very kindtone as she came on into the room.
"You here, Edward? What have you been saying to frightenDiana? Julian's safe and well, thank God. But I can't reach him,Di, He gave no address in that note he left for me. But he saidhe would be home in time for lunch on Thursday."
Her eyes went to Pointer.
"This is Chief Inspector Pointer of New Scotland Yard," SirEdward introduced him.
Pointer bowed.
"I'm afraid you must prepare for bad news, Mrs. Clifford," hesaid very quietly. "We of the police believe that an accident hashappened to Mr. Clifford."
"An accident?" For a second her colour, always pale, grewwhiter still. Then she recovered.
"Oh, no," she said confidently, "I should have known of it atonce. When do you think this—accident—happened to myhusband? Why do you think it is to Mr. Clifford?" She spoke withan air of bearing with the stupidity of a child.
"The accident happened last night," Pointer said gravely. "Itwas a mortal accident." Then he added, after a little pause, "Thebody has been identified beyond any possibility of doubt, Mrs.Clifford, by the finger-prints."
"But not as my husband's," she said with certainty.
"We believe," Pointer went on, "that a body found near here atHeath Mansions this morning, and taken at first to be that of aBasque anarchist, was really that of Mr. Julian Clifford. Thereis no possibility of a mistake this time, I am sorry to say."
"Uncle Julian!" Diana gave a cry. "Uncle Julian!"
Mrs. Clifford stared at Pointer, her head held very high. "Abody? Anarchist? You don't mean that headless body of which theevening papers are full?"
Pointer said that he did mean that. Her eyes darkened togreen.
"What appalling nonsense!" she said indignantly. "Do you thinkthat I shouldn't have known immediately—felt it atonce—if anything had happened to him! How abysmallyignorant you people are of the things of the spirit!" She turnedon her brother-in-law.
"You too, Edward! You too think I wouldn't know! Julian willlaugh when he gets back on Friday!"
"Mrs. Clifford," Pointer said solemnly, "from where he is,there is no coming back."
Alison flushed a deep rose flush. She drew herself up.
"It's incredible! It's almost as though you all wished—"Then she checked herself. "Forgive me," she turned to EdwardClifford, "poor Edward, you look so worn! But your grief is allfor nothing. Julian is alive is well...is happy."
"Where is he?" Pointer asked, with something of sternness inhis voice.
She gave a careless twitch of her slender shoulder. "You willknow all in good time."
"I am afraid we must take our own measures then," Pointerreplied.
"You mustn't do anything that Julian wouldn't approve of whenhe gets back," she said quickly. "Edward, I trust you to see tothat."
"I want to look into his money matters," Pointer saidslowly.
Alison Clifford started palpably.
"Certainly not! That is my cousin, Mr. Hobbs', affair. He ismy husband's literary agent. Julian would never forgive such athing. You must wait, Edward"—she spoke withurgency—"Julian will be back by Friday."
"May I see the letter left for you this morning?" Pointerasked. "I understand that a note was left for each person in thehouse."
"I have destroyed my letter," the answer was instant, and Mrs.Clifford left the room with an air of deep displeasure.
"How about you, Miss Haslar?" Pointer turned to the slenderfigure shrinking, almost cowering back away from the others.
"I—I don't know where mine is," Diana said in astrangled voice.
"Could you give us an idea of its contents?"
She seemed to force herself with difficulty to speech.
"It was only a line to say that Uncle Julian wanted to verifysome topographical point, that he would be back on Friday atlatest, and would I meanwhile go on with my grandfather'sletters."
"And dated?"
"It was dated yesterday." Diana had turned to Edward Cliffordwhile speaking. He avoided her eye.
So he believed that his brother was dead. He believed thatArnold was responsible, that those wild words...
Suddenly she stepped up to Pointer, laid her hands on his arm,and looked dumbly up into his face. An agonised question was inher eyes. It would have been touching had it been any woman, butfrom Diana Haslar that mute appeal was very moving.
"I see," she said hoarsely. "There is no hope. He is dead. Oh,God!" It was a prayer, not a mere ejaculation.
Straight stepped forward as she made for the door and took herhand. Sir Edward looked on with no softening lines of his setmouth.
"I'd like a word with you, Mr. Straight, as soon as you'veseen Miss Haslar into her car," Pointer suggested.
Straight came back, looking years older than the young manwhom Sir Edward had met for the first time only lastSaturday.
"Now, Mr. Straight," Pointer began, "we know you've only justlanded in England, but it seems that Mr. Julian Clifford hadtalked with you after dinner last night"—the gas man hadlearnt that from the butler—"his last dinner. Did he seemto have anything on his mind?"
"Well, I think he had," Straight said judicially. "Of course Ithought then that he probably was always a littledistrait."
"Julian wasdistrait at times," Edward Cliffordmurmured, with what struck Pointer, as a rather wary look atStraight.
"At any rate he was so then. Long silences. Just a word nowand then."
"And those words were about?" Pointer asked. And EdwardClifford's face grew blankly inscrutable, as though he werepreparing to hear something which he might not like.
Straight did not reply on the instant. He looked as though hewere trying to think himself back to yesterday's quiet talk withthe man now lying dead.
"About my work. A little. He left an impression on my mindthat he would be shortly going away from Thornbush for a while,though he didn't say so in so many words. He said something aboutworking out my own ideas. Especially not continuing exactly alongNewman's lines. Newman had been librarian as well as privatesecretary, you know." Straight paused. "It's awkward to say nowthat murder's been done, but Mr. Clifford struck me as—" Hepaused, hesitated.
"Well—as what?" came from Edward Clifford sharply.
"As afraid of Newman," Straight said simply.
"Julian afraid of Newman!" Sir Edward echoedincredulously.
"It wasn't what he said," Straight said slowly, "itwas—his face? his voice? I don't know. But I thought so.Yet, as far as I can remember, all he said was, 'I shouldn't goto Newman more than I could help, if I were you.' I saidsomething about Newman seeming very willing to be of help, and hegave me a queer look. A very queer look," Straight repeatedsolemnly. "Struck me even then as such. 'Let's hope you'll findhim so to the end,' he replied, and again it was the tone thatwas odder than the words. I repeated 'to the end, sir?' And aftera long silence he said very curtly, and in a very low voice, 'Mr.Newman is leaving me. But that is strictly confidential. But nowyou see why I should prefer you to find your own feet?' I forgetwhat I replied. And then he rose and joined Mrs. Clifford in thewalled garden. But just as he stepped over the sill, I thought hewas going to ask my advice about something—or wanted me tohelp him in something—"
"Julian!" repeated Edward Clifford, in palpable amazement.
"I'm only giving my impressions. And the impressions of astranger may be all wrong. But that's what I thought. I was goingto say something like 'Is there anything I can do?' But of courseI thought that if there was, he'd have said so."
Straight stopped. He looked as though half minded to say nomore, half inclined to add something to what he had said.
"Well?" Pointer prompted.
Still Straight hesitated. "It's rather difficult to go on. Youdon't know me. I might be an imaginative chap...given toromancing...I'm not. I'm the opposite. But you don't knowthat."
"Well?" Pointer asked again.
"You'll think I've fear on the brain—but I thought Mr.Clifford not at all keen on the short absence from Thornbush ofwhich he spoke. Or rather, to which he referred. The first timewas in the course of some directions as to what he wanted done.He said—as nearly as possible—'I've a lot of foreignbooks, most of which I don't care about, yet some of which arequite worth having. Pick out those you would propose to keep.Then leave the rest for me to look over. I may be away for ashort time from Thornbush, but I'll glance them over when I getback.' There he stopped. There was a long silence. Then he saidto himself, 'when I come back.' And his face and voicesounded like a man very doubtful of his coming back. That was allthen. Another moment came in the course of a few words aboutAustralia, and travels in general. He said—after anotherlong silence—'Yes, travelling is pleasant. If you want togo, and are sure you'll get back safely.' That's all I have to goon. Just those two remarks. But both, and especially the latter,sounded to me as though Mr. Clifford was nervous of somethingthat lay before him. I thought at the time, until just now, infact, that he must be a poor traveller, bad sailor, and soon."
"Julian! Well, Straight, thank you for telling us this. Youcertainly have surprised me." Sir Edward sounded genuinely amazedand also a shade relieved, Pointer thought. "It's as unlike mybrother as though you had been talking of a stranger. I supposeit reallywas Julian? You saw his face?"
"Oh, yes." Straight laughed at the idea of a substitutedJulian Clifford. "He sat on after dinner and went out into thegarden...joined you...I heard your voices dimly."
There was a little pause.
"And here," Straight rose, "is the note which I received,ostensibly from Mr. Clifford, this morning." He handed a foldedpiece of paper to Pointer.
"Did you keep it for any especial reason?" the Chief Inspectorasked, reading it.
"I—don't—know," Straight said slowly. "I suppose Ishould have kept it in any case, but—well, the note struckme as odd."
"In what way 'odd?'"
"Well—unlike his words of the evening before. Here hetells me to turn to Hobbs and Newman."
Edward Clifford looked the letter over very carefully. It wasdated yesterday.
Dear Mr.Straight,
A passage in my novel needs verification on thespot. I expect, however, to be back at Thornbush by Friday. Ishould like you to begin with the subject index as you planned.Newman will give you any help in his power. So will Hobbs, ofcourse.
Faithfully yours,
Julian Clifford.
"You think this is Mr. Clifford's writing?" Pointer asked SirEdward.
"I should say so. Certainly. The very way the punctuationmarks are made is his. And that signature. It's on his own paper,too."
It was more than that, thought Pointer. Like the additions tothe cheque, it was written with Julian Clifford's own pen, or itsexact mate. But as to whether the dead man had writtenit—
"Did you see Miss Haslar's note?" he asked Straight.
"Yes. She showed it me. Hers and mine were lying on the halltable when I went out for a walk before breakfast. I noticed themlying there along with two for Hobbs and Newman."
"She expressed no surprise at her letter?"
"None," Straight did not add that she had looked very uneasyand had scanned it in silence more than once. Instead he saidgood-night.
He left a profound silence behind him.
"His conversation with Mr. Straight—the tone ofit—was very unusual on Mr. Clifford's part?" Pointerasked.
"My brother must have been deeply disturbed," Edward Cliffordreplied in the tone of a man taking swift mental soundings.Pointer thought that some little part of what he had heard fittedin, perhaps very badly, with something else. Edward Clifford,supposing him to be honest, had not exclaimed at the idea ofJulian Clifford dreading his journey as he had at the idea of hisbeing afraid of his secretary.
"Afraid of Newman," he repeated again. "Amazing! Underordinary circumstances I should say Straight was romancing, butas it is—!" He sighed profoundly. "Well, I have alwaysknown that my brother's secretary is a queer fish. But thisthrows a new, and a most sinister light on his queerness."
"In what way queer?" Pointer asked, as though Newman hadstruck him as a type of the commonplace.
"In every way. Of course I know about his lost memory, and soon, but I used to watch him very closely after Julian first tookhim up, and I came to the conclusion that he didn't want his pastto come back to him. There are exercises, founded on the Freudiantheories, of getting into touch with the submerged half of themind. He never would allow them to be tried on him.I—Well— frankly I sometimes doubted whether hismemory was entirely gone. And I'll tell you another person whomore than doubted, and that's Miss Haslar. She never said so, butI'm sure of it. She distrusted Newman from the first, andinsisted that Julian was doing a foolish thing to keep him on.But Julian was one of those men who, when they back a side, canonly see that side. He never backed it lightly, I'm bound to say.But once his stand was definitely taken, nothing could shifthim."
"Could I speak to Mr. Newman?" Pointer asked. Sir Edward rangthe bell. But Mr. Newman was out. When had he left? Directlyafter "this gentleman" had called to see him. About half-pastnine.
"This gentleman," otherwise Chief Inspector Pointer, rose assoon as the door shut behind the servant.
"I THINK we had better have a look at Mr.Newman's rooms. Will you show me where they are?" Pointerasked.
Sir Edward took him up. The secretary's bed-room presented ascene of wild disorder. Coats and clothing had been flung hereand there. A bag stood half packed, and then abandoned. A gapingsuit-case too had been apparently discarded at the last moment astoo hampering.
"Flight!" Edward Clifford looked about him with a slow pallorcreeping over his face. "Does this mean that we're standing inthe room of the man who murdered my brother and mutilated hisbody so horribly? If so, it'll be—"
Pointer said nothing. He was looking intently about him.
"If so"—Edward Clifford's tone changed: ithardened—"if so, Chief Inspector, then that legacy was themotive." He spoke in a quiet but authoritative voice. Pointerwondered what other possibility he was definitely shuttingout.
"Five thousand pounds might tempt a poor man," Pointeragreed.
"And, as you know, Newman has a salary of only two hundred andfifty pounds a year. Ample, but not if he were of extravaganttastes. If Newman killed my brother, there is no other motivepossible."
"It will be a shock to Mrs. Clifford, I'm afraid," Pointermurmured, "I mean this apparent flight."
"A frightful one. She believed entirely in the man's goodfaith. So much of a shock that I think it should be kept from herfor the present."
"If possible," Pointer said non-committally.
"I think it will be quite possible. But—if Newman isguilty, what are we to think of Haslar's cry?"
"It's a very intricate case this, Sir Edward," Pointer saidthoughtfully, as he too glanced all around the room. "One step ata time is all that we can hope for."
"I suppose Newman will be followed if he really has tried, asthis room suggests that he has, to escape?"
Pointer set his mind at rest. One of his best men was incharge of Newman. He swiftly made up a parcel of the absent man'sclothing—a very complete parcel.
"They give us his measurements," he explained in answer toEdward Clifford's inquiring stare. "Part of the regular routine.You knew Mr. Newman well?"
"I lived at Thornbush for five months after he first came toMr. Clifford. While Cleave Ford was being fitted with centralheating."
"What about his time off? Regular time on which he couldcount, I mean," Pointer asked.
"His evenings were generally his own. So were Saturdays as arule. And Sundays always."
"Do you know what he did in the evening, or over the weekend?"
"Evenings—I think he never went anywhere except toArnold Haslar's. He became tremendous friends with him from thefirst. But on Sundays he vanished utterly and completely. We usedto chaff him about it until we saw that he didn't like it much."Sir Edward stopped.
Pointer had stepped to the fireplace. All the grates atThornbush were concealed by handsome, wrought-iron double doorslike small casement windows inset within the marble of thefireplace. It was the neatest way of dealing with small stoves,or grates, that Pointer knew. He believed it to be a Belgianidea. At least, he had often come across it in Brussels. He nowopened the little doors and stooping down, felt the bars. Thenhis eye travelled up the wall. He stepped quickly into thebathroom, and came out with a small nickel shaving-cup in hishand. He detached a water-colour picture from the wall. Then hedragged a table across the fireplace, placed a chair on it, andstepping lightly up, held the picture, glass-side up, as a tray,while he gently blew something on to it off the picturerail—a small wisp of charred paper, so black that nowriting showed on its thin film. Then he drew out the cup fromhis pocket and carefully turned it down over the fragment,holding it all very level as he stepped down on to the floor, andput it on the table.
"Mr. Newman burnt something in that grate. The bar is stillwarm. Nothing big. He crushed it all into fragments, but this onebit must have escaped his notice and blown up there. I'll send aman with it and Mr. Newman's clothes to the Yard at once. We maylearn something from them."
From below came the sound of a banged door. And thenanother.
"That must be Hobbs." Clifford listened for a moment. "He mustbe told, of course; about Newman, I mean. But I think Mrs.Clifford should be kept in ignorance of what has happened. Afterall, Newman may return to the house. It's just possible that thisroom does not mean what it seems to mean. Don't you think so,Chief Inspector?"
"I don't think he'll come back," Pointer said thoughtfully,following Clifford down the stairs and into the library, afterhanding his parcel to his chauffeur, and placing the cup andpicture with extreme care in an attaché case which he strappedover an air cushion on a collapsible table in the car.
Julian Clifford's literary agent was standing with his legsfar apart, swaying slightly. He looked savagely up at them asthey entered.
"Well, what d'ye want?" was his greeting. "What's up now?"
Clifford looked at him with thinly veiled disgust. The man hadbeen drinking.
"Something has happened to Julian," was Sir Edward's shortreply.
Hobbs stared. White streaks like dead fingers showed on hischeeks. He seemed trying to pull himself together.
"What d'ye mean?" he asked a trifle less surlily. "I thought Itold you..."
"He's been killed—murdered." Edward Clifford could beterse too. "This is Chief Inspector Pointer of New Scotland Yard.He's investigating the case."
Hobbs's dropped jaw all but prevented his nodding to Pointer.He certainly looked an amazed man.
"It was his body that was found near here in Heath Mansionsthis morning. That headless body." Edward Clifford gulped atthose last horrid words.
Hobbs seemed sobered. His face grew mealy white. He was ahandsome enough man in a big, burly way. He seemed to shrink alittle now.
"I say, this is going too fast! How do you know if it has nohead—how do you know it's Julian?"
"There is no doubt possible," Pointer assured him. "And nowMr. Hobbs, would you mind explaining just where you thought Mr.Clifford was when you assured an official of the Home Office thismorning that he was collecting local colour, probably inLiverpool?"
Edward Clifford was looking intently at Hobbs. Hobbs lookedback at him. A blank, non-committal look. And yet he sent amessage to the other.
"I thought he had gone, as he so often does, for literarymaterial. But I can't grasp this awful news It's incredible.Surely there's been some mistake. If his head is off, I repeathow can you be sure it's Julian's body?"
Pointer explained about the identified finger-prints.
"And the thickened finger-joint is his. So's the scar on thesole of the foot," Edward Clifford finished.
"You're absolutely certain it's Julian?" Hobbs asked, bitinghis lip.
"Certain? Absolutely," the dead man's brother assured him.
Hobbs grew paler yet.
"I can't believe it!" he said thickly. "I can't realise it."Suddenly he straightened up.
"My God! Haslar was all but murdered too!" He turned a white,wild face from one to the other. "What does it mean? Why thesetwo?"
"Mr. Hobbs," Pointer asked again, instead of replying, "wheredid you think that Julian Clifford was? Have you no idea where hemight be expected to be, supposing he had really gone away of hisown free will yesterday morning?"
"None whatever," Hobbs said promptly—a shade toopromptly. He looked hard at Sir Edward.
There was a silence. Pointer noticed that Edward Clifford didnot seem any more anxious to question Hobbs than he had been toquestion Straight, though he listened with an even more strainedattention.
"Have you had any unusual visitors at Thornbush lately?"Pointer asked.
"By Jove!" Hobbs looked this time hard at the detectiveofficer. "There was a man—refused to give hisname—asked for Newman. Saturday morning around twelve.Newman was out. He then asked for me by name. I had him shown in,of course. Didn't care for the look of him. Wrong 'un, if everthere was one. Ex-cavalryman type. He talked on about hisadmiration for Clifford's works and that. I thought he wanted tosell me a typewriter, or get some translation rights for nothing,he was so vague. Finally he asked to see Clifford himself. I saidClifford never saw any one without an appointment. He said, 'Tellhim I'm come from Haslar. Mr. Arnold Haslar. Then he'll seeme.'"
There was a pause in the narrative. Hobbs looked as though hewere trying to be very exact in his account.
"Did Julian see him?" Edward Clifford asked at last.
"What! Disturb him of a morning! I didn't send in any message,of course. I went out into the dining-room and marked time with asandwich. Then I reported that Mr. Clifford regretted that he wasunable to see Mr.——I waited for the name. None came.So I went on, 'Unless Mr.——' —another pause,but still no name forthcoming—would state his errand. Didyou say I came from Haslar?' he asked. I assured him I hadforgotten nothing. He looked rather taken aback, I thought, gaveme a look over as though he was about to propose something shady.If so, he decided against it. Hesitated for another moment, andsaid sneeringly, 'You don't seem to be much in Mr.Clifford's confidence,' and left, knocking his hat over oneear."
"Was this the man you saw?" Pointer produced the photograph ofCory.
"That's the man."
"Did he say nothing else?" Pointer asked.
"Nothing of any importance. Nothing I remember. But theemphasis on the 'you' made me wonder if he thought some one elseknew more—of whatever his errand was."
"Newman?" asked Edward Clifford 'sharply. Hobbs said nothing,but his silence was a "yes."
"But you know," he went on, after another pause, during whichhe stood again jingling some change in his pocket, "I don't thinka shady caller had anything to do with Clifford's murder. We havetoo many of them. I think"—he hesitated, and drummed on themantel-shelf—"well what I told you in the train, Edward. Imet Sir Edward in the train by accident this afternoon," Hobbsexplained to Pointer, "and told him that I think Julian Cliffordhas a separate establishment somewhere."
Edward Clifford looked intensely indignant.
"Impossible! I repeat, quite impossible!"
"Why so?" Hobbs jingled some keys in his pocket. "He was awayfrom home pretty frequently. Why impossible?"
"The idea is quite untenable to any one who knew the plane oflife on which Julian lived." Edward Clifford spoke with apparentsincerity.
"And where do you think this establishment was?" Pointer askedquietly.
"Not an earthly," was the prompt reply. "But I've thought itfor some time."
"Any reason for the suspicion?"
"Human nature. My cousin Alison would bore any husband stiff,"Hobbs said in a contemptuous undertone to Clifford, who looked athim as at a reptile.
"We'll discuss this matter to-morrow when you're moreyourself," he said in an icy tone, turning away as though hardlyable to trust himself to look at the insolent grin on Hobbs'sface.
"Mrs. Orr is a widow, I understand?" Pointer said, apparentlyout of the blue.
Edward Clifford looked, if possible, more indignant than ever;but he listened for Hobbs's reply. It did not come for a fullminute. And then Hobbs said in a thick, low voice, hoarse withpassion:—
"What's Mrs. Orr to do with this? I was speaking of a possibleseparate establishment of Julian's. Not of friends of himself andhis wife."
"And now, Mr. Hobbs, one question," Pointer went on coolly,"where were you last night from, say, ten onwards?"
"I went out to post a letter at ten or half-past," Hobbs saideasily enough. "I was talking with Mrs. Clifford and writing atthe same time, till my cousin went up to bed. Then, as I said, Iwent out to post a letter, found it a marvellous summer night.Came back and sat on in the garden for a while, then went to bed.It was just short of twelve when I wound up my watch. Thismorning I found I'd caught a chill out under the trees. When Igot down about eleven I found a letter for me fromJulian—"
"You kept that letter?"
"Don't think so. I'll look, of course; but, as a rule, I neverkeep any but important letters."
"Did you hear or see anything of Mr. Clifford before you wentto bed?"
"Yes, I heard him in his library, I thought. I feel certain Ileft him there when I went out to post the letter. Afterwards Ididn't come through the house at once. By the time I went up tobed all was dark downstairs."
He was not able, or appeared not to be able, to add anythingmore except just as he was turning away. "Wait a bit—I seemto remember a telephone ringing in the library as I sat talkingto Mrs. Clifford. I have a fancy that I heard Clifford reply.That's what made me certain he was there when I went out."
"You can't remember any words of his reply?" Pointerasked.
"Not a syllable. We were talking at the moment."
"Though you may not remember the words, have you no idea ofthe manner of his reply? Was it friendly? or was it business-like? or was it annoyed at all?"
"Well, I couldn't swear to it, but I have a hazy notion thathe was rather impatient. Not like Julian to be that. But I don'tthink I've mixed it up with any other time." He rubbed his facewearily.
"I think I'll go for a walk now, and see if the fresh airwon't help my head. This has been an awful shock. What aboutAlison?"—he was speaking to Edward Clifford.
"Frightful!" Sir Edward said under his breath. "When she'sconvinced of the truth it may well kill her."
"What will kill her will be not having known that anything hadhappened to Julian, when she was seeing him alive and well in hercrystal," Hobbs said callously, and turning, left the twotogether.
Pointer thought that Sir Edward would have liked to follow himout, but if so, the latter checked the impulse.
"I must let Tindall know at once of Newman's flight. He'll bein his rooms at this hour." Sir Edward reached for the telephoneand passed on the news.
"He's coming as soon as he can get here." He hung up thereceiver. "But a word about Hobbs. You don't suspect him, doyou?"
Pointer did not reply.
"Well, I don't," Clifford said firmly. "Hobbs is far tooshrewd a business man to be a criminal. As a literary agent mybrother considered him unequalled."
He was not too good a business man to drink, nor to have avery dangerous temper, was Pointer's private comment on that. Buthe said nothing.
"Unfortunately he's developing a habit which will be the ruinof him unless he checks it," Edward Clifford went on, "a habit oftaking more than is good for him. But he's not a criminal. On theother hand, he's a man who lives a fast, careless life. That ideaof his about my brother's absences"—Edward curled hislip—"put it quite out of your head, Chief Inspector.Anything dishonourable would be impossible to—" And thenEdward Clifford came to a full stop. He flushed scarlet."Er—er—his private life was absolutely exemplary." Hefinished hastily, and getting up began to walk up and down theroom, apparently getting deeper and deeper into a brownstudy.
Pointer was certain that Julian Clifford was engaged insomething not strictly legal when he had met his death. It hadseemed a strange thing of which to suspect the great author. Butthere was his odd question to Astra. There was Hobbs...Hobbs knewsomething, or thought that he did. So did Mrs. Clifford. EdwardClifford's flush of just now, all bore out the same idea.Besides, though he was apparently grief-stricken at his brother'sterrible fate, he also seemed absolutely without any ideas as tohow, and where, the search for the murderer should be started. Hewas as one lost in bewildered helplessness. Pointer had come tothe conclusion that Sir Edward did not want the circumstances ofJulian Clifford's death probed, except as they concernedEtcheverrey. He either knew, or feared, that any other line ofinquiry would open up painful details—painful to theliving. He must have some reason for this. It was not one thatwould have occurred offhand to any reader of Julian Clifford'slofty books. He had turned down Hobbs's idea of an intrigue, withscorn. But what other idea did he hold himself?
Pointer had believed at first that if he could find the headof Julian Clifford and establish the identity of the murdered manbeyond question, that he would get all the members of his familyto speak, and so come on the clue to this most strange death. Butnot if this idea were right. In that case, even then, he couldlook for no help from the Thornbush circle. Nothing would bringback the dead, they would argue. Pointer knew how egoistic peoplecan be when it is a question of a family scandal. Better, theywould think, that ten murderers escaped than that one just manshould have cause to wince. Pointer did not agree. But that beingthe case, the whereabouts of Julian Clifford's head faded intothe second place beside the question of what the writer had beendoing, what planning, what other interests he had, besides hisinterest in Etcheverrey?
How could he, Pointer, locate the place where Clifford wassupposed to be, if he were honestly supposed to be alive? Thatvision of him in her crystal which Mrs. Clifford had thought thatshe saw, or had pretended to see...Houses with "gables likesteps" mounting into heaven. He believed that those words hadreally slipped out. If so, they might help to orient the search.But how could the Chief Inspector get on the track of thosegables? Where were such gables? English they were not. NorBasque. Nor French. Nor Spanish. Pointer ran through a long listof the impossibles. Yet apparently they were in the street whereMrs. Clifford thought that her husband was—supposing her tobe innocent.
Tindall was shown in.
"So the secretary's run away! Being trailed, of course."
Pointer said that he sincerely hoped so.
"Can I see his room?" Tindall surveyed the wild scenethoughtfully. Then he returned to the two men in the library. Heclosed the door carefully, even though a detective was on duty inthe hall.
"Sir Edward, a thought has been growing in my mind since you'phoned. What about Newman being the man we're after? BeingEtcheverrey himself? This idea would link Clifford and Haslar forcertain, and doubtless Cory. We have learnt that worry anddepression were common to both Mr. Clifford and Haslar these lastweeks. It was common to both of them, because it sprang from acommon cause—from Newman. You know, Sir Edward, youbelieved that Etcheverrey might be hiding in some quitecommonplace identity. How about that identity being yourbrother's secretary?"
Sir Edward had wheeled, and now stood staring at him.
"What a possibility!" He seemed to consider it. "It's abrilliant guess. What ghastly irony, if so, that I myself shouldhave spoken of my idea before him. Let me see...When Etcheverreywas in Persia, Julian was in Australia. Just he and Mrs.Clifford—over six months away. Hobbs worked on as usual,but Newman took a holiday for the whole time. It was the winter.He was supposed to be in Rome looking up facts for Clifford aboutthe Fascist suppression of newspapers...And then that time whenthe Prince was in South America...that wouldn't fit Newman, but,of course, he may have worked through an agent more often than isbelieved. The attempt on the King of Spain—yes. Newman wasfree then. Julian thought him climbing in the Lake district. Imust go into this in more detail with Hobbs, and check dates.What do you say, Chief Inspector?"
"If I thought Newman were really Etcheverrey himself," Pointersaid slowly, "I should be inclined to wonder if Mr. Clifford werenot trying to bring him into some book of his, and in trying, hadnot got nearer to the truth than Etcheverrey liked...Nearer topublishing it, I mean. Just now, Sir Edward, you told me that thecentral drawer of his writing table contained Mr. Clifford's workof the day, the finished chapters being in the left-hand drawers,the notes for the future parts, or for the whole, in the right-hand ones. I took the liberty of glancing at the contents of themiddle drawer"—for the second time, he might have added."Mr. Clifford has apparently stopped at the very last line of apage and in the middle of a sentence. Of course I don't know, butI should have thought that an author would finish a sentence,especially this one. It runs: 'Roberts felt that the'—Ican't imagine even a boy in school of a summer day when the bellrang leaving a sentence hung up like that. And Mr. Clifford has apile of untouched manuscript paper in the same drawer."
"My brother would have finished writing down his thought whilethe boat sank beneath him!" breathed Edward Clifford tensely."But the remainder of the sentence—the next page—maybe in a blotter." Hurriedly he led the way into the room where hehad handed Pointer the will. He pulled open the centraldrawer.
There, in a neat pile, lay Chapter nine ofThe Soul ofIshmael. There lay the third page with its typing runningdown to the very margin of the lowest edge. As Pointer had said,it ended with the unfinished sentence, Beside it was a carboncopy. It, too, showed no further pages.
Tindall and Sir Edward hunted skilfully, minutely, as men huntwho are used to searching for papers. Neither they, nor the ChiefInspector, found any completion of the phrase. Apparently JulianClifford had stopped his typewriter at "the" and never touched itagain.
"Some one his taken the page, or pages, following!" EdwardClifford muttered, as he straightened the piles again; "Newmanprobably."
Pointer was examining a sheet of carbon paper in front of amirror.
"Here's proof or at least strong presumptive evidence of thefact that there were more pages on that pile. That sheet there ispage three. Here are a whole bunch of superimposed numbers,that's certainly an eighteen. Mr. Clifford is hardly likely tohave torn up so many pages?"
"Certainly not. He worked page by page, not leaving one untilit was perfect in his eyes. I wonder"—Sir Edward tapped thetable nervously—"if it was his next chapter for theArcturus. If so, it would be nearly finished by now, Ifancy. He was never behind with his work. Where's the lastArcturus?" He spun round on his heel and pulled themonthly in question out of a revolving bookstand. "Yes. Chaptereight was the last. What can you make out on the carbon sheet,Chief Inspector?"
Pointer explained that chemicals and photographs would get thefull value. As it was, he could only read a few sentences.Tindall, more experienced at such work, did a little better, buthe soon flung it down.
"That all takes place in England! That's no good!" Then amoment later he gave an exclamation that brought Pointer andClifford to his side. He held up a slip of paper with somesentences scribbled on it. They were in Julian Clifford's small,close writing.
He read them aloud.
"'Have Roberts next go to Capvern, and meet E. Join E.'sband—England having become dangerous. Get necessary detailsas to organisation of E.'s band.' There we are!" Tindall wavedthe paper in front of Sir Edward, who nearly snatched at it, andthen tried to read it upside down. He nodded when he had scannedit.
"Get necessary details as to organisation of E.'s band," herepeated. "Julian's way, when a thought occurred to him, was tojot it down on the 'first thing that came to hand which he woulddrop into that drawer. Unfortunately he never made any roughdrafts. Still, I think your discovery, Chief Inspector, about theunfinished sentence, is vital. Vital! How did you come to lookfor it? For, after all, these sheets were under a pile of unusedpaper."
"It was only natural," Pointer said diffidently. Praise alwaysmade him shy. "When a jeweller's been killed, you think at onceof jewels in his possession. If it's a banker, you turn to hisbank first of all. Or a statesman—you think of statepapers. In each case you ask yourself, what was peculiar to theman. In Mr. Julian Clifford's case it was his books, his writing;so, merely as a matter of routine, I looked at his manuscript, orrather his typescript."
"It was a master-inspiration!" Sir Edward repeated. "Let mesee," he mused, "I wonder if Bancroft could help us. He'sJulian's publisher. I'll see him at once to-morrow. I'll explainthat I'm worried about Julian"—Sir Edward's facetwitched—"and that I wonder whether in his talks withBancroft he suggested going to any particular spot."
"Ah! that's where Mrs. Clifford thinks her husband is!" brokein Tindall, with the air of a man who has solved the riddle tohis own satisfaction. "Investigating some part of the Basquecountry. He would, of course, ask her not to speak of hiswhereabouts. Pointer, well played again!" He turned to thedetective officer with the words that used to echo from one sideof the football ground to the other in the days before Pointerjoined the Force.
"And the gables that I think may have been in Mrs. Clifford'smind, the gables that she therefore 'saw' in the crystal? Thegables that climbed into heaven like steps?" Pointer asked.
"Basque houses have so varied an architecture quite apart fromtheir own," Tindall reminded him. "Many of them, when they returnhome, build something in the style of the country where they madetheir money. But now about this idea of yours. I think we shallscore this time. Team work does it. That, of course, was why Mr.Clifford asked Mrs. Jansen the question about possible danger.Playing with dynamite wasn't in it with probing too deeply intoEtcheverrey's organisation, or into his past."
There was a pause.
"I wonder if Julian suspected the truth, or what we believe tohave been the truth, at the end?" Clifford said, coming out of adeep reverie. "If so, that would explain why he wanted quietly toget rid of his private secretary, why he warned the new librarianof Newman. He might well! Poor Julian, he might well! And if onlysuspicious, Julian would not speak of it to any one—leastof all to me—about a man who might be innocent, who mightreally have lost his memory."
"That lost memory was a master-stroke," Tindall murmuredappreciatively. "Now I'll confess something that's beendisturbing. me not a little." Clifford shot a glance at Pointer."Julian asked me about"—he seemed to think amoment—"about two months ago, how one could best make alarge payment to a foreigner in such a way that it couldn't betraced back to oneself. I naturally showed surprise. I suggestedletters of credit, but he insisted that the money must beuntraceable. I couldn't help him with any advice. Bonds to bearerseemed the only way out, since he said that a large sum of moneymight be in question. But when I pressed him as to what he was upto, he looked at me thoughtfully and finally said that I hadbetter know nothing whatever about the matter.
"I confess I asked no more. I was startled, uneasy. No onelikes to hear a member of his own family put questions likethose. No one occupying a responsible post in the country, thatis. Not with the Labour Party always ready to sling mud at us. Iconfess I thought of a subsidised paper for distribution inItaly—to be printed in Switzerland, independent of Fascistcensure. Julian had some such idea in his mind, I know. I was, ofcourse, strongly opposed to it. But now I see that he wasprobably thinking of Etcheverrey or some lieutenant of his.Perhaps that was partly in Hobbs's mind when he talked to me thisafternoon in the train. He told me that he believed Julian wasaway on an errand which it might be as well not to investigate.He told me that, apropos of a man from the Home Office who hadcalled at Thornbush this morning. A man calledMarbury—"
Pointer bowed with a faint smile. "I was Marbury."
"Hobbs said that he hoped he would not insist on investigatingwhere Clifford really was. Warned me that he was afraid thatJulian had got mixed up in something—well, something ofwhich it might be as well not to speak in the market-place at themoment. Then he even suggested, as he did again before you, thatJulian was mixed up in some vulgar intrigue."
Edward Clifford took a turn up the room and back.
"That discovery of the Chief Inspector's about thepage—his idea about the coming revelations in Julian'snovel—they do indeed open up vistas. Julian lunched withBancroft only last week, I know. I know too that he talked veryfreely with his publishers. Bancroft may have some precious pieceof information to give us to-morrow. You'll come with me, ofcourse, Tindall, and you too, I hope, Chief Inspector."
But Pointer could not promise. He arranged for a telephonereport in case he were detained.
"Was Mr. Clifford in the habit of talking over what he waswriting? In his own home, I mean?"
"As far as I know, never. He liked to get away from his workin his leisure hours. But, of course, to his secretary he woulddoubtless refer to his work. Probably discuss it—dreadfulthought—with him."
"And the person who took the remaining page or pages of thechapter that Clifford was writing"—Tindall was deep inconjectures—"would be that same private secretary, who, ifwe're right—as we most certainly are—was the verycharacter that Clifford was about to introduce. Newman may havesent that telephone message to Clifford which Hobbs thinks heheard. The message might easily have asked Clifford to come toFourteen Heath Mansions to meet some one whom Newman might haveassured Clifford was an expert Basque scholar. But an invalid,say. Yes, that all fits in quite well into the known facts."
"And Haslar?" Edward Clifford frowned, "what was Haslar'srôle?"
"Haslar," Tindall replied thoughtfully, "was, we know, orrather is, supposed to be a great friend of Newman's. He may be,instead, merely his tool or his prisoner. But Haslar, we may takeit, acting according to his instructions, takes the flat."Tindall paused, evidently getting together some more straw forhis next brick. "Cory—like a vulture, his presence withboth men means that something's wrong, he's the very emblem ofdeath throughout—Cory who was to figure as CaptainBrown...as the Basque expert, perhaps"—Tindall's cheekswere flushed as he reconstructed his scene—"Cory, we learnfrom Hobbs, was sent on Saturday morning to Thornbush to get ageneral idea of Mr. Clifford. Perhaps he was to invite Mr.Clifford to Fourteen Heath Mansions then. At any rate, that fellthrough. Etcheverrey miscalculated there. Or Cory outran hisinstructions. But about Haslar—are we to take Haslar'sravings as merely empty words? Or have they a substratum offact?" He addressed this directly to Pointer.
"Not as empty words, merely," Pointer thought decidedly. "Ibelieve the relations between Mr. Clifford and Mr. Haslar havebeen a little strained of late?" he asked, turning to SirEdward.
"They have seen less of each other," Edward Clifford allowed."Like Hobbs, Haslar is prone to put the worst construction on themost innocent things. My brother was interested as a character ina coming novel, in a friend of the Haslars. In the Mrs. Orr whomyou mentioned, and whom, for once, Hobbs had the grace to defend.Arnold Haslar took it upon himself to resent my brother'sinterest."
"Perhaps Mr. Haslar was in love with the lady," Pointersuggested artlessly.
"Very likely. But as my brother was in love with his own wife,he need have had no fears on that score," Edward Clifford repliedcurtly.
There was a short silence broken dreamily by Tindall, still athis weaving. "Was Newman's the hand that actually fired the shotat Haslar? What do you say, Chief Inspector?" He wished thatPointer would join a little more freely in the discussion. Afterall, though not the Foreign Office, the Yard does goodwork— quite good work.
Pointer told the facts of Newman's probable visit to Haslar'shouse as revealed by his tiny vacuum sweeper. But he made nocomment on them. Instead he seemed to change the subject.
"Apart altogether from his own work, did Mr. Clifford have anypapers or letters in his possession which Mr. Haslar wanted, ormay have wanted?" he asked unexpectedly.
Sir Edward stared.
"Papers? Letters? I don't quite see...Oh, yes, of course, Corymade you think of that! No, I don't see how there could be anysuch question here, Chief Inspector," Clifford said decisively."Certainly I know of none such."
"I think Etcheverrey may have played one of his very clevergames. May have got Haslar to choose Cory without explaining whyhe wanted him," Tindall said now. "Etcheverrey would count onCory exceeding his instructions. Suppose Clifford were handedover to him, as it were."
Sir-Edward made a gesture that looked like uncontrollableanguish.
"Etcheverrey may have counted on Cory taking his revenge,"Tindall went on gently but remorselessly, "being a Basque,revenge would be the first thing he himself would take in Cory'splace. I think—so far—that Haslar took the flat withno intention of harming Clifford, simply acting under orders. Whoknows what trumped-up reason was given him. That of the Basquefriend, say. Haslar takes the flat, Etcheverrey as Newman luresClifford there, Cory is told to kidnap Clifford. He does justwhat Etcheverrey counts on his doing: he shoots Clifford. Shootshim, as Cory would shoot him, from the back. Haslar falls ill.When he sees the evening papers to-day with the account ofEtcheverrey's supposed murder, he guesses the truth. When Newmancomes in he knows it. He tells Newman that he must confess.Newman tries to murder him and practically succeeds. I think thatis a workable hypothesis. Even those torn-up pieces of paper withEtcheverrey's signature on it which you boggle at"—heturned to Pointer—"fall into line. Etcheverrey, safelyensconced at Thornbush, left them as a true, yet false trail. Forthey led directly away from Thornbush. As for the head—mynew hypothesis may be a trifle weak there yet." Tindall lookedalmost wistfully at Pointer, who was staring at his own shoe-tips.
"I wonder," Pointer said suddenly, "if you would allow achartered accountant to go through Mr. Clifford's accounts, SirEdward?"
Clifford stared. "You think—?"
"I think they ought to be very carefully looked into," Pointersaid, rising, "merely as a matter of routine, of course."
"Oh, yes, I see. Of course. I heard my brother say, by theway, that Straight was a chartered accountant before he took uplibrarian's work."
"Good. Perhaps you would see him about it. I would like itdone as soon as possible. The thing can't be done secretly, ofcourse, since the accounts are under Mr. Hobbs, I believe?"
"Entirely. As I told you, Julian was more than satisfied withhim. Besides having a splendid knowledge of where to place work,he's a wonder with figures. He was Third Wrangler, you know."
And on that Pointer took his leave.
"Fine fellow, Pointer," Tindall said, as the door closed. "Oneof the best brains at Scotland Yard. Quite a marvel for hisyears, but the police routine sets its seal on a man's mind. Theycan't get away from it." And he plunged into the necessary stepsto be taken to follow up and prove his theory.
Pointer meanwhile drove back to his own rooms at ScotlandYard. Night and day were but figures of speech to him when needwas. Various men had been routed out of bed and some modern magicas soon as his car had reached Scotland Yard.
When Sir Humphry Davy saved the papyri of Pompeii, he blazedthe trail he blazed the trail for the treatment of all charredpapers, though that trail has turned many a corner sincethen.
In this instance the paper was heated again and photographedthe second before it crumbled to a white ash. Charred paper soheated gives off minute quantities of gas which fog certainspecially prepared plates. Ink, however invisible to the nakedeye, acts like a screen between the paper and the camera,shutting off the action of the gases, so that when developed theplate is foggy except in the places marked with ink.
Pointer was finally handed a photograph of that small islandof salvaged paper, which a touch would have turned into blackdust, on which now he read
I know the danger discovered your secret wife
The last word was very doubtful. It might have beenknife orlife. The writing and the paper and theink were all those of Julian Clifford.
Pointer sat for a second lost in meditation. Tindall would bepleased to see this. He had a copy sent over to his flat.
Compared with this feat, the deciphering of the carbon paperwas child's play. Heated, treated, rolled, photographed,enlarged, one of Pointer's men had typed page after page from it—ten pages in all—with only here and there a blank word. Evidently Clifford used a very good brand of carbon paper. It showed that there had been twenty pages in all, finishing thechapter. As Tindall had thought, they were entirely concernedwith England, but copies would none the less be sent to him andSir Edward, along with the copies of the two sentences extractedfrom the burnt paper that had flown up on to Newman's picturerail.
Then Pointer turned to another report, concerning Newman'sclothes, which he had sent to the Yard at the same time. Thesehad one by one been put into as many paper bags, sealed, beaten,and the dust then microscopically examined.
A certain gray waistcoat had yielded, among other usualtrifles such as cigarette dust, lead pencil dust, quite aknob— microscopically speaking—of fiddler's rosin,more properly called colophane; a rosin, that is, which is usedby violinists to give their bows more bite on the strings. Theanalyst had added a note to say that this special rosin was"black rosin," such as is used exclusively by players of thedouble bass.
The microscope had also found on the knob several bits of veryfine quality Wilton carpet wool of a deep, soft blue. In otherwords, the waistcoat had been worn by some one who played thedouble bass in a room where there was a blue Wilton pile carpet.The same message came from one of the coat sleeves.
So Newman played the double bass. It suited his grave face,his slender hands and wrists, that Pointer thought looked made ofwhipcord.
Double bass and blue carpet...
It was not an address, but it was something.
An inquiry over the telephone brought confirmation of theterrible words gasped out by Haslar to his sister. Words heard bythe night nurse as well. But Haslar was not yet dead. He stillbreathed. Pointer's plain-clothes man added that he himself wassitting in the room behind a screen.
And finally there came yet another message for the ChiefInspector before he left the Yard.
It was from a very unhappy wight, who explained that he hadlost Newman—lost him hopelessly.
"Clever of you, Black," Pointer murmured. "How did you manageit? Or is it a patent process?"
"I didn't do it, sir," the man breathed apologetically,"it's not the first time that chap's given a trailer the slip.Not by a long chalk. He left Thornbush immediately after you. Ifollowed him on to a bus. He got off at Charing Cross postoffice, and posted two letters. Then he went into a cinema."
"Ah," said Pointer, "just so!"
"But he didn't try the usual trick of walking in one door andout another," the detective explained resentfully. "I wasprepared for that. No. He must have doubled back on his owntracks in some way. Sat down for a second and then slipped out bythe door he came in. All I know is, he has gone. Gonecompletely."
Pointer was not pleased. But no man, not even a detective, cando more than his best. And after all, the Yard had the bluecarpet and the double bass to cling to.
He wrote out a description of Julian Clifford's missingsecretary for insertion in theGazette, the police dailypaper which no civilian may read. In it, and over the telephoneto all police stations, orders were given that the constableswere to report any place, where they heard, or had heard in therecent past, stringed music regularly played, especially on aSunday.
They were told to pass on the request to all milkmen andpostmen on their beats or in their neighbourhood. The stringedinstrument especially suspicious was given as the double bass,but as Pointer was not sure that a constable's ear could becertain of distinguishing it properly, he also included the wholerange of fiddles, preferring to sift all information later.
A snapshot of Newman was enlarged for the paper and printed ona grating so that every deviation from the absolutely regular wasat once noticed. They were very trifling, very few.
Ordinary enlargements of the snapshot were got ready to betaken to-morrow by detectives to all musical societies, allinstrument dealers, and musical supply stores. A double basspresupposes chamber music, or membership of some orchestra, ormusical society. A telephone call was sent to all taxi stands andgarages asking any men to report at the Yard who had recentlycarried a double bass. It was barely possible that they hadcarried one to-night. Newman, even though he thought his homeaddress undetectable, might have changed it, and his instrument,to a fresh place. Here was one of those points that no amount ofreasoning could settle. No deductions in the world would discoverwhere that place was. But the dust beaten out of his waistcoatpocket and examined under the microscope might yet find it. ThenPointer called it a day, and went to bed.
But at dawn he was up again, and out at Thornbush, watchingwith the two road-menders the summer sun wake the garden. Nothingon earth is more lovely. When it grew light enough to see, themen shook off the spell, and fell to work on the places which hadbeen marked by the two "lads after their dormouse," as havingbeen recently disturbed. They found nothing, let alone a tin boxwith plaster—and a head—in it.
Then Pointer whizzed along to Haslar's garden. The samedormouse had escaped there too, it seemed. Places of disturbedearth had been marked. So the same search took place here too,with the same negative result.
POINTER was at breakfast at eight o'clock whenhe received a letter rushed up to him by a motor cyclist fromScotland Yard, where it had just been delivered. It had beenposted the previous evening at Charing Cross. It was signed A.Newman, and ran:—
ToDetective ChiefInspector Pointer.
Dear Sir,
I know that you have had your suspicions of me,and that it is only a question of days before the trap closes ifI stay at Thornbush. I prefer to slip away while I can. Theheadless body found in Fourteen Heath Mansions, andidentified—publicly, at any rate—by the police asEtcheverrey, a Basque anarchist, is Mr. Julian Clifford's. Ikilled him last night for reasons which concern no one butmyself. I took the flat for a month, under the name of Tourcoin,and induced Mr. Clifford to come there late last night. The restyou know. Haslar guessed what had happened when he read thedescription of his coat and ring, borrowed by me; as well as fromsome things that I let slip. I shot him to prevent his going tothe police. I did not intend to hurt him severely. My intentionwas to inflict a slight wound to disable him until I could makemy arrangements.
Faithfully yours,
A. Newman.
Pointer had barely finished this when his telephonebuzzed. It was one of the men whom he had left at Arnold Haslar'shouse. He was speaking from a near-by telephone. He read out tothe Chief Inspector the letters which he had just taken from thepostman. None interested Pointer except one from Newman.Practically a replica of his own letter, informing "Dear MissHaslar" of the same terrible facts and ending up "yours verytruly."
The letters were duly re-fastened and delivered.
Newman evidently believed that he had got clear of the police,or this letter would not have been written—not yet. SoPointer read the situation. But had Newman really escaped? Timealone would tell. As for the telephone message to the taxis, noinformation was brought in overnight that fitted Newman, nor washis portrait identified by any of the men.
Pointer himself drove at once to Thornbush and had a shorttalk with Sir Edward, who had spent what remained of the nightthere. Clifford read Newman's letter with a puckered brow.
"It fits in with our idea of last night, and with thatdeciphered bit of burnt paper. 'I know the danger,' Julian wrote.But that was evidently just what my brother did not know. Ofcourse the last word on that fragment is eitherknife orlife. Certainly notwife. I see no necessity ofeven suggesting that third reading."
Pointer agreed that until they knew more, either of the twowords might be substituted.
There was a silence.
"This confession of—we will continue to call himNewman—is an extraordinary document. Is it a genuineconfession, do you think?"
"Very difficult to say, Sir Edward."
Mrs. Clifford came into the room at that. She looked verycomposed. Yet Pointer thought that she had not slept well. Hehanded her the letter from Newman. Sir Edward had decided thatthat ought to be done. She read it, and let it fall to theground. For a second she stared at him with eyes dilated byhorror, then she sat motionless in the chair which Cliffordbrought forward. So motionless, that she scarcely seemed tobreathe. Finally she looked up, outwardly at any rate quitecalm.
"This is all some wild mistake. Arnold began it with hisravings, and now Mr. Newman writes this with some idea of savinghim from suspicion. Suspicion of—oh, it's too horriblygrotesque! I wish I could make you understand, both of you, thatJulian is perfectly well, and never has been in any danger, atleast not in danger of his life. I had a letter from him onlythis morning. I kept it to show you, Edward. Though he expresslyasks me to destroy it. I'll get it."
"It's not possible that Julian wrote that letter, Alison,"Edward Clifford said sadly. "My dear, there's no doubt whateverthat our Julian is dead—none."
Mrs. Clifford bit her lip.
"I'll get his letter. That'll convince you..."
A minute later she returned looked rather flushed. "I musthave dropped it somewhere. I thought I had locked it in mybureau, but it's not there."
"What was in it?" Pointer asked bluntly.
"Just vague generalities," Mrs. Clifford said casually,"except that he repeats that he'll be back for certain on Fridayat latest."
"Still no address?" Pointer asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Still no address," she said coldly. Pointer stood lookingdown at her. His face was very grave.
"Mrs. Clifford, I don't think you realise the position atall," he said finally. "We at Scotland Yard believe that yourhusband was murdered. I believe that he was murdered by some onein, or closely connected with this house. We know that he isdead. I'm sorry to say, weknow it. You yourself are notfree from suspicion. No one who is in any way connected with Mr.Clifford can be. Yet you persist in an attitude which cannot butbe considered suspicious, for it tries its best to hold up thesearch—to put it off. As Sir Edward says, that letter ofwhich you speak is a forgery. We must see it—if it is to befound. It is most unfortunate that it should havebeen—lost."
Clifford listened as though each word hurt him. He all butinterposed once, then he caught the Chief Inspector's warning eyeand kept silent.
Mrs. Clifford looked absolutely unmoved. Her rather rabbit-like mouth set itself perhaps a shade firmer.
Clifford leant forward and took her hand.
"Alison, I wish I could spare you. If there were a doubtpossible..."
Mrs. Clifford looked at him very pleasantly, but apparentlyshe was not to be shaken from her attitude of absolute convictionthat Julian Clifford was well, and would return by Fridayevening.
"That's only the day after to-morrow," she pointed out, "dowait till then, Edward, before doing anything. Anythingwhatever."
Trimble came in. Chief Inspector Pointer was wanted on thetelephone. It was Richard Straight's quiet voice this time.
"Is that you, Chief Inspector Pointer? Could you come at onceto Mr. Haslar's? I walked over before breakfast to hear how heis. He's still alive. But Miss Haslar is in trouble. She's justhad a letter from Newman, and has something to tell you about himthat she thinks you ought to know. She may change her mind. I'vehad a great deal of difficulty..."
Pointer could not fly to the house, but he did his best to getthere before Diana should have done anything so unkind.
He was shown at once into her sitting-room. She sat in a bigchair looking oddly small and pinched. Her face was very whiteand still. Before her was an open letter. Straight was pretendingto read the morning paper. He jumped up and shook hands.
"Miss Haslar wants me to stay... She has something to tell you—"
"Have you had a letter from Mr. Newman too?" Pointer askedher.
"Yes." Diana spoke tonelessly. Her voice was the tired voiceof one wearied with a long, long struggle. "Mr. Newman is reallySanz Etcheverrey, Chief Inspector."
Straight jumped.
Pointer only looked at the toes of his shoes.
"You're sure?"
"I was engaged to him. It was a secret engagement. But I wasengaged to him."
There was a silence.
"Do you feel like telling me more about it?" Pointer asked."Except the mere fact of your identification, I think the detailscan be kept quite confidential."
Diana seemed wrapped in some cloak of remembered sorrow. Evenwhen Straight went over to her and took her hand, she quietly butfirmly disengaged her own. Just now she was locked among hermemories. No one could enter. "It was the second year of thewar," she began again.
"Why, you were only a kid, Diana," Straight interjected.
"I was nineteen. He was twenty-one. I was at Hendaye with somerelations called Riply. Mr. Riply enlarged the harbour atMelbourne," she explained to Pointer.
"Sir Karri Riply, the engineer?" he asked.
She nodded.
"He was dying. The ship he came over on had been torpedoed andexposure in a boat for three days had given him pneumonia. Allthe hotels were being used as military hospitals along the coast.But we finally took a villa, his wife and I, at Hendaye. Justthis side of the Spanish frontier which was practically unguardedjust there. Even long after the Bolo affair, a five-franc orpeseta note, as the case might be, would get you over the lineand no questions asked. There were lots of Spaniards swarmingeverywhere as far as Bordeaux. Sanz Etcheverrey was one of them.He called himself Senor Rosa. But he told me in strict confidencethat his real name was Sanz Etcheverrey, then an unknown name tome, and to everybody outside a very small circle. Well, he andI—" She gave a half shrug. "I adored him. He seemed toadore me, though he refused to have our engagement made public.He said that as he was on a very private and dangerous mission itwould injure him if it became known that he was attending toanything else but his orders. He never pretended—tome—not to be a secret service agent. But I didn't guessthat what he was after were the Melbourne Harbour plans whichMr.—he was Sir Karri only the night he died—Riplyalways kept with him.
"Sanz used to ask me all sorts of questions about those planstoo. Where Mr. Riply kept them, and so on. I, like a fool, usedto consult him as to the best place." Diana gave a hopelessgesture of her hand, then she let it fall back into her lap."Karri Riply died quite unexpectedly. I hurried home from thehospital where I helped, to find Mildred, his wife, holding himup in her arms while he fought for his last breath. Suddenly Ithought of those plans. Sanz Etcheverrey had been talking aboutthem only that day. And at that moment, as though I at last had aray of sense, I remembered that he had got the password to thesafe out of me—oh, very cleverly! But for the first time Ihad, as I say, a ray of sense. I hurried to the room where thesafe stood, opened the door, and there, working with an electictorch, with a beret pulled down over his eyes to his cheek-bones,was Sanz.
"I knew him at once, though I had never seen him in his Basquedress before. I screamed at him. But he—he hit me!" Dianacovered her face with her hands. "I suppose he meant to kill me.He knocked me senseless. He must have picked me up and carried meto my room and locked me in. When I came to I had an awful painin my head, but I got out through the window. There was no usetrying to get help. The servants could not be spared at such amoment. I saw the marks of a car, two cars to be exact, which hadjust left the villa. They were both going the same way. I knewSanz's tyres. I got out a motor-bicycle and followed them. Ifollowed them all night until dawn found me in Spain, atPamplona. There I caught up with him in a sort of locanda—astrange little place. And Etcheverrey was in the midst of thewildest-looking lot of brigands! He was giving them their orders,I think.
"I asked for the plans back. I still never dreamt that hewouldn't give them to me." Diana's smile told how she judged thataction now. "They tied me up and carted—it wasn'tcarried—me to an upper room. After about an hourEtcheverrey climbed in from the roof. He told me that the otherswanted to kill me because I had found out their meeting place,and because they thought I had heard their passwords. He wantedme to come with him. I refused. When I should have distrusted himI had trusted him. Now when, as it happened, he was honest withme, I distrusted every word. He got me out by carrying me on tothe roof and letting me down, bound and gagged, to the ground.Then he put me in a car. And at that I did believe him, for someof the men caught sight of us and fired. It wasn't what I shouldcall a car at all. It was a sort of motor float that carried oilto the coast for the submarines. He laid me on the floor andcovered me with a rug and drove like mad. How we bumped andswayed!
"Another car went after us, but Etcheverrey hit its tyres whenit gained too much. They only hit one of our petrol tins and setit on fire. We just beat them into France. He had a Britishpassport, it seems—a military passport! And I had mine! Itwas our papers that got us over the border. Because, after all,when it came to shooting, the French guards turned out to a manin a solid line across the road, on their side of the bridge.Etcheverrey ran me on to Bayonne, where he dropped me at ourconsul's. Then he turned the car and dashed off. I never saw himagain—until I saw him come into the drawing-room atThornbush in the wake of Uncle Julian, and heard that his namewas Algernon Newman, and that he had lost his memory in the lastyear of the war while fighting on our side in a Surrey regimentat Saint Quentin!"
Again there was a silence.
"Why didn't you tell us this before," Straight asked stiffly,"when first you heard that Etcheverrey was supposed to, have beenmurdered?"
"I don't suppose I can make you understand." And she turned toPointer as though there was more chance with him than withRichard. "If hehad really lost his memory, it seemed anawful thing to bring up a past when he was a spy against us...Andhe saved my life...Whatever he did as well, he saved my life thatday at Pamplona. He was wounded saving me."
"Did you ever tell Mr. Clifford about your belief that Mr.Newman was Sanz Etcheverrey the Basque anarchist?" Pointerasked.
"No. If he had really lost his memory—that was thedilemma. Had he lost it, or had he not?"
"You couldn't be sure?" Pointer was looking at her apparentlycasually but in reality very keenly.
"Not for certain—though I doubted it. But though I triedhim over and over again, I could never trip him up. He never gavehimself away in all these many years."
"Did you ever tell Mr. Clifford who you thought his secretarywas?" Pointer repeated.
"No. I did my best, without telling him, to get him to let Mr.Newman go."
"And Mr. Clifford?"
"He thought I was prejudiced."
"When Sir Edward spoke of Etcheverrey, did you tell him whatyou have just told us?"
"No. I told no one."
"Did Mr. Newman know you suspected him?"
"Yes. He used to treat it as something funny. I never accusedhim in so many words of being Sanz Etcheverrey, but I as good astold him that I didn't believe he had lost his memory. Or that hewas an Englishman. Or that he had ever fought on our side in thewar."
"And he?"
Diana flushed. "He used to jeer at me. It amounted to that. Heused to beg me to tell him of his past, not to tantalize him withvague hints. You know Mr. Newman's gibing way. A way that henever had at Hendaye," she ended on a soft note.
"Was Mr. Etcheverrey musical?"
"Very. He could play anything with strings—'Cello,violin, anything with strings."
"Did he ever play the double bass?"
She could not say.
"And Mr. Newman. Was he musical?"
"No. He always insisted that he couldn't tell whether theywere playing Wagner or Blackpool."
"Was Mr. Clifford interested in Etcheverrey—I mean, ofcourse, as distinct from Mr. Newman, his secretary?" Pointerasked next.
"I thought so. Lately it seemed to me that he was alwaystalking of him, to Mr. Newman of all men! Uncle Julian spoke asthough he got all sorts of ideas about him from Mr. Newman."
"Do you think Mr. Clifford intended to make any literary useof the knowledge. Expected to put Etcheverrey himself in abook?"
Diana stared in horror.
"That thought would have been the last straw!" she said in alow voice. "Reckless as Sanz Etcheverrey—as Mr. Newman is,he wouldn't dare to chance that! Yet—" She bit her lip.
"You think it would appeal to him?" Pointer finished.
"It might," Diana agreed, "he loved to play with danger."
"But you yourself had no idea of any such intention on Mr.Clifford's part?"
"None whatever. Nor have I now, I'm thankful to say." Theanswer came with convincing sincerity. So she had not taken thosemissing pages of Mr. Clifford's unfinished chapter. A suspicionthat had crossed Pointer's mind just now.
Pointer turned to ask Straight the same question, but the lookof absolute stupefaction on that young man's face was answerenough. Obviously he had not heard of any idea of introducing theanarchist into the author's work.
"Good Lord!" he breathed, "what a coincidence that Mr.Clifford should have been murdered by the man! I suppose itis a coincidence?"
"More probably Mr. Clifford stumbled on some truth," Pointerexplained.
"I see," Straight still looked amazed, "and Etcheverrey,finding himself discovered, killed him."
This was Tindall's and Sir Edward Clifford's suggestion too.And like a warning notice not to keep to the wrong side of theroad, two sentences stood out before Pointer's mental eye. Twosentences that had been burnt to a brittle cinder: "I know thedanger" "discovered your secret."
"Oh, no, no, no!" Diana burst out, with a sound to her voiceas though it came tearing from her very heart itself, "not that!Etcheverrey would never have killed Uncle Julian for any personalreason. If it's true that he killed him, then it was for someother, some political end."
"I believe you love him still," Straight said harshly, lookingat her in open indignation.
"And if I do—can I help myself?" she asked passionately."Can you cure yourself of cancer by wanting to be cured? Don'tyou suppose I've told myself all the facts over and over again?Ofcourse it's glamour and only glamour. OfcourseI've had a lucky escape—but I can't tear it out." She wasall but whispering. Tears stood in her eyes as in a child's, butthese were the tears that scald.
"And I thought you loathed the chap!" Straight lookedbewildered and hurt. "You always said you loathed him," herepeated accusingly.
"Of course I said so, because I didn't," Diana retortedindignantly.
"Well—women are the devil," was the morose and veryfeeling reply. "And only now that he has murdered Mr. Cliffordand tried to murder your brother, you think the time has come tospeak out?" Straight snorted. "And I thought it was love ofjustice! To tell me to my face that you still love thismurderer—"
"He's not a murderer." Diana was white but decided. "He's aman acting for his government. If he—if he—hadanything to do with Uncle Julian's death it was as an agent as asecret service agent"—she hid her face in herhands—"obeying orders as a soldier does."
There was a pause.
"And now, Miss Haslar, to pass on to another point"—theChief Inspector looked very grave. "It was not Mr. Newman whotook that flat, 14 Heath Mansions; it was your brother, Mr.Haslar. He has been identified beyond any doubt."
"He was all muffled up," Diana began quickly.
"Mr. Haslar has been identified by his voice—an unusualvoice," Pointer said quietly, inexorably.
Diana gazed in dumb misery out of the window. A lovely dayseemed to mock human suffering. A thrush, even though it wasJuly, the month of flowers, not of birds, tried a few notes. Thenhe fell silent, as suddenly as though he were a friend and hadseen her face. But the calls of the gold-finches flashed to andfro across the roses; and on a sudden, sweet and clear, a wren'ssong rang out like a silver bugle, as gay, as spiritually alive,as in spring. The little brown singer popped back into its shadynook, but something in the gallant strain had helped Diana. Sheturned around.
"When you first read in the papers of the murder ofEtcheverrey, what did you think?" Pointer went on. "You could notthen have thought that it was Mr. Newman who had taken the flat,since you say that Mr. Newman is Etcheverrey?"
"I thought it was Arnold then, of course, who had taken it,"she agreed. "I thought—he had learnt of Sanz'streachery—and had—killed him."
"Because of you?" Pointer asked gently.
"Because of me, and because of the taking of the MelbourneHarbour plans. Straight understood that drive back to Arnold'shouse now. That cry of fright when she had seen the man, of whoseterrible death she had just read, standing on the steps."
"And when you saw Mr. Newman?" Pointer pressed.
"I knew then that it was he who had killed—not beenkilled. I thought that he had taken Arnold's ulster and ring. ButI never guessed that the unknown, murdered man was Uncle Julian!And in spite of what he writes in those letters, I can't believeit. I can't!" Diana ended on a strangled cry.
Straight jumped as though something had stung him.
"I can't stand your grief for this anarchist," he said hotly."You're not even pretending to—to cast him off. If you weredisgusted with him, it would be different. But, as it is—Itold you that I loved you. I told you that I wanted nothingbetter than to make you my wife. That I would wait years for youto say yes." He paused dramatically.
"Well?" Diana—it is regrettable to record thefact—snapped at him.
"I won't trouble you any more," he said coldly. "I withdrawany pretensions to winning your affections. I could hardly hopeto carry the day against such a rival as this Basque murdererevidently is."
He stalked from the room. Diana burst into an unmirthful,cackling laugh.
"Jilted by the second man," she murmured. "Really I seem to bemost unfortunate!" But her laughter died out as suddenly as athad come. Her head resting against her folded hands, she layquite still in the chair, looking very forlorn all of a sudden.She had counted on Dick Straight. She had not loved him. She hadknown he could be severe, but she had counted on him.
The door opened again. Straight held it shut behind him. "Butif ever you should need me—" he began a littlesheepishly.
"I don't need you. I never have, and never shall," Dianaretorted. And this time Straight banged the front door behind himin earnest.
Diana turned to Pointer, who had apparently been looking athis shoes as a man does when two people forget that they are notalone.
"You had no idea that your brother and this Mr. Newman wereconcocting any scheme together in which your uncle, Mr. Clifford,figured?" Pointer asked.
The blood seemed to leave Diana's face.
"I—I—knew they were together a good deal," shetemporised.
"Did Mr. Newman ever seem to you to take a high hand with Mr.Haslar?"
"With Arnold? On the contrary, he always fell in witheverything—" Diana started. She had spoken too quickly.
"I couldn't say what went on when the two were alonetogether," she corrected herself.
"You had no idea of anything being planned which concerned Mr.Clifford?"
"No." It was an obvious lie. So something was on foot whichshe had noticed!
"Miss Haslar, your brother is in a most dangerous position,"Pointer said in a low and gentle but very decided voice. "I'm nottrying to trap you into some admission. During this interview I'mreally only trying to see if he might not have taken that flatfor some other reason—for a quite differentpurpose—than what seems the obvious one."
She was silent.
"You know of none? You can think of no reason?"
"None," Diana said firmly—much too firmly. Realignorance would have hesitated, have cast about...So the reasonof which she knew, or at which she guessed, told against herbrother, and probably did concern Julian Clifford, her uncle.
"What papers were they which Mr. Haslar wanted taken from Mr.Clifford?" Pointer asked immediately.
He had hit some mark. Diana's eyes widened, as do the eyes ofa man before he drops, who has been struck over the heart.
"I don't know what you mean?" She was gone, before Pointercould intercept her, slipping out of her chair and through a doorlike swift running water.
Pointer had had an outline of the Holford Will case hunted upat Scotland Yard, and had read it through—once. What wasthere in it which had made Haslar pick out Major Cory? Whatpurpose could such a man serve? Supposing always that Haslar hadselected him of his own free will—and Cory, in the fewminutes when he talked to Pointer, had not spoken of any commonmaster. He had, indeed, seemed to feel for Haslar the resentmenta man feels for one who has personally tried to dupe him, toentangle him.
Why, then, had Haslar selected Cory? All that was shown of themajor by the evidence at the trial, was that he was anunscrupulous blackguard who would have sold his grandmother tomake glue were he offered a good price for her. He had stolen awill very cleverly though—for that Cory had stolen old Mrs.Holford's will, Pointer did not doubt after he had read theinside police information—and he had stolen it so cleverlythat the best brains in England had not been able to bring thecrime home to him. He had done it by a trick. He had returnedwhat purported to be the new will to the family solicitor, butwhen the envelope was opened, it showed quite another, relativelyunimportant paper.
Yes, Pointer had decided, Cory was the last man whom any onewho had sat through that trial would pick out for a capableassassin. He had shown up as a white-livered whelp. But if anyone wanted a paper stolen...Clifford's missing manuscript pagesdid not affect this. They were taken to be destroyed, notpreserved. They were not stolen in Pointer's sense; nor, if itwas anything to do with Clifford's work, would Haslar have hadneed of an outside thief or furnished flat, so that if, as hebelieved, Haslar had deliberately chosen Cory, Pointer thoughtthat he held one end of the very tangled coil which surroundedthe murder of Julian Clifford.
Back at Scotland Yard, Pointer had not finished his swiftnotes on the latest development of the Clifford Case when yetanother telephone message reached him.
Thirty-three constables, five milkmen, and seven postmen hadalready reported stringed enthusiasts along their usual beats.One postman even claimed that the instrument in question had beenmost certainly a double bass. It proved to have been a piccolo,but at one of the addresses—a block of chambers off Gray'sInn— Newman's portrait was recognised as that of a Mr.Pollock, Mr. Algernon Pollock, who had had rooms in the buildingfor some five years now. Mr. Pollock was a country gentleman, theporter said, who only came up to town now and then, about once aweek it might be, and always over the Sunday. Great musician, inthe sense that he was very fond of music. Many a ticket for aconcert, or the opera, had been bestowed on the porter. Pointerhad arranged that each of his men should represent himself as abuyer of old stringed instruments, who was trying to locate thecontrabasso used by the great Domenico Dragonetti, which wasbelieved to be in private hands in London. Each of the detectiveswent on to say that a gentleman had been described to him by amusical-instrument mender as the possessor of this particulartreasure. And he in his turn described Newman. In this case thedescription fitted—fitted perfectly. Could the collector ofmusical instruments see Mr. Pollock? Mr. Pollock was away; he hadtelephoned up yesterday evening late to say that he would be outof England for a few weeks.
Pointer had a very curious volume in his library at ScotlandYard. He turned to a chapter headed Window-cleaners. Everyreputable firm supplied him with a list of the houses for whichthey worked. A little later, and the head porter of the chamberswas called up by a man who told him over the wire that he was themanager of the particular window-cleaners company who had acontract for the building. There was talk of a strike. Ratherthan incommode their most valued customers, the WindowAssociation were sending out a couple of their best men to do thewindows this week, so that, should there be any question oftrouble, the Gray's Inn flats at any rate would not suffer.
The hall porter told them to send the men along, and within aquarter of an hour a tall, lanky, bearded man, with anothersmaller companion in the well-known uniforms, carrying the properappliances, arrived. The one had been a regular Window-cleaner,at least for a while. Pointer had picked up tips from him as theycame along—the best of which was a bottle of methylatedspirit. Even so, he was no speed-fiend at the work. A glance atthe board told him that Mr. Pollock had one of the top flats.Pointer promptly left his assistants to begin with the groundfloor, and started up the stairs. A maid unlocked the littlesuite. There were three rooms. The gray music room had a harebellblue Wilton carpet; a fine piano was in one corner, a double bassstood against one end.
The bedroom, the next room into which Pointer stepped, waspainted to represent an opening in a beech forest. It wasbeautiful in colour, but it told Pointer nothing. The third room,the living-room, was furnished with a luxury which made him standa few minutes considering it very carefully. Those Heppelwhitechairs with their carved wheat ears, and shaped rail backs weregenuine. They were not to be picked up for a song; nor thatsideboard to match; nor those Waterford tumblers; nor theSpengler Chelsea figures standing on both sides of an earlyWorcester jar, whose green tinge spoke for its honesty. A rareold Pretender goblet faced Pointer. Its crowned cypher I.R. hadan Amen engraved below it. Behind it was a beautiful piece ofBeauvais tapestry. Or was it from Mortlake? In either case, itwas a lovely though sombre thing, and far beyond most purses.Pointer stepped to some candlesticks on a superbly carvedwriting-table, and looked at the hall mark. York silver, and aPaul Lamerie tray, on the table of a man whose salary was £250 ayear! And then Pointer saw something coiled on the wall over thewriting-table, which kept even him rigid in his place for asecond. It was a hangman's noose.
POINTER knew that especial twist of rope, andknew that knot. He stared at it fascinated. What was its meaning?He examined the top of the rope with his lens. Its dust suggestedmany months in the same position. An ice-axe had been thrustthrough the loop. On each side were snapshots of glacierclimbing, but that was not a climber's rope. Nor a knot used forany other purpose in the world. Nor in any prison but a Britishprison. What did it mean? Placed where the eyes of the man at thedesk would always see it—must always see it—in that room where everything else was a joy to look at.
Pointer went over the many books. Mr. Pollock had not comeback here to "tidy up" last night. Evidently he was afraid of hishiding place being discovered, and preferred to make yetanother.
One whole wall was given over to Spanish works alone. Many ofthese were political. The books were mostly blank as far as namewent, but here and there was an Algernon Pollock in Newman's verycharacteristic writing.
Pointer found three names in an address book, which skilfultelephone inquiries soon showed were the names of the othermembers of a musical quartet which met every Sunday afternoon atPollock's flat for chamber music. Each had known his host for avarying length of time, but all only since the end of the war. Afew more well-planted questions showed that Mr. Pollock had by nomeans lost his memory of what went on during, or before, thatgreat event. The Chief Inspector next unlocked the drawers of thewriting-table. He found nothing that bore on his hunt, until hefished a roll of pink tape out of a drawer. It was wound around apostcard to serve as a core. Unrolling the tape, Pointer smoothedout the card. The top had been cut off at some time to permit ofits going into a frame. So at least Pointer thought from thelittle marks on the edges. At the back, one line of writing alonesurvived the shears. A rather faded "you an idea of the place."The words were in Mrs. Clifford's writing, but that was not whyPointer stared at the card.
"Gables like steps running up into heaven," that was how theseroofs were built. The picture was of a street in sometown—not an English town—and those peculiargables...Pointer put the card carefully into his letter-case.Then he glanced over the bathroom, and went out into the hall,told the porter that he was feeling ill and that his mate wouldcarry on, and hurried back to New Scotland Yard. Here he changedand went in his own person to interview the proprietor of theflats, and to explain to him that Scotland Yard feared, "frominformation which had come to hand," that a robbery was beingplanned on some of the rooms in the chambers. He wanted,therefore, to introduce two of his men in the guise of a nightand a day porter. They would require no pay. The proprietor wasenchanted with this proof of the wide-awake attitude of our greatdetective force, and Pointer's men were accepted on the spot.Only the proprietor and the head porter were to know thetruth.
In his car he studied the little picture postcard again—studied it through his glass. The architecture, all brick, wasnew to him, and was quite charming. It was a definite style,Pointer saw, and an old style—one that had grown. A houseor two showed it in its entirety, but all of them in someparticular. In every case the gables were high, and rose insteps, generally seven or nine, on a side to the peak, anotherstep. The windows were high. Some of the houses showed eachwindow enclosed in vertical mouldings crowned with arches, whichwere again enclosed in one large moulding carried up into thegable. The doors were many of them of slatted wood. Some werestudded. Pointer the man quite forgot Pointer the detective-officer as he came on item after item of charming design andwork. Where was this place where the builder was still acraftsman? He studied each detail anew. The houses were all ofbrick—small Tudor bricks, and all the courses—Pointergot his first clue.
"Flemish bond," he muttered to himself.
That is to say, the rows did not, as in "English bond,"consist of bricks laid alternately longways and endways,"stretchers and headers," as a builder would call them. But eachrow was alternatively composed of all headers or all stretchers.And the whole of every house all down the side of the curvingstreet which the postcard showed, was built in this way. OnlyFlemish bond...those fireplaces at Thornbush had told Pointerthat probably some one there knew Belgium.
Pointer took the postcard and went to see one of his manyfriends. He had them in all walks of life. It was to a priestthat he turned now. Father Warbury had given a lantern lecture tosome of the young plain-clothesmen only a little while ago, whichPointer had attended. He had Lectured on the architecture ofHolland, and at one point in his very interesting address, he hadmade a little leap into Flemish styles before pulling himself up,and saying that that was a subject in itself, and a mostfascinating subject.
Pointer found the priest in, and showed him the postcard. Helooked at it for a bare second.
"Bruges. Charming town. Don't know it? I'm pained. I thoughtyou knew all that we ordinary mortals do 'and then some,' as theboys say. Yes, Bruges." He looked again at the little piece ofcardboard. This time the word seemed a talisman. Bruges to thegood father meant but the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, andstood, not for a town of misery and horrors, but only for alittle square which, running from the Pont des Augustins to thePont Flamand and the Porte d'Ostend enclosed a world of art andgenius the like of which could not be matched then, or later. Tohim it meant van Eyck painting in the Main d'Or, Menlinc in therue St. Georges, with Bourbus and Gerard David near by; andCaxton bending over his presses. At any other time Pointer wouldhave been delighted to be conducted into this submerged city ofold, but now he was only anxious to get away. The priest noticingthis, picked up the card again and turned to modeen times.
"Yes. This is a picture of the rue de l'Aiguille in Bruges.There's no other architecture in the world quite likeit—not even in Belgium. Leopold II. had sense when hewouldn't let the modern mason spoil his Nüremberg...'the Veniceof the North,' as some call it...ridiculous, of course. Brugeshasn't the colours of Venice, but neither has Venice suchskylines."
Father Warbury again lost himself in a disquisition. Beginningcheerily this time with broken, redented bows, to pass on overperpendicular string courses, brick lace work, decorated keystones, and relieving arches, to the gloom of disappearingtimpans, rounded frontons, and plastered door cases.
Pointer hurried away as soon as the last word was said.
Bruges? What could be supposed to be taking Julian Clifford tothat town?...supposing that Mrs. Clifford's slip about the gablesthat climbed into heaven was a genuine slip, and it was so slightthat Pointer believed it to be genuine. He got a guide-book, andsoon saw that had she wanted to direct his attention to Bruges,she would have described thebeffroi, or the cathedral, orthe canals. Yes, Pointer believed the slip to have been a trueone. What illegal action then could Clifford have been, or havebeen supposed to be, engaged in at Bruges? Bruges is very nearOstend—a few minutes by train or car. Could Ostend be thereal objective? But Ostend has no streets where the gables climbinto heaven in converging sets of steps that meet at the gablepoint.
Pointer called Ward in again.
"Anything going on in Bruges to draw such a man as JulianClifford there, and have him want his presence kept secret?" heasked.
Ward pondered.
"Plenty to draw any lover of the beautiful to Bruges. In spiteof its trippers, and its drinking water that may, or may not, betyphoid. But to have Julian Clifford want his presence keptsecret"—his face lightened—"of course! Mrs. Orr! Hermother, Lady Winter, married a Belgian. Baron van der Bracht.They live just outside Bruges."
"Family respected? The van der Brachts, I mean?"
"Very Much so. Tremendously hit by the war, but he's one ofthe Court Chamberlains. Mrs. Orr is supposed to be over there,I've heard to-day."
Pointer pondered over the idea after Ward had gone. Mrs. Orr?Mrs. Orr and Julian Clifford? That idea might conceivably bestretched to explain Clifford's murder by some one, Haslar oranother, who was in love with Mrs. Orr. But it would not explainMrs. Clifford's attitude. There were plenty of things to take anartist or a collector to Bruges. Collectors walk in very darkplaces sometimes. Did Julian Clifford collect? His house did notshow any such taste. His wife, so Ward had told him, professed adislike of most old things.
Still—Pointer decided to try another "friend." Mr.Aronstein was back in town to-day, and Aronstein was the buyerfor the great American millionaire and collector, WallendSeaborn.
"To a collector," Pointer began over a lunch to which theother had insisted on carrying him off, and whose amplitude madethe abstemious Chief Inspector shudder, "is there anything nowgoing in Bruges which is really worth while—worth while ona large scale, I mean?"
"Bruges," Aronstein toyed with some more foie gras, "relic ofthe Holy Blood, of course. That's unique. Brought back from theHoly Land by a crusader, but apart from the money to buy it,which would run into several fortunes, the town would rise as aman if the authorities even hinted at such a sacrilege, and tearbuyer and sellers to pieces. The same is more or less true of thecrystal shrine in which it's shown. Diamonds and sapphires andsolid gold figurines. Then, of course, there's the Chimney of theFrank. Marvellous piece of carving. That, too, the town wouldnever sell."
"Anything it would sell?" Pointer persisted, "in someroundabout, secret way?"
Aronstein shot a long, lazy but very keen glance at Pointer."You're far from being alittle pitcher, but you certainlyhave the longest ears of any man I know."
Pointer looked very astute.
"One hears things," he murmured modestly.
"This talk is strictly confidential, of course? Oh, I knowyou, Chief Inspector; I haven't forgotten the Josephine necklace.Still, I'd like your word."
"Would anonymous be sufficient?" Pointer pleaded, "anyinformation I get will be for use, not show. That do?"
"Perfectly. Now what do you want to know? Open out."
"Is there anything buyable in Bruges that would take, say,three or four days to get hold of, would cost a pot of money,would be risky to get out of the country, or at least get thepurchaser into serious trouble if he were found out?"
"There is. More properly there are. Several things. Bruges,like many another Belgian town, wishes to sell a few of itstreasures—but you know all this, of course."
"Just assume that I know nothing whatever. Why shouldn't thetown sell?"
"The government doesn't want the nation's treasures cast outwholesale. It's passed a very stiff law to that effect, and it'svery much on the alert. I've had several things offered me, fromthis very town we're speaking of, provided I would take allresponsibility if things went wrong."
"All responsibility if things went wrong," murmured Pointerthoughtfully. "How wrong could they go?"
"Prison. Long term. Theft. And theft of church property,"Aronstein said briefly. "The agent who approached me, made itquite clear that the town council would disown all part in theaffair—would never have heard of any offer. But privately Iwould be put into touch with the right people who would let mehave the various articles—at a price, mind you—if Iwould take all risk of the government getting on the track ofwhat was going on. It wasn't good enough for me. I don't need todo things in that style.Caveat emptor in an ordinary way,yes. But prison! Though I don't say that ifl'agneaumystique from Ghent—"
"Could you tell me in detail what was offered from, or by,Bruges?"
"Several pictures..."
Pointer shook his head. He did not think that pictures wouldaccount for the mystery at Thornbush. Mr. and Mrs. Clifford hadsent a large number away to homes, and down to their brother'splace at Cleave Ford.
"A couple of tapestries well worth having from the cathedral.A gold monstrance. Possibly—doubtful that—butpossibly the St. Ursula shrine. A missal..."
Pointer shook his head at each item.
"And, low be it spoken, the Charlemagne Crystal."
"The Charlemagne Crystal?" Pointer pricked up his ears.Aronstein lit a cigar nearly as fat as himself. He loved tolecture.
"Genuine Charlemagne. Genuine crystal. Supposed to have beenthe reason for Charlemagne's successes...saw things in it. SawRonceval, but too late. Eginhard, his secretary, mentions it. Sodo all theRomans de geste. Charlemagne willed it to Luisof Aquitaine, his third son, who took it to Aquitaine. The legendruns that Joan of Arc is supposed to have consulted it at Rheimsand seen her awful end, and that was why she tried to give uppolitics. Unfortunately for the legend, before her day it hadleft France. How did it get to Bruges? Well, after theBrugesMatins, when the town rose against the French, and thegutters ran red with his soldiers' blood, Philippe-le-bel, thethen King of France, took the crystal with him as a talisman toaid him in the great reprisal against the city. Though one wouldhave thought three to one would have been sufficient preparationwithout magical aid.
"Anyway, when he was defeated at the Battle of the GoldenSpurs, the crystal fell into the citizens' hands and becameChurch property. So did the king, pretty nearly. The crystal hasremained in Bruges to this day. Unless it's been sold secretly,since it was offered to me for Mr. Seaborn. The town took chargeof it after they dissolved a Dominican monastery. But, mind you,it would still rank as Church-owned."
"When was it offered to you?"
"Nearly two months ago, on June first or second."
"How would any one set about purchasing the crystal?" Pointerasked.
"Very cautiously, if he were wise," laughed Aronstein. "ButBruges at last has built a splendid new museum. The great WestFlanders Museum, and appointed a new director. A Mr. de Coninck.He's willing to deal, if the purchaser can get the stuff out ofthe country, and will take the risk of prosecution should he becaught. Some men might be tempted. I'm not."
"How much is the crystal worth?"
"You'd have to pay something around sixty, or possibly seventythousand. Even I should have to fork out fifty."
"Mr. Julian Clifford collects, doesn't he?"
"Not that I know of. But Sir Edward attends a sale now andthen. He has some good things down at Cleave Ford."
"Ah, yes, I understand that Mr. Julian Clifford's secretary, aman called Newman, buys for him."
"Newman? I've met Newman. Wonderful chap on Spanish bindings.But I've never seen him at a big sale."
"Would Julian Clifford be likely to hear of these things onoffer at Bruges?"
Aronstein laughed.
"I wondered how much of this you already knew!"
"The agent's name?" Pointer suggested trying to lookomniscient.
"Mrs. Orr. Ah! I thought you knew it. Yes, she's a sister-in-law of Coninck's—or at least her half sister is Madame deConinck."
As soon as the lunch was over, Pointer wirelessed an inquiryto Bruges as to the Charlemagne crystal. The reply came back atonce. The crystal was very well, thank you. Why shouldn't it be?Could the Chief Inspector have a look at it? Was it on view? Itwas. Case number sixteen. First room on your right as you enteredthe museum. Yes, that fitted quite nicely into Pointer's mosaic.It was the answer that he expected.
So there was a great prize to be bought at Bruges. Did JulianClifford's mysterious secretary know this too? Did the collectorin him—for the chambers near Gray's Inn were those of areal collector—covet that crystal as well?—forhimself? Or as a gift to some one who would prize it highly?
A complex case this.
By hurrying up his work, Pointer was able, after all, toaccompany Sir Edward and Tindall to Julian Clifford's publisher.On the way he told them of the alteration in the cheque cashed byMrs. Clifford early yesterday morning.
Sir Edward hurried on for a moment in silence.
"I'll look the matter up, of course. Thanks for mentioning it,Chief Inspector. I'll look it up. But I have an idea as to whatit refers. In strict confidence I was told something last nightwhich explains that cheque. In any case it had nothing whateverto do with my poor brother's awful end. It was a purely familymatter."
"Of seventy thousand pounds?" Pointer echoed in a surprisewhich he made very obvious.
Clifford changed his step.
"And what about the fact that the cheque was made outoriginally to Self? That thee andR andEsq. were added afterwards?"
"I understand your natural anxiety to clear up every point,"Sir Edward spoke soothingly, "but in this case there is no needto worry. I can assure you that the cheque was altered by Mr.Clifford himself, and that it, and the reason for it, havenothing whatever to do with his death."
"But have they nothing to do with his head having been cutoff?" Pointer asked, without apparently glancing at SirEdward.
The man he was questioning almost tripped.
"I—how could it be connected with that terriblemystery?"
"If the cheque were not yet presented when Mr. Clifford wasmurdered, his death would delay, or prevent, its being cashed.The only way to get that money quickly would be to avoid anysuspicion arising until after the money was paid out by the bank,that the man killed was Julian Clifford. Given certaincircumstances, it is not easy to think of a better way ofpreventing that identity being known than the one taken here.Given the circumstances of a murder, for instance, or a death intown, where a body is hard to dispose of."
They were in the empty, quiet Temple Gardens, and Cliffordstood still. Tindall, too, stopped and tugged at his beard.
"A very natural thought, Chief Inspector," Sir Edward said atlast, "but one which does not apply here. I can assure you thatthe money was not needed in any particular hurry. On thecontrary, had those at Thornbush had any idea that my brother wasdead, it would never have been presented at all, and a great dealof trouble would have been saved."
Pointer looked unconvinced.
"I should like to hear the explanation given you of thatcheque," he said finally. Pointer generally got his own way. Hiswas a compelling personality, perhaps because it was so quiet asa rule.
"Suppose we take a cab for a few minutes' talk. We're beforeour time." Clifford lifted his stick to one passing on theembankment.
As they settled themselves, Pointer asked: "I suppose that Mr.Straight is at work on Mr. Clifford's accounts?"
"Well—not to-day. No. I think I must talk the matterover with Hobbs first. In fact—in fact the accounts arerather connected with the affair of which I was informed lastnight."
"By Mr. Hobbs, Mr. Clifford's literary agent?"
"By his cousin, Mrs. Clifford, in the first place. Sheconfided to me her belief that my brother has got himself intosome trouble—abroad. I can't be more precise. She would notgive names of places, even supposing that she knew them. It's notexactly an illegal thing which he intended to do, and which,therefore, she and Hobbs believed he was actually doing overthere this week. But, on the other hand, it's one which wouldperfectly explain her and Hobbs's attitude. You see they thought,and she still thinks, that in Julian's own interest, by his ownexpress commands, nothing must be said of where he is. She toldme enough to let me see that we must go very carefully indeed.For unfortunately certain negotiations have already been openedup. It's a question of the purchase of something which is notallowed to leave the country—openly. Hobbs, whom Iimmediately tackled, assured me that he is putting things right,and that by the end of this week, all danger will be over of mybrother's name being mixed up in any scandal, provided we donothing to make a scandal inevitable.
"That cheque is quite in order, Chief Inspector. It's for thepurchase of this—object; a huge sum, but I understand notbeyond the worth of the object, and after all, Mr. Clifford couldafford to gratify the only request of the sort that his wife hasever made. Hobbs cabled last night to stop the deal. He thinks hewas in time to prevent its actually leaving its own country, andthat being so, he has every expectation, certainty almost, ofhaving the money refunded—in time. The money was sent offto an intermediary yesterday morning. But any investigation onour part, Chief Inspector, would do irreparable mischief justnow. Quite irreparable. My brother's name would be brought into amost deplorable prominence. Hobbs went so far as to assure mesolemnly that were he alive—and were the facts to becomeknown—my brother, Julian Clifford, would be liable toimprisonment! Of course, I myself would have to resign at once atthe mere whisper of such a thing. Now, this whole affair hasnothing whatever to do with Julian's death, nor with the terribletaking away of his head. As I say, Hobbs believes that he seeshis way to put things back exactly as they were. Mrs. Cliffordwill not get her wish— for the moment. But if only matterscan be adjusted, she, when she knows the facts, as she must verysoon, will look at the matter exactly as we do."
"And the alteration on the cheque?" Pointer asked ratherdryly.
"Hobbs spoke of it to me. The cheque was first drawn out toSelf. Then, when Mr. Clifford decided not to appear sodirectly in the matter, and learnt that one ofthe—ah— intermediaries was called Selfe, he himselfmerely added ane, and so on. The alterations did notshow, and Julian did not initial them."
"I see," Pointer said. "Mr. Hobbs seems to 've thought ofeverything." He spoke in a tone of real appreciation.
"Our aim now," Sir Edward went on, "is to uncover the reasonfor Etcheverrey's murder of my poor brother, and how far Haslarwas guilty, or accessory to the fact. It's a hard enough taskwithout adding other tangles to it. That discovery of yourspoints to the only solution of this riddle, I dobelieve—the discovery that my brother was going to writesomething which Etcheverrey felt that he must stop. Add to thatMr. Tindall's remarkable guess as to the identity of Etcheverrey,and I think we may safely feel that we are on the rightroad."
There was a little silence.
"What was it, whatcould it have been that my brotherwas going to write which caused his death?" Edward Cliffordrepeated ruminatingly.
"I've a notion that only a betrayal, real or fancied, wouldhave made Etcheverrey kill a man," Tindall said, "unless it wasall a ghastly mistake."
Mr. Bancroft proved to be a pleasant, business-like man, anold acquaintance of both Tindall and Sir Edward.
"Necessary to reach Clifford at once...and you think...yes, Isee the idea. I know he is away from home. Mrs. Clifford told meas much when I 'phoned to her yesterday. For Clifford had made anappointment. He was going to bring us in the next chapter ofThe Soul of Ishmael himself some time during yesterdaymorning. We had been discussing it last time he and I lunchedtogether. We're bringing it out in parts in our monthly magazineas you know. We suggested a little more—eh—well,adventure— incidents—" Bancroft looked apologetic athaving to mention such words. "The public taste is so depravednowadays that it insists on high seasoning. Over-seasoning. Andeven such a giant as Julian Clifford who leads the masses, has totake account of it."
"Imust follow the mob, because I lead them." Tindallquoted the French revolutionary's words.
"Ex—actly! As it happens, Clifford was turning over inhis mind a very dramatic idea. His—I really cannot callWilliam Roberts a hero—his chief character, let us say,being forced to leave England, was to go abroad and find anoutlet for a quite unsuspected side of his character with anotorious Basque anarchist. The anarchist was to be drawn fromlife if possible. Clifford gave me an outline of what was tocome." Bancroft here unlocked a drawer. "I think he meant to takethese notes with him, but he jotted them down at my house andleft them behind him, and I confess I could not resist thetemptation to keep them. They are so exceedinglyinteresting—so clear. But possibly you may find in themsome suggestion as to where he would be likely to go first. Herefers to Capvern once or twice. And to a place calledGuizep—really these Basque names are worse than theWelsh."
Bancroft laid an envelope in front of Sir Edward, who took itgladly.
"Let me have it back when you've done with it. Cliffordiana,you know," the publisher said smilingly, "and Clifford may yetask me for it. By the way, when, or if, you do reach him, ask himto let us have the next instalment as soon as he can, will you?Newman says that no chapter was handed to him to be sent on, sohe prefers not to risk a mistake. So do we! And as Clifford isexpected back by Friday—Mrs. Clifford seemed certain of theday—at a pinch we can wait till then."
"When did Mr. Clifford leave the notes behind him?" Pointerasked.
"When? About a fortnight ago. Week ago last Friday." Bancroftflipped some pages over in his engagement pad.
Finally, after nearly an hour, the three took their leave.
"Well," Sir Edward said, as they stood a moment before thehouse. "Bancroft has been very helpful. Some of those suggestionshe remembered—and that precious envelope with Julian's ownnotes. They, I think, had better be photographed at once. Threecopies, please, Tindall, tell the clerk. And let each of us haveone to pore over as soon as possible. There may be nothing inthem. But one can but hope."
Pointer shook hands. He had left his gloves in the publisher'sprivate room. Mr. Bancroft was still alone. Pointer found hisgloves, and stood a moment chatting.
"You're bringing out a life of William Haslar shortly, Iunderstand?" he asked.
"We hope to. But the proofs are still at Thornbush. As a rule,Mr. Clifford is most prompt in returning them."
"Interesting book to write," Pointer rambled on in the tone ofa lover of books, which he was. "Still, for even a distantconnection, there must have been some difficulties. What lettersto leave out...what incidents to suppress..."
Mr. Bancroft agreed. But he only agreed. He added nothing toPointer's knowledge.
"Miss Haslar is helping him with them," Pointer went on. Mr.Bancroft again agreed.
"Arnold Haslar came down with flu yesterday," Pointer went on."High fever. Odd thing is, he keeps calling out to JulianClifford to let him have 'the paper.' Implores us to 'take thepaper' from him. We don't know what paper. No one knows what tomake of it or what to do. The doctors seem to think we're keepingsomething back. But how on earth can any one tell what paper, orwhat letter it is, which Haslar wants to get away, or get back,from Clifford?"
Mr. Bancroft was interested, but he could not help. He couldonly instance a distant relative who had also behaved in aneccentric manner during a high temperature. So a disappointedfisherman had to leave, with no fish, large or small, of the kindthat Pointer thought would alone, explain the choice of MajorCory by Arnold Haslar.
The photographed copies of Julian Clifford's notes werequickly sent on to him, and Pointer glanced them over. Then hewent on with his telephoning—telephoning that took him allthe rest of the afternoon and evening.
It was past midnight when he was disturbed by a report fromone of his road-menders.
"Hobbs has just left, sir. Walking. Direction of Haslar'shouse. Wright's following."
Pointer was off in his car within a few minutes. He stopped ita little to one side of the house and went on on foot. Outsidethe gate he lit a match, and tossed it away in a peculiarcurve.
A second later a hand touched his arm.
"Wright speaking, sir. He's inside. Came straight here."
Wright melted away, to return to his post outside Thornbush,and Pointer let himself into the house with a latchkey which hehad slipped off Arnold Haslar's own key ring. Below the door ofthe library a light showed. The room was locked. The key blockedthe key-hole completely. Even with his sound accumulator on,Pointer could only hear low voices—a man's and a woman'svoice. At last they came nearer. The door was very cautiouslyopened. Diana Haslar put her head out and looked up and down thehall. Pointer stood just inside the door of the next room, whichhe held ajar.
"Weren't you seen coming here?" she asked fearfully.
"No. No one's on the look-out at Thornbush, and I crept in tooquietly here to be heard. I'll leave you to shut the front doorafter me. Till day after to-morrow then, at Thornbush. If theboat's in on time, you'll be back by half-past five atlatest."
She nodded, and closed the door with infinite caution behindthe man, looking like an Eastern page in her short cherry silkdressing-gown and slippers. Pointer followed her upstairs at asafe distance. She went into her brother's room. The door wasshut, but he found another door leading into the bathroom open,and peeping in he saw Diana sitting by her brother's bed with abook on her lap. But she was not reading. On her face was a lookof intense excitement, intense joy. One of Pointer's men was in adistant arm-chair by the window, ostensibly as an assistantnurse. Round the leg of his chair was a cord, the colour of thewood, which ran through eyelets in the wainscoting to each of thedoors. In the day-time it was taken away, but slipped on at nightby the man on duty.
Pointer stooped down and gave it two quick tugs.
A minute later, and the man stepped out with an empty glass.He followed Pointer to his own room and closed the door.
"Has Miss Haslar left the room at all?" Pointer asked.
"Yes, sir. She went down about twelve for a snack. She'staking the watch till two, as I reported to you, sir. She cameback just now, at ten to one. I suppose she dozed off a bit."
"You didn't hear any sounds at all just before she wentdown?"
"No, sir. No sound at all."
Pointer melted away. Merely as a matter of routine, genuinelyso this time, he stepped into the library, shut the door, andswitched on the light.
Sometimes people in a very engrossing conversation left oddthings behind them, and the low voices which he had heard hadsounded very absorbed.
The room looked as usual, except that a couple of chairs hadbeen moved from one side to the centre of the room. They were notvery near each other. Neither they, nor their position, suggestedintimacy.
Pointer looked beyond them at the place where they had stood.Moving them had left free an old knee-hole writing-table, which,so Pointer had found yesterday, was used as a hold-all for oddsand ends. Just now the table too stood a little away from thewall at one end. Pointer eyed it curiously—closely.Something caught that keen eye of his lying between one of thefeet of the table and the wall—something that had preventedthat end of the table being rolled back true as it had stoodyesterday and this morning.
It was the ferrule of an umbrella—rather new-looking.Now umbrellas are not much used in libraries at any time, letalone in a dry July. Pointer turned it over very thoughtfully.Hobbs had not carried an umbrella when he left here just now, norwhen he left Thornbush. His trailer had told Pointer that he wascarrying nothing in his hands.
But Julian Clifford had taken his umbrella with him when heleft his home night before last. The butler was certain of this,for on going up to bed he had noted its absence as well as thatof his master's soft felt hat. Besides, Clifford was one of thosemen who always carry an umbrella. Pointer had sent one of his mento the house with a gamp this morning which purported to be onethat Mr. Clifford had left in the post office. The butler hadrejected it promptly. The detective, by clever doubts andbeliefs, had obtained a close description of the author'sumbrella—a fairly new one, a recent present—amongother more praiseworthy peculiarities it had a loose ferrule, onethat threatened to drop off at any moment. Mr. Clifford hadcaught it in tram points the first day of carrying it. Trimblementioned that Hawkins meant to have it seen to, but Hawkinsnever saw to anything before he had to.
Pointer laid the little thimble down on the writing-table andstudied that piece of furniture intently. The chairs moved awayfrom it meant that the whole table had been swung out. He swungit out. Behind it, the papered wall showed no opening, nor didthe carpeted floor. The wainscoting ran unjointed past the spot.There remained the table itself. But to open any of its drawersit would not have been necessary to move the chairs away. Pointertook out the drawers and laid them on one side. Then he examinedthe remaining skeleton. Yes, there was a place running the widthof his hand all along the back. Pointer promptly up-ended thetable. There are not many ways of opening secret places in suchpieces. He finally found that by screwing one of the feet aroundtwice out jumped the back of a panel like the door of a cuckooclock. He put his hand in and pulled out an umbrella, and thenits handle, then a couple of letters tied with red tape andaddressed in a faded handwriting to a Mrs. Walton in Yorkshire.The date was nearly thirty years ago.
The umbrella handle exactly tallied with the description ofJulian Clifford's which had been given to Pointer's man. Theumbrella looked as if it had been violentlytreated—possibly in the effort to cut off thehandle—possibly before. The handle had been hacked off withsome blunt instrument, the cane crushed and splintered.
Yes, with such an instrument, for instance, as a sharpenedspade.
He took his finds away with him, and but for them, lefteverything as he had found it. Then he went home.
So Miss Haslar and Hobbs were to meet the day after tomorrowat Thornbush after a boat got in, and had met tonight in thelibrary of Arnold Haslar's house!
Intricate case this! He decided to watch Diana Haslar himselfto-morrow, for the hour of the rendezvous and something in thetone of Hobbs suggested that it was to be the finale, or thewind-up of, or, at any rate, the report on some piece of businesson which Diana would be engaged. Mrs. Clifford's cousin, JulianClifford's literary agent, had spoken in the tone of a man whowould be waiting, but the look on the face of the dead man'sniece was that of one who has promised another that he can counton her, of one who is to do something.
Pointer was sorry. He had planned a very busy and very earlymorning at her brother's warehouse as a rat-catcher, with a wiry-haired marvel from the Yard—a champion ratter. No nightwatchman and no warehouseman in Britain could resist the offerthat he intended to make.
However, after due reflection, he decided on "ladiesfirst."
AND that was why, on the morrow, when Diana gotdown at Bruges, a chauffeur followed her out of the train andinto the town—a chauffeur who had crossed to Ostend withher, had taken a ticket to Bruges just after her, who hadarranged with the Bruges police to have a taxi-cab waiting forhim outside the station. But Diana was walking, so he made a signto the man at the wheel and walked on after her.
Bruges, ringed and intersected by canals, is interesting, andcan be charming; but not in July, when it is crowded with Britishtrippers who surge noisily in serried ranks along its mainstreets, avoiding its art treasures but crowding its cakeshops.
As it happened to be a saint's day, or a wedding, or afuneral, the bells of all the churches, above all the great bellof Saint Sauveur, the massive cathedral, were shattering the airwith swift, jarring peals. The bells of Bruges are now rung byelectricity, and need not even pause for tired muscles.
It was the half-hour. And thebeffroi, that beautifultower that lifts its coronet high into the air above Bruges' bigplace, was giving one of its quarter-hour selections ofcarillons. Melodies may sometimes be suitable for being played onbells; this one certainly was not. Barrel organs were grindingmerrily within a few feet of each other. Trams banged their gongsall down the curving street.
Diana, who looked a little dizzy with the clamour of Bruges-la-morte, turned into the rue Sud de Sablon. Being July, herEnglish ears did not miss the songs of birds in this country thateats them.
The roof lines of the constantly winding streets wereenchanting. Dentellated, crenellated, they rose against a skywhose colours told that the waves of Zeebrugge, the harbour ofBruges, or Brugge, as the Flamand calls it, were very near.
She walked on, glad of the exercise.
"Pas op, mejuffrouw! (Look out, miss!)" a white-hattedgendarme, who was regulating traffic, said quietly.
Mistaking the Flemish word for the equivalent of "Pass on,"Diana stepped forward. She nearly "passed on" altogether. A car,dashing around the corner, taught her the perils of ignorance.But a long arm swept her back into safety. A chauffeur, a tannedman in a trim uniform, with a pleasant flash of white teeth belowhis drooping moustache, touched his cap with a "Pardon,Madame!"
She turned at the French, for Bruges is Flemish speaking. Shesaw him step towards a taxi from which a man had just slipped,and take the wheel.
"Is that your taxi? Can you drive me to the Béguinage?" sheasked in the same language.
"Certainly, Madame!" and shutting her in the cab, he drove offinto a side street, where he pulled up, and got off, apparentlyto do something to the back of the hood; in reality to open a mapof Bruges and take a long look atTen Wyngaerde, TheVineyard, as the town calls its Béguinage.
The Béguinages of Belgium are peculiar to this corner ofEurope. From the thirteenth century on, women solved the questionof domestic difficulties and dangers by living a community lifewhich gave them all the protection of a convent, but where theycould have almost the liberty of the world. The Béguines, whodress at a glance like other nuns, in white and black, sometimestake no vows, sometimes all but that of poverty. Their money istheir own to use and leave. They dwell, not in narrow cells underone roof, with every hour of the day mapped out for them, butlive, if they so prefer, in little houses, alone, or with anotherBéguine friend, set in the encircling, protecting wall of theBéguinage.
In the centre of the Béguinage at Bruges—a small affaircompared with that of Ghent—is a quiet green. Tall elms,elms that saw men set out on the last crusade, give it a thin,elderly shade. Orchards and vegetable gardens lie behind it.Inside the little houses a simple austerity must nowadays reign,just as all the inmates are women of the highest character. Forthe rest, they live pious lives under their chosen Superiorbeloved by the poor, given over to good works. The chauffeurdrove the car to the arched entrance over a bridge that spannedone of the canals. Here he had to stop. Before them, like a citywithin a city, lay the Béguinage, its little red roofs dottedamong the greenery. In front the water mirrored the curve of itsgray wall. Artists sat sketching it. To one side was theMinnewater, Bruges' much overrated beauty spot. For though thetown has charming corners, they lie in quiet nooks, off the mainroads. But here at least was peace. Softly the carillon floateddown, melodious sounded Saint Sauveur's tireless majesticbells.
Diana got out. No carriage may mar the silence of the Sister'shome. She made to pay her driver.
"I'll wait for Madame," he said promptly.
But Diana told him that she had no further need of hisservices, paid him, and walked on quickly under the domed gate,past the crucifix where the Béguines kneel, coming and going. Asister met her going swiftly towards their church.
"Mademoiselle van Bracht?" Diana asked.
"Over there. The white house with the geraniums in the greenwindows, Mademoiselle," and the Béguine hurried on. "But she's atservice just now," she added over her shoulder.
Diana did not seem to be put off her intended call. Thechauffeur, who had lounged in after her, with the vacuous air ofa man staring at unfamiliar sights, saw her step on as swiftly asbefore. He saw her rap at a little green-painted door.
"Baronesse van Bracht? Soeur Thérèse?" Diana asked.
"I am Sister Thérèse. Won't you come into my sitting-room?"the sister said in French. Diana followed her into a little backroom on the ground floor, furnished plainly but comfortably, andso dark that the light had to be kept switched on beneath astatue of Sainte Begge.
The chauffeur tried the latch of the door. It opened under hiscareful hand without a sound. In his rubber-soled deck shoes hepassed into a tiled passage with two doors on either hand. A doorat the end of the passage showed the canal, quiet and deserted.He turned, and softly opened the first door on his left. He stoodin a neat kitchen. As he hoped, a door led into the next room,where he could hear the two women. Noiselessly he drew thecurtains shut over the window, then he cautiously opened thecommunicating door. Diana was just handing an envelope to theBéguine, who was saying:—
"I will see that it is passed on at once to my sister, Madamede Coninck. She will do the rest. By this evening all will be putright. I will give you a receipt if you will step into thisbalcony—"
At that instant the light went out. Soeur Thérèse called outin English, and in English English too.
"Who's that? Who's holding my hand?" Then she screamed.
"What's wrong?" Diana called quickly. "I'm here, Sister.What's wrong?"
There came a knock on the door leading into the passage. Thesame moment the Béguine switched up the light. She glared atDiana like a mad woman. The knock came again. Her white headdressawry, the sister tried to pull it straight; she tugged at theblack veil which shadowed her face and which, as a rule, is laidaside indoors.
The door opened, and the chauffeur looked in shyly.
"Pardon, Mesdames, but is anything wrong? I was knocking toask the young lady whether she left this scarf in the cab, when Iheard a cry—"
The sister looked from him to Diana and back to him with theswift, ferocious look of a panther.
"It's a plot, is it?" she said in a low, dangerous voice. "Isee!"
Diana stared at her. The chauffeur stared too. Hiss hairseemed to stand up with surprise. His mouth open, he looked fromthe sister to the English girl.
"She's mad," he said in French. "Come with me, Madame. She'squite mad, eh?"
"Stop!" The Béguine held out her hand. In it was somethingthat glittered.
"Make a move either of you, and I shall shoot. I want thatpackage back. I intend to have it back, so—"
Diana was quick of eye, but just what happened she did notsee. The chauffeur did not seem to move a finger. Yet somethingshot across the room full into the sister's face. It was his cap.The man sprang after it. He seemed to use no force whatever. Heonly put out one hand, but the automatic fell with a smackagainst the opposite wall.
"We must go for help. She is evidently quite mad." He spokepityingly as the woman turned and twisted in his arm. "Go on tothe car below, Mademoiselle. I will follow in a little minute.Pardieu, la pauvre soeur! I will notify the police on theway to the station."
"No," Diana said quietly, "I don't leave her like this. Whatpackage is it you miss, sister? The one I brought?"
For a second the sister stared at her, then she said, "Ithought you were in it. I see you're not. This man has thatletter you brought. I'm sure of it. I'm certain he opened thedoor from that next room, switched out the light, and twisted thepackage from my hand before he pretended to knock at the otherdoor. It's only a step between them."
She spoke in English. The man goggled stupidly.
"Quoi? She says?"
Diana translated all that was necessary.
"A letter has been lost? Then why not telephone to thegendarmerie at once? There is a telephone at the portress'slodge. I saw the wires as I passed it. We can all three go thereif the sister doubts me. But she is mad. The poor lady!"
Diana looked at the sister, whose face was white with redcircles on the cheek-bones—circles of fury. She looked likea horrible clown.
Diana, with an odd look of uncertainty in her usually self-possessed glance, did not move.
"If you will be so good as to open that wooden shutter overthere we could see better," the chauffeur said again. "I do notlike to let her go. She may do herself a mischief. Throw herselfout of that window, for instance." He gave the sister a look inwhich there was something mocking and something very stern. "Thewindow that is open," he went on, "the window of the littlebalcony. A slip, and one would be in the canal. And the canaljust here is choked with weeds, and quite deep enough to drownthe sister, especially if by any chance that sort of iron raftwere to fall down which I see is only stood against the windowjust below, so that a push from an outstretched hand would sendit in too. It could so easily pin any one who had fallen in downamong the weeds; and it is quite a deserted stretch."
Diana did not stir, but her jaw tightened.
"This man is a government spy," the sister said fiercely. "Wemust get that letter back. We must act!"
"You are acting, Mrs. Orr," the chauffeur answered blandly,"and acting very well. But I don't think you'll get that packageback."
Diana jumped. It was the voice of the Chief Inspector fromScotland Yard. And what was that about "Mrs. Orr"?
"I am Sister Thérèse," the Béguine said very calmly now. "Mrs.Orr is my half sister. We are rather alike. Miss Haslar, you knowwhat hangs on recovering that envelope."
Diana seated herself.
"I'm going to understand this," she said, and she meantit.
"I'm afraid that would take longer than you think. Butthis"— Pointer dived into an inner pocket and held outsomething—"is what you brought, isn't it?"
"Why should you take that?" Diana asked indignantly. Shelooked prepared to snatch it from Pointer herself.
He gave her an apparently swift but very searching glance."Miss Haslar, I think you know that I'm not tricking you when Iassure you—assure you—that it is where itshould be. Who gave it to you?"
Diana did not answer. She looked at him. She looked at theBéguine whom Pointer still held by one hand on her arm. It wasunlike Diana to let things drift. But she made no move, and sheturned very pale.
Again he looked at her, with a rather enigmatic look.
"A train back to Ostend leaves in half an hour. I want you totake that, Miss Haslar."
She intended, he knew, to spend the night in that flamboyantresort. Her telegram to the Royal Hotel there for a room had beenread this morning at Victoria before it was sent off. Two rooms,adjoining, and with a communicating door between had been engagedinstead. Though this she would never know. A woman detective, whohad accompanied Pointer, would be beside her. New Scotland Yardwas doing its best to watch over Diana.
"I suppose you are crossing back to-morrow?"
She was.
"When you get back to town go straight to your brother'shouse. Don't go to Thornbush until I have had a talk with you.And don't telephone to any one there that you are back inLondon." She started. He looked her squarely in the eye. "Don't,on any account, go to or communicate with Thornbush, MissHaslar," he repeated, "until I have called. I will try to get toyou as soon after you reach home as I can. You have been ingreater danger to-day than you quite realise." His eyes went tothe window overlooking the canal, to the Béguine, and back toDiana.
"Danger—to me? I don't understand." She didn't.
"When a murder has been committed, and a head cut off, thosewho have gone as far as that are not likely to be playing for lowstakes. You mustn't come between a tiger and his kill, and expectmercy," was the Chief Inspector's only explanation. His mannerwas very grave.
Diana shivered. She was looking very different now from thegirl who had taken the cab.
"Will you tell me the truth when you come to-morrow?" sheasked, not as one making a bargain, but desperately.
"What I tell you will be strictly the truth. And I expect fromyou strictly the truth," he said quietly. "And now, I think youhad better start."
"But this—this sister—"
"Ah!" Pointer gave a queer little smile, "this lady and I havea few things to say to one another."
Diana left the little cottage where all should have beenpeace, and where she had just spent a most violent few minutes.Something seemed to have given way in Diana. She looked as thoughsomething vital had been taken from her.
After an uneventful but sleepless night she left by the boatnext morning, quite unaware that the rather severe-looking youngwoman beside her on the deck had anything to do with her. Hertrain was to the minute. She had nothing but a suitcase for theCustoms, and five o'clock found her quietly letting herself intoher brother's house. She peeped into his room, and saw withinfinite relief that he was drawing deeper breaths than when shehad left him yesterday morning.
She decided to have tea in the library. Its doors werepractically sound-proof. No sound from there could possiblydisturb the sick man. The room was empty, but from the other end,Arnold's study, she heard a stir.
She stepped towards the communicating door. As she did so, sheaccidentally clicked her bag against a chair. Instantly all wassilent. Opening the door, she saw to her surprise that, thoughshe could see no one, yet the strong-room was open. Had some onebeen tampering with the deed-boxes ranged along its shelves? Shehad a vague idea of their number and position. She stepped intoit to look closer. On the instant the door slammed shut. Sheheard the click of the locks falling into position. She was aprisoner in a sound-proof, all but air-tight metal safe.
It was at that precise moment that Mrs. Clifford was very muchbored. She was at a concert. The Albert Hall was stuffed fromstall to roof. A great violinist had given of his best, and theenthusiasm had been delirious. Encore after encore had beendemanded and generously given. It was long past the usual timewhen the last item was started. It was a Vivaldi Concerto. Mrs.Clifford disliked Vivaldi, even when played by a master.
The concert room was quiet and not too bright. Idly she pulledout her crystal ball and sat looking into it, her arm pressedagainst her neighbour's, for a voluminous lady overflowed fromthe other seat. Suddenly she gave a little gasp, and leaningstill more to the right, got a better view of the crystal. Theplayers were attacking the Rondon. Mrs. Clifford turned to theman beside her, a man who had twisted around in his seat when shehad taken the one beside him, and buried himself still deeper inhis music folios, so that his back was practically turned toher.
"Mr. Newman! Something is happening to Diana Haslar! She's indanger. Can you telephone to Mr. Straight? I can't usetelephones, you know."
"Sh-h-sh!" hissed the music-lovers around themindignantly.
The man beside her flung his music books on to his seat, andswiftly, with a hand under her arm, led her out into the corridoroutside.
"Go at once! Or telephone to Mr. Straight, he's nearer." Mrs.Clifford seemed quite unmoved by Newman's presence, as he was bythe fact that she had known her husband's secretary in spite of avery remarkably good disguise—a very professionally made-updisguise.
"What did you see? Where is she?" he asked swiftly. Mrs.Clifford sank on a settee and went on staring at her ball.
"I've lost her! No, there she is!" Newman was behind Mrs.Clifford. He, too, was bending over the ball, his arms on eitherside of her.
"She's locked in an iron cell. There's very little air. She'spounding on the wall. She seems to be calling for help. It's alldark. Outside some one is standing listening. He's in the shadow,yet he seems familiar. Why, it's Arnold's study! Then that cellmust be his strong room. And the word that opens the door must belost. But what—" Newman had gone.
Pointer came over on the same boat and train withDiana, heard her give her taxi driver her brother's address, andthen turned into the buffet for a hasty sandwich. He telephonedto the Yard for the day's reports. There were several. Fromparcels addressed to non-existent streets and people Mr.Clifford's clothes had practically all been retrieved. Along withthem was a blood-stained and beplastered hand towel. The clotheshad been identified by Mr. Clifford's tailor.
Pointer felt as though his boat were drawing in, drawing inall the time.
Last of all he learnt that ten minutes ago Hobbs, Mr.Clifford's literary agent, had left Thornbush and had beenfollowed to Haslar's house. He was still there.
On the instant Pointer was out of the telephone booth, andspeaking to the sergeant in charge of the station-police. Inanother he was on one of their motor-bicycles which are fittedwith silencers as perfect as expense can make them.
He whizzed off for the Haslar's house at a speed which onlyhis steering made possible. Even so, one tabby never returned toits home.
Arrived at the house, Pointer looked at the gravel of thedrive. It showed that a car had just turned at the front door, acar with the same tyres as the taxi which Diana had finallycaptured at Victoria. Driving away, the car had been lighter thanwhen coming. Probably, therefore, it was empty and all was inorder. He let himself in with his annexed latchkey. Noiselesslyhe ran up to her bedroom and listened. All was silent. He triedthe door. It was unlocked. The room was empty. So was herboudoir.
He glanced in at the sick room in passing, through the doorinto the bathroom, but he gave his man no signal. Diana was notthere, nor in either drawing-room. On the ground floor, dining-room and morning-room and library were all empty. Remained onlythe study. As he jumped for the communicating door, it opened,and Hobbs came out.
"Miss Haslar's in there," Pointer said swiftly but veryeasily. "I've followed her here from the station. I must have aword with her."
Hobbs fell back. His face turned green, his jaw slackened.Pointer's unexpected appearance, his swift yet casual words, hisabsolute certainty as to where Diana was, seemed to rattleHobbs.
"I—eh—"
Pointer did not wait. He stepped in and glanced once aroundthe room. Then he was at the safe door. He knew the password,thank God. Pointer had connected up the safe dial with a certainwell-hidden burglar's dial before sending for Haslar's managerlast night. It had marked every letter he set. The word had beenVisit. Pointer now turned the five letters—tried the word.The door refused to budge. So some one, Hobbs probably, hadchanged the password.
Pointer, his ear to the safe, tapped with the end of his watchchain, sharp swinging blows. He caught a faint tap-tap from theinside.
"She's in there! Good heavens, man, you must have locked thedoor on her, never guessing that she was inside. Quick, Mr.Hobbs, the password!"
Pointer was throwing the man a rope. But the colour was comingback into Hobb's face.
"Miss Haslar's upstairs in bed, I take it. I haven't seen her,nor do I know anything about the safe or the combination lock. Idropped in to look up a technical point in one of Haslar'selectrical books. I was in the library when I heard a tremendousthud. It took me a second to realise that it was the door of thestrong room that I heard. At least, I suppose it was. I'm notcertain even of that much."
He rattled off the speech at top-speed. His words were notexactly blurred, but there was a thickness about them that madePointer's heart sink. Hobbs was the worst for drink, and the onlychance for the girl locked in would have been a clear-headed,shrewd Hobbs, a Hobbs who would have known when he must cut hislosses. Pointer knew from yesterday what Hobbs could be like whenhe was not sober, and to-day he was more nearly drunk thanyesterday—much more nearly.
Pointergave a whistle like a blackbird's when apoacher blunders too close at night. A man clambered in throughthe open window. He said a word to him. The man moved to Hobb'sside, who looked as though he were watching something awful comeup to him.
Pointer jumped to the telephone. He was taking no chances. Hemight yet get the password out of Hobbs, but meanwhile he wastelephoning the Yard to send him the safe-expert with his mostup-to-date tools to open a strong room door, whichwas—Pointer gave the makers' name and the size of the door.But the master-cracksman was away. No one knew when he would bein. Another man would, of course, be sent, but there was nosecond Cockerell.
Pointer felt certain that it was Hobbs who had altered thecode word, but he might be wrong. He tried for Haslar's manager,but Mr. Dance was out. Then he got Thornbush. No one there wasin. Mrs. Clifford was out. Mr. Straight was out; it was believedthat he had gone to Sir Edward Clifford's. Mr. Hobbs was out.
Pointer turned again to Hobbs.
"Come, Mr. Hobbs, try and think if you can't remember the codeword. It would mean a lot," Pointer's eyes dwelt on the other. "Iwas over in Bruges yesterday with Miss Haslar. I have the letter,by the way, safe and sound, which you gave her to take to Mrs.Orr."
Hobbs's face twitched as though an electric shock had passedthrough him.
"She might have had a bad time in Bruges...But a good turncancels a bad one—sometimes. I'm sure she wouldn't rememberBruges if she got out of that strong room at once...Nor wouldI!"
Pointer was exceeding the law, and doing it most unwillingly,but the need of the entombed girl was paramount. Hobbs looked asif a terrible struggle was going on within him. The sweat stoodout on his white face. But he set his teeth.
Pointer turned away. Was Hobbs gambling on the chance thatDiana Haslar would never speak? But Hobbs was no fool. WhateverDiana knew could not be equivalent to rejecting the life-linethat the Chief Inspector had thrown him. There was a greaterreason than fear of what she might say, might suspect. SuddenlyPointer guessed it.
He turned and gave the man in the chair a long look. Hobbscaught it, read it, leapt in his seat, and then sat rigid, hiseyes staring glassily.
The door burst open and Straight rushed in. Behind him,hesitating, as though disliking to set foot in Arnold Haslar'shouse, came Sir Edward.
"What's this about Haslar's strong room and Miss Haslar?"Straight asked.
"Know the password?" Pointer asked, but without any hope.Straight only shook his head with a look of horror.
"You mean to say it's true? That she's been locked in there?"he asked under his breath. "Isn't there a way of telling theright word by listening to the fall of the tumblers?"
"Not with this safe," Pointer said gravely, "but there's stilltime." His eyes rested for a fraction of a second on Hobbs—"Still time."
Hobbs half stepped forward. Almost, Pointer thought, his handwent towards the dial, but the neat brandy that he had drunk madehim wheel about and return to a chair in the shadow by thewindow.
The safe-breaker arrived from the Yard. He set to work at oncewith a pneumatic drill. Chemicals were out of the questionbecause of the girl inside.
"How did you hear of what had happened?" Pointer askedStraight above the roar of the drill.
"Mrs. Clifford got some one to telephone me. A commissionaireat a concert hall, I understand. She seemed quite certain of whathad happened...But surely Miss Haslar can be got out allright?"
"We must hope for the best," Pointer said none tooencouragingly. "If the safe had been standing wide open for alittle time before it was closed, she may have a better chance.Our man is quite good as a rule. Sir Edward was with you, Isuppose?" Pointer finished.
"No, I ran into him in the garden outside," Straight explainedabsently.
"I had something very important to say to Miss Haslar," SirEdward explained at once, retreating with Pointer to the farthestend of the room; "I will tell you about it later, ChiefInspector. A fact has come to my knowledge which makes mewonder...However, Miss Haslar had not returned when I asked forher at half-past four."
"You waited in for Miss Haslar?" Pointer asked, watching hisman try another way of tackling those immovable tumblers.
"No, I decided to call again later."
"Did you think the servant who let you out looked as though hehad just come in from outside?" Pointer asked next.
"I let myself out, so I cannot say. Looked as if he had comein—?" Sir Edward began to repeat Pointer's odd question, aquestion which had served its turn of learning that Clifford hadnot been shown out.
Sir Edward looked round. Hobbs was out of earshot if he spokelow.
"Hobbs is under arrest? So you know?"
"Know what, Sir Edward?"
"Straight came to me about it. It seems hedid gothrough the books yesterday and to-day. Straight suspectedHobbs's accounts from something that Diana told him about aletter which she opened by mistake. Straight says the books arecooked: cleverly done, but he's certain they're cooked. He wantsanother chartered accountant to go through them with him. Hespeaks of something like fifty or sixty thousand not accountedfor. Of course in ten years..."
The man from the Yard approached Pointer.
"I'm beaten, sir. This latest pattern is beyond me. There's achap in Bermondsey, Silly Billy, he might do it. He's just out ofa stretch. Not a bad sort."
Bermondsey! From Hampstead to Bermondsey and back!
And to find Silly Billy. Meanwhile what of Diana? Pointer toowas very pale. It was an awful thing to be standing therehelpless and think of the agony just beginning so close besidethem. Must they chance gray powder, and the effects of it? Deathby chemicals was no worse than death by suffocation.
Suddenly a bookish, gray-haired, spectacled man, a typicalmusician from his appearance, stood in the room. So swiftly, sosilently had Newman come in that only Pointer had seen himenter.
MRS. CLIFFORD hurried in after Newman. For onceshe looked in great distress.
"Is Diana still locked in?" she asked before she was in theroom.
Straight jumped for her.
"The word, Mrs. Clifford! The new code-word. Do your by anychance, know another word thanVisit?"
She shook her head in silent horror, then she turned toNewman.
"Do you?"
"I don't know any other code-word thanVisit." Newmanhad flung down a box that was all but beyond even his wirystrength. He tore it open, and began to lay out strange, bulkythings on the carpet with desperate speed.
"That word won't open it now." Pointer alone had not shown anysurprise at the return of thesecretary—disguised—accompanied by Mrs. Clifford. "Ican't reach Haslar's manager, nor could he help. The word hasbeen deliberately changed. Going to use electricity?"
Newman nodded. His eyes were unmistakably those of the masterof the situation.
Mrs. Clifford had turned to her brother-in-law andStraight.
"Mr. Newman telephoned to you? Oh, Edward, what shall we do?What can we do? If only Julian were here, as he will be shortlynow, for this is Friday. Adrian, don't look so terrible," sheglanced at her cousin's awful face, "I'm sure we'll get her outyet."
"Clear the room, please." Newman jerked out a box full of anodd, gritty powder with a strong rust smell.
"You want no help? Our man, Burton, is a trained engineer,"Pointer asked.
"I want the room cleared, that's all."
"Burton," Pointer turned to the man who had tried his hand atthe door and been beaten, "go below and stand by the mainswitch." Pointer wanted no tampering. "Sinclair, you and Mr.Hobbs go into the room opposite. Mrs. Clifford, if you and SirEdward—"
"We'll wait upstairs. I'll concentrate, and send down myspirit to help."
"Thank you so much," Pointer said gravely, "and I'm sorry, Mr.Straight, but—"
Straight lingered.
"Can you do it?" he asked Newman imploringly, "ablunder would only make it harder for the right man..."
"I shall not blunder. I was in the Secret Service, Mr.Straight. You will see Miss Haslar out very soon, I hope." Newmanwas already running his hands over the door.
"Mind if I watch you?" Pointer asked, when they werealone.
Newman lifted his heavy lids and let them drop. "Rather youdidn't. I'm a nervous chap."
Pointer stood with his back to him and did not use a mirror.But Newman did not sound nervous. Quick and sure, Pointer couldhear his movements at the safe. Burton had already knocked outthe spindle, Newman now began plugging the hole with desperatespeed, using the powder which he had brought with him. Then hetested something with an electric apparatus which he put on thetable and connected with a wall-plug. It looked like some sort ofdwarf thermogenerator.
Next, after some calculations which he made swiftly but verycarefully on a little machine in his odd box, Newman started workof a kind that Pointer could not follow. The expert from the Yardarrived breathless.
"Am I too late? Can I do anything?"
Pointer indicated Newman.
"He thinks he can open that door. The code word's lost.Evidently he's not trying to drill holes. What about it? It'sbeyond me."
Cockerell stepped forward. He asked a few questions. Newman,without slackening his lightning work, answered curtly enough. Bythis time strange blue flashes were crackling around the dialbox, and forked lightning seemed to answer from the edges of theclosely-fitting door.
Cockerell looked excited.
"I've never seen this before—or have I? Wait abit...Where did I see work like this...that must have been doneon some such method—ordinary electricity was used then, ofcourse, but where...when?" The safe-breaking expert went off intoa deep study.
"Does he know his job?" Pointer asked.
"Rather! And yet—I should say better theoretically thanpractically. Where did I once see something that reminds me ofthis?..."
Suddenly Newman gave a little exclamation. Hiscrackle,crackle stopped. The blue and the yellow flashes no longerseemed to fight each other. In the air was still the strangeelectric smell of an X-ray room, but Newman was now pulling atthe door with cloths over his hands. It opened. Diana lay huddledon the floor. Newman darted forward and picked her up. Hisdisguise had gone by this time. Wig and beard had been pulled offin the heat of the work, and the sweat had washed the make-upfrom his hands and face.
Diana clung to him.
"Sanz!" her arms went round his neck, "I called you, and youcame! I called you the whole time...with all my heart and all mysoul."
Her face was transfigured. Her beautiful hair clung in dampcurls to her finely-shaped head as a baby's does. She was pale.Under her lids were purple shadows, but her eyes were likestars.
"If you won't hold me fast, I shall you." She spoke with astrange solemnity.
This was no laughing meeting of lovers. Diana knew what thehand to which she clung might have done. Yet she clung to it.
"In spite of—everything?" he asked her gravely.
"In spite of—beyond—through—everything.Don't put me down, Sanz. Don't let me go again."
He only looked at her—a searching look to which theforeign sharpness of his features gave something rapier-like.Standing there still holding her, he had a dark, virile beautywhich struck those watching him afresh.
Suddenly her eyes fell on Pointer. A look of terror swept downupon her face, putting out the light in it.
"I forgot; I betrayed you!" she stepped back from him, "andthen I called you and you came! Oh, Sanz, I've lured you intotheir hands!"
"How do you mean that you betrayed me?" he asked quietly.
"I told them who you are. After your letter I—I thoughtit was a love of justice, but I couldn't bear that they shouldthink you—it—a murder!" She whispered the last words,her face gray again.
"But supposing it was one?" he interrupted in a hardvoice.
Diana made a helpless gesture.
"It's no use. I've tried to hate you for these years past,I've fought till I'm tired. Life wasn't worth living. In there,when the door banged shut, and I thought I should never see itopen again, I've learnt the truth."
He stopped her. He was as pale as she under all his darkcolouring.
"You forget that I'm wanted for murder. You forget the murderof your uncle—the shooting of your brother." He spokealmost roughly.
And at that Diana broke down.
He came across to her and took her face for a second betweenhis slender dark hands, gently, as one takes a flower. Then heturned away.
Diana looked at Pointer.
"I must see him before he goes."
"You shall."
"Alone?"
"Alone." Pointer passed her and went on into the strongroom,carefully scrutinizing the boxes. It was dark inside here, exceptfor his lamp. The work on the door had put the lights inside outof action. But there was something in here which he expected tofind...Suddenly his hand actually trembled for a second, when hislong, lean fingers felt over a well wrapped-up tin marked in ascrawl:—
A. Haslar.
Not wanted forward. To be stored in a coldplace.
There was a dent in one side. It was heavy for its size, andthe size was that of a seven-pound tin.
Pointer carried it out. Then he saw that Mrs. Clifford wasback in the room, her arms around Diana. Pointer put the tin on atable behind him, but his thoughts did not leave it. Inside itwas, he knew...
Alison Clifford would have helped the girl up to her room, butDiana refused any help. Mrs. Clifford, smiling a little, movedback. She caught her foot in a rug. To steady herself she laid ahand on the tin which Pointer had just set down. There came theoddest sound from her—a gasp, followed by a sort ofstrangled cry. She fell forward across the table grasping the tinin her arms.
"Julian! Oh, Julian!" She gave a frightful scream and tore atthe wrappings with her fingers, shrieking like a dementedwoman.
"Hush, Mrs. Clifford," Pointer said firmly but very gently,"for the sake of the sick man overhead, for your own sake, youmust not scream like that."
She had her hands still on the box, and the look in her eyesfrightened Diana, who had run to her. She thought that her reasonhad gone.
"It's Julian's head!" Mrs. Clifford said in a strange,horrible whisper to Sir Edward, who had come in hastily. "Inthere! In that tin! His!"
This time Diana screamed—a low, horrified cry.
"Is she mad?" she whispered in mingled terror and pity.
"Mrs. Clifford," Pointer said gravely, "I'm so sorry for thishorrible shock—"
"His eyes are closed," Mrs. Clifford was murmuring now in awild whisper.
Pointer forcibly lifted the box out of her grasp. He could notlet her continue to "see" what that face must look like now. Notyet earth—no longer flesh.
"You know the truth now," he said gently.
Alison knelt on, trembling violently.
"Mrs. Clifford," Pointer said again, "I must take this awayfor a little while. You shall see your husband's body shortly,believe me. But not like this! Not—" She did not seem toheed him. Pointer thought that she had fainted. He would haveleft her to the care of Diana and Sir Edward, but when he turnedaway she clutched his sleeve. She almost tore the stout cloth ofhis cuff.
"Give me that back! It's mine! Mine by every law of God andman!"
"It is yours," Pointer said with real emotion, "but you mustlet me put it where it belongs. You must give us"—heglanced at the clock then at Sir Edward—"just one hour.Then you shall see your husband's body, if you still wish to doso, to-night."
She let him go at that and sat staring in front of her with aterrible expression on her face. At once wild and lost, as of awoman who felt the very foundations of her soul rocking withinher.
"I'll bring her. To the mortuary chapel, I suppose? Whereexactly is it?" Clifford asked. He himself was a ghastlywhite.
"I'll leave my car. My man will know." Again Pointer turnedtowards the door, that precious tin clasped in his arm.
This time it was Newman who stopped him.
"Aren't you forgetting me?" he asked shakily, "your prisoner?"Like every one else in the room, whether they understood it ornot, he looked profoundly moved by what had just happened.
"No," Pointer said easily, "oh, no, Mr. Newman, I'm notforgetting you. I must ask you to return to your old rooms atThornbush until I have an interview with you." Newman would bebetter watched this time, Pointer knew.
Outside he saw Diana talking to Wilkins, her face convulsed.He motioned to her to come into an empty room. She all butrefused.
"How did that tin come to be in this house at all?" he askedher.
"It came from the warehouse early this afternoon," she repliedin a quiet, dull voice. There are points beyond which sensationbecomes numb. "Wilkins put it on the hall table thinking it wassent up by mistake, or that I had asked for it. That is all heknows about it. And all I know about it."
The Chief Inspector gave a few more directions to the man incharge of Hobbs. Then he drove off with his precioustin—the tin for the sake of hiding which, so he believed, ahalf-sober Hobbs had been willing to let Diana Haslar die afrightful death.
The Commissioner and Major Pelham were present when the tinwas opened. The plaster was carefully sprayed away until thatappeared which they had expected to see, and which Mrs. Cliffordhad apparently already seen in some strange way—the head ofJulian Clifford.
It had a bullet mark behind one ear.
An hour later, Mrs. Clifford followed with Sir Edward. Thehead had been carefully joined to the severed neck, and a clothlaid over the juncture. The face itself was made as littlerepulsive as possible. The plaster had done much to preserve it,and the warehouse chill had helped.
Sir Edward brought her in finally when word was sent out. Shetottered to the coffin, and stood bending over it for a long timein silence. Then she dropped to her knees beside it.
"Ferryman, take me across? Oh, Ferryman, take me across!" Thechoking cry brought tears to the eyes of a very stolid-lookingyoung policeman who was on duty in an unobtrusive corner.
"Poor soul! Mad, quite mad!" he said to himself; "talkingabout ferries here."
Pointer could not let this tormented soul gather itself up inpeace, if tormented it really were. For Duse could have acted asAlison Clifford had done here and at Haslar's house. SarahBernhardt equalled that cry of pent-up passion bursting allefforts at control. Gently he touched her arm.
"Mrs. Clifford, who fired that shot?" he said insistently."Who killed your husband from behind without giving him a chanceto save himself?"
She did not seem to hear him.
"I was wrong," she murmured under her breath, adjusting thesheet with what seemed like loving fingers. "'For here rolls thesea, and even here lies the other shore. Not distant. Notanywhere else." She turned and faced Pointer as though he had notspoken, looking at him as at a strange and rather meddlesomestranger.
"Mrs. Clifford," Pointer repeated quietly, "no one AdmiresTagore more than I do. But he would be the first to say that herelies duty as well. 'Here in this everlasting present.' And duty,your duty to your dead husband, to the civilisation which hassheltered you, which gave him the chance to become what he was,is to aid us—or rather Justice—"
The widow sank into her chair. She covered her face with handsthat looked almost translucent. Edward Clifford watched her, hisown face drawn and haggard. When she finally showed hers again,it was serene.
"I cannot help you, Chief Inspector. Please don'tmisunderstand me." Her eyes on him, she paused. Keen, searching,were the last words to apply to their gaze. Yet Pointer felt asthough she could see far—were seeing far. But he knew hisown face to be an impenetrable mask when he chose. It was sonow.
"I cannot help you," she said again, almost as to a child. "Orrather what you stand for—the law, man-made law—man-made and therefore to me blind and cruel. My husband has passedinto another phase of life. Had he 'died,' to use yourexpression, by what is called an act of God, you would not haveme try and avenge his death. Then why now? The result is thesame. All your efforts cannot light the empty lantern. The lightis shining where you cannot see it for the moment. Julian wouldsay the same."
"And the man who killed him?" Pointer asked coldly.
"The man who did it will suffer—will pay in another way.I will not help you to make him pay in your way."
"Then the next murder he commits will be on your soul, Mrs.Clifford," Pointer said very gravely.
Sir Edward started as though to speak, but checked himself."Justice is necessary," the Chief Inspector went on, "and humanpunishment is necessary. Or we should be back among the head-hunters in no time. The wheel won't turn forward unless we putour shoulders to it." He spoke intentionally in a matter-of-factvoice: "Your husband was murdered, remember. Slaughtered as abeast is slaughtered."
He paused. Her lids flickered and her eyes widened. She drewin her breath sharply.
"He lies there crying to you for justice," Pointer endedpassionately.
"His body lies there, Chief Inspector," she corrected, butapparently with an effort. "Julian Clifford is as much as ever hewas; as near! as dear!" Suddenly two large drops rose and hung onher lashes. They gave the finishing touch to her face. EvenPointer felt his anger melt within him. Surely this woman waswhat she seemed.
"What was the reason for which Mr. Clifford left his home onMonday night? Why were you so sure he was in safety?" hecontinued.
She gave a cry at that and wrung her hands.
"Did you think he was in Bruges buying the Charlemagnecrystal?" he persisted.
She interrupted him. "To think I believed him safe! To think Ithought I saw him in the crystal! Then what did I see? How did Isee?" She stared wild-eyed at Pointer.
She looked shaken to the heart. Pointer said nothing. If thiswere not acting, then he realised that the woman must have hadsuch a shock as to be near the confines of what could beborne.
"I who thought I could see further than others!" she murmured."But Idid see Julian in the crystal...just as I saw Dianaa little while ago. She was there where I saw her. Then why notJulian? Why not my husband?" she asked wildly.
"You have very wonderful gifts, Mrs. Clifford," he saidquietly, "but you could not see what was not there, the deadamong the living. I think your own imagination, your own beliefas to where your husband was, projected itself into thatcrystal."
She was, or seemed to be, too exhausted to be questionedfurther, and he helped Sir Edward put her into her car and takeher home to where a "nurse" from Scotland Yard was waiting tolook after her—with a most vigilant eye.
Her objections to helping him find the criminal, were theysolely as she represented them?
Pointer's profession, one he greatly respected, led along somany dark and twisted paths of the human heart. As a doctorspends his days at sick beds beside diseased bodies, so did theChief Inspector's work take him among diseased minds. It wasinevitable that he should distrust appearances as much as anymystic. Given hesitation on the part of the angel Gabriel,Pointer would have distrusted him. What, then, of Mrs. Clifford?She had cashed that cheque for notes, some of which Diana Haslarhad taken to Mrs. Orr. Pointer believed that Diana had been giventhem by Edward Hobbs, Mrs. Clifford's cousin.
Tindall came hurrying in. The telephone had brought him thenews. Both men were waiting for the police surgeon to make asummary examination of what had been hidden in the tin.
"Amazing about Mrs. Clifford," the F.O. man said tensely. "Didshe know beforehand what the tin contained? Or did she 'see' intoit? If the former, she knew that it would be opened within a veryfew minutes."
"She may have seen what I was seeing, and seeing tremendouslykeenly," Pointer suggested. "My mind was full of what I felt surewas inside that tin, what I guessed I should find on the shelf inthat strong room. Just as sitting close beside Mr. Newman at aconcert she got the message which Miss Haslar says she wassending him. Certainly she could not have known by any ordinarymeans that Miss Haslar was locked in that safe. I shouldn'twonder if whenever she reads a sealed letter, as they tell me shecan do at times, or sees into a locked box, if there were someone in the room who knew what the letter or the box contained.She saw through Newman's disguise apparently, but then Newmanwould have recognised her at once, and must have been veryconscious of her presence beside him."
"Thought-reading, in short?" Tindall asked dubiously.
"Always supposing it's not guilty knowledge," Pointer agreed."I noticed her cousin Hobbs walked away to the window while shelooked into the crystal, and 'saw' the stepped gables—sawher own thoughts, I take it, supposing she's innocent."
"This is going to be a slow, intricate case," Tindall saidthoughtfully.
Intricate, certainly, but Pointer did not think it would beslow. He made no reply.
"How did Miss Haslar come to be locked into the safe, and whoin the world put the head there?" Tindall asked, almost tearinghis hair.
Pointer only turned to take the doctor's report which a manhad just brought in.
The bullet had just failed to pass entirely through the lowerpart of the back of the head from left to right and was easilytaken out. It was the kind to fit a .25 automatic, and had beenfired from too far off to singe or blacken the skin.
"It fits Haslar's automatic," Pointer murmured. "No one elseat Thornbush seems to own a weapon of any kind, except Sir EdwardClifford. He, too, has a .25—a common enough type."
"Haslar's warehouse—Haslar's revolver!" murmuredTindall. "I've taken the liberty, by the way, of putting one ofour men as well on guard outside Thornbush. I confess I expectedEtcheverrey to be detained. Or are you leaving him to me?"
"I'd like nothing done about him till to-morrow," Pointer saidthoughtfully, "just as I want to keep my own counsel for thattime."
"After his accomplices, eh? Good! So Etcheverrey's under ourhands again. Rather fine of him coming hack to save Miss Haslar,after that confession of his. Sort of thing he might be expectedto do, though. Twisted nature his, with odd streaks of generosityin it."
Tindall accompanied Pointer to his rooms in Scotland Yard. SirEdward had spoken of going there as soon as he had seen Mrs.Clifford home. Evidently he had something important to say, andsomething important to ask. He did not keep them waitinglong.
"Now Chief Inspector, how did you learn about the Charlemagnecrystal and Bruges?" Edward Clifford began at once. "Mrs.Clifford only told me that in strict confidence last night. Hobbshad hinted at it in the train, and obviously Julian had had it inhis mind when he questioned me about paying over large sums sothat they could not be traced. But how did you learn of it?"
"In the course of some routine work," Pointer said evasively."I expect, however, to get fuller details from Mr. Hobbspresently."
"Hobbs!" Sir Edward made a wry face. "Yon certainly let nograss grow under your feet in his case either. Straight had onlyjust told me of the defalcation. Straight found"—Sir Edwardnow turned to Tindall—"Straight found that Hobbs has cookedthe books for the last ten years or so. And to the tune of alarge fortune. He wants a first-class man to go through the bookswith him. The Chief Inspector was right in his suspicions ofHobbs."
They had not been suspicions with Pointer. The belief in theexistence of heavy defalcations was the bed-rock of one half ofPointer's theory as to what had happened to Julian Clifford.
"And what about that cheque?" Sir Edward again addressedhimself exclusively to Pointer. "Did Hobbs pay it over? He handedit to Mrs. Clifford to cash yesterday morning, telling her thatJulian had enclosed it in the note which he had left for him.Hobbs's story is that in that letter Julian wrote that he hadreceived word too late of some urgent necessity, some hitch,which only his own presence over in Bruges would smooth out, andthat he was leaving at once, shortly after midnight on areturning fruit-cargo boat. Julian had all sorts of odd friends.The boat would get to Zeebrugge at eight Tuesday morning, and mybrother would be at de Coninck's house by ten. He had to leavethe cheque for Hobbs to cash and forward the money. Hobbs had avery busy morning ahead of him yesterday, and asked Mrs. Cliffordto go to the bank for the money. She knew what was on foot.
"My brother intended the crystal as a surprise for her, butshe had, it seems, overheard some words of his to Mrs. Orr whichhad told her what he was about. But as he had set his heart onsurprising her, she kept up, before him, the pretence of knowingnothing. So Mrs. Clifford cashed her husband's cheque at once onTuesday morning, and handed Hobbs the money. He assures me thatthere really is a Selfe assisting Mrs. Orr at the Bruges end, andthat the cheque is perfectly in order. Mrs. Clifford, when Iasked her a few questions, she cannot talk much about it yet,confirmed all this. She added that Mrs. Orr pressed her very hardto let her take the money over. She, too, was going to Bruges,and was, as I suppose you know too, acting in the affair for hersister, the wife of the newly-appointed director of the WestFlanders Museum, that great building that's just been builtoutside Bruges. The director was not to appear in the affair atall. But Mrs. Clifford preferred to carry out what she believedto be Julian's instructions. Were they his instructions?" SirEdward looked hard at Pointer, who only stirred his teathoughtfully.
"If not," Clifford's hand shook a little, "the murderer mustbe—But I confess I find Julian's death a deeper and deepermystery the more I study it. I, too, found out a piece ofevidence yesterday—not bearing on Hobbs, however, but onHaslar. Mrs. Clifford handed me Julian's diary when I pressed herfor dates and hours. In that diary there's an entry about thediscovery in an old bureau that belonged to Sir William Haslar'sprivate secretary, or at least was always used by him, of twocopies of letters which had been sent to the writer's wife, somethirty years ago now. He was killed in a carriage accident. Shedied shortly afterwards. In them this man, Walton was his name,accuses Sir William of very terrible things. Subversion of partyfunds, and what practically amounts to blackmail. They'repoisonous imputation though there have been whispers at timesthat Sir William did sail very close to the wind now and then. Mybrother makes a note to say that he intends in fairness to thepublic to have these letters inserted as an appendix in hiscoming Life. He notes down the indignation of Diana, butespecially of her brother Arnold. Diana, according to Julian, wascertain after the first shock, that no one would credit theallegations. But Arnold Haslar took it differently.
"There is an entry only this last Thursday in which Julianrecords that Arnold practically threatened him with violence ifhe dared to defame a dead man by printing those libels. Mybrother apparently was quoting Arnold's exact words. I have noidea where the letters are. I asked Hobbs, and he told me thevery disquieting fact that Julian had had them on him when heleft Thornbush—carried them on his person. He distrustedMiss Haslar, believed that in spite of her apparent acquiescence,she might steal the letters. And after all, family pride is avery strong chain. Now, Chief Inspector, where do we stand? Iconfess I am puzzled. Here are the defalcations—not yetproven, it is true—but Straight says he'll go bail thathe's right, and believes it's not far short of a hundred thousandpounds has gone. Julian never lived up to his income, I knew.Here's the fact of these Haslar letters with the fury of ArnoldHaslar at the idea of their being published—Arnold Haslar,who called out that he 'did it for nothing!' Arnold Haslar, whoknew about the missing head, and who the murdered man was, whenthe only printed information was that the corpse was Etcheverrey!But then, what about Etcheverrey himself?"
Still Pointer did not reply. He only nodded thoughtfully.
"Are we wrong about those destroyed pages in my brother'smanuscript: the pages pointing straight to Etcheverrey—toNewman?"
This time Pointer did look up.
"It's a very intricate case," he agreed, "but I think—Ithink that the pages of Mr. Julian Clifford's coming novelwere taken and destroyed because of what was in them. And I thinkthat because of the information shortly to be published throughthem, Mr. Clifford was murdered." And Pointer inhospitably roseand with an apology ended the few minutes' talk. He was at workbefore the door closed behind them. The paper in which the tinbox had been wrapped was of an unusually good quality. It matchedsome which Pointer had seen at Thornbush—paper in which hispublishers sent Julian Clifford his proofs. Who would open Mr.Clifford's proofs? Newman probably. And the string...Pointerfound within the half-hour that the string was the same as theball on Newman's writing table.
Pointer drove on to the warehouse. He found the night watchmanjust closing shutters and gates. From him he learnt that the boxhad been handed to a pensioned-off night watchman very earlyTuesday morning. The man was only called in for extra duty when,as then, the regular man was busy on some especial job. Thisextra watchman had put the box in the cellar, but had forgottento mention the fact to any one. It was only by chance that to-day, Friday, he had learnt of Mr. Dance's inquiry, and by thattime, unfortunately, the foreman had mislaid the address givenhim by the manager to which any such parcel was to be sent. Themen preferred not to mention this fact to Dance, but sent thepackage to Mr. Haslar's house, believing that though down withthe flu, he could still see about his own parcels.
Pointer went to interview the ex-night watchman. He left himnot much the wiser. A car had driven up to the gates of thewarehouse about three on Tuesday morning. The driver had got downand handed him a parcel, saying that Mr. Haslar wanted it takencare of according to instructions which he had written on it. Buthe did not want it entered on the books, as it would not be leftfor long. With that the man had clambered back into his seat,turned the car, and driven off. Stanley, the man who took thetin, had marked it K for the cold storage, and, after putting itin the appropriate cellar, had forgotten all about it until to-day. His belief that it was Mr. Haslar's chauffeur who had calledin the car rested on mere assumption. He had too little to dowith the warehouse nowadays to know Arnold Haslar's car ordriver. He could not even describe the latter. He might have beenArnold Haslar himself, and he might not.
POINTER drove to the police station where Hobbswas lodged in a comfortable enough room. The shock of the arresthad cleared his brain. He was quite himself again now, and hadordered, and eaten, a very good dinner.
"Why am I being detained here? Why is bail refused, if it's onany charge for which you have a right to detain me? Why am I notallowed to communicate with my solicitor?" he began in the toneof a man who had determined to take the upper hand.
"Bail is never allowed on a murder charge, Mr. Hobbs." Pointertook a chair.
Hobbs was holding himself in with some difficulty.
"Murder? Whose murder? What murder?"
"The murder of Julian Clifford. And, if we see fit, theattempted murder of Miss Haslar through a plan concocted togetherwith Mrs. Orr in Bruges where she posed as her unmarried half-sister, a Béguine there called Soeur Thérèse. Mrs. Orr was reallyquite talkative when I explained how things stood over here. Shehad no idea Julian Clifford was dead."
Hobbs's face twitched.
"You don't think you can get away with this sort of stuff withme, do you?" he asked.
"It's the truth, Mr. Hobbs. Mrs. Orr is not the kind to throwgood money after bad. She gave us every help, like the sensiblewoman that she is. We have, as I told you, the money you sent herby Miss Haslar. Five thousand pounds."
"Ay, yes, the money that was sent to straighten things out, ifnecessary. Sir Edward told you about Mr. Clifford's proposedpurchase of the Charlemagne crystal. Needless to say, the money Isent her, except her own promised rake-off of one thousand, wasonly deposited with Mrs. Orr, so to speak. She was expected toaccount for it very strictly. As to her own commission, I saw noreason why she should be the loser because Mr. Clifford'sterrible end had cut short the negotiations."
"Especially after she had inserted that personal in theTimes of yesterday, Tuesday? 'Hobby. Five needed instantlyas promised. No letters. May.' She says a small official in thenew museum had heard something about the proposed sale. And themoney found on you when you were searched just now! A nice sum,Mr. Hobbs. The remainder of the cheque for seventy thousand, aswell as some bearer bonds."
"I was carrying that sum according to Julian Clifford'sinstructions," Hobbs retorted. "It now returns to his estate, ofcourse. Now that I know, what I did not believe until thisafternoon, that he is dead. You know why that cheque was cashed.Whatever happened to Mr. Clifford after he wrote those noteswhich each of us at Thornbush got Tuesday morning, I was onlycarrying out instructions."
Pointer shook his head. "It won't do, Mr. Hobbs. We've had anaccountant looking into the books. According to him you've hadaltogether not far short of a hundred thousand pounds already outof Mr. Clifford's fortune."
Hobbs did not question the figure.
"The new librarian, Straight, was the accountant, I suppose? Ithought that was his game! But you'll have to have reasonableproof, better proof than that before arresting me formurder."
"We have ample proof of motive," Pointer said tranquilly."Really quite good. Just let me run the facts over to you, Mr.Hobbs. There is the systematic robbery extending over manyyears—about ten, Straight thinks. Mr. Clifford evidentlymade some discovery—you determined to kill him at once. Youwere already getting ready to leave England with Mrs. Orr. Shehad determined to throw in her lot with you when she found thather name must be published in a coming divorce suit. But beforeyou both went off to subsist quite pleasantly on the money youhad accumulated, you thought that the Charlemange crystal wouldgive you the opportunity for additional loot. You never intendedMr. Clifford to get the crystal. What you did intend was to seethat Mr. Hobbs got the seventy thousand which you and Mrs. Orrclaimed was being asked by the town for it. You have no alibi forMonday night. You lured Mr. Clifford to Fourteen Heath Mansions,or you took advantage of some one else's having lured him there,followed him, and murdered him. You cut off his head, packed itin plaster in a biscuit tin, wrapped it in some paper in whichMr. Clifford's proofs had been sent home, tied it with stringfrom Mr. Newman's ball, and took it to Mr. Haslar's warehouse,rightly thinking that in the ordinary course it would not bedetected there for a long time—long after you had leftEngland. How much chance will you have in the dock against thatstory, Mr. Hobbs? Remember your palm prints on the spade handlethrough the opening in the gloves you carefully wore."
That last improvised touch did it. Hobbs sagged down in hischair, his mouth working.
"I'm innocent!" he said at last in a hoarse voice, "innocentof all the charges."
"Youcan't be innocent of both the charge ofembezzlement and the charge of murder, Mr. Hobbs. Your one chanceto clear yourself of the capital charge is to prove to me thatMr. Clifford's death absolutely disarranged your plans."
Hobbs sat a moment, then he straightened up. He had feared asmuch from the beginning of the interview, but had hoped to avoida confession.
"I warn you, of course," Pointer went on, "that anything yousay about Mr. Clifford's death may have to be used in evidence,whether against you or another, but anything that you tell meabout other matters will be considered as confidential, exceptwhere it touches on the murder."
"What does Edward Clifford say?"
"I haven't discussed the matter with him. The only bargain Ican make with you, Mr. Hobbs," Pointer said with steel in hisvoice, "is that one lie, and you may find yourself arrested on acapital charge. But, on the other hand, if you tell frankly allthat you know, we may waive the accusation of attempted murder. Ican make no promises, of course."
There was a long silence.
"I'll tell you exactly what happened," Hobbs said finally,"it's my best chance with you, I see. It may help—I thinkit will. Monday night I sat out in the garden till about ten.When I came in, I found a note on the telephone pad for me fromMr. Clifford asking me to go after him to Fourteen HeathMansions, where he would wait for me. No name was given of theflat's owner. I was rather surprised, for I had no idea that heknew any one there. But I went to the address, used an automaticcorner lift—I had a friend who lived there once, so I knewmy way about. As I stepped out of the lift on to the landing, myscarf caught in the lift door. I stopped to put it right. Had topeel off my gloves, and stepped over to the window ledge to laythem down. That brought me to one side of the landing in theshadow. While I was rewinding the scarf, the door of NumberFourteen opened suddenly, and a man thrust his head out, lookedaround, and then slipped out and closed the door, standing stillagain for a moment to listen. I was just going to move towardshim when he ran down the stairs as light as a cat. Well, I wasstartled. I stepped to the door and caught hold of the littlebrass knocker. It gave—the door was open. Apparently thelock hadn't caught. I couldn't understand the affair at all. ButI knew that Clifford had the Haslar letters with him in a letter-case. I called his name. No one answered. I walked into the firstroom to my right and there I foundhim—dead—shot—sitting with his head sunkforward on his breast...he was quite warm. There was no weapon tobe seen.
"Well,"—Hobbs stopped and lit a cigar with a match thatquivered—"I was appalled. There's no use pretending thatJulian Clifford's death wasn't the end of things for me. EdwardClifford, or any other executor, would run a very careful eyeover accounts. I couldn't cover my tracks under a couple of days'intensive work, and I wasn't ready to fly at once—I daren'twith a murdered man. Then there was the cheque for seventythousand pounds which Clifford carried ready to cash whennecessary, and which, as you know, we'd been working for. Ithought of taking his body off with me, but you can't carry deadpeople around town. I thought of all sorts of things. Then Iremembered that on coming in, I had come by a corner door—Ihad noticed some workmen's tools and sacking. I thought of asack, and of dumping the body into the river somewhere. I wentdownstairs and found that there was no empty sack. But there wasan empty tin, a tin large enough to contain a head. I went backto Thornbush, got my car out—by some lucky chance thechauffeur had the evening off— took along with me somepaper and string, left the car not far from Heath Mansions,walked in by the same way, still without meeting any one. Theporters and people were all in the big, central, well-lit part. Itook the tin and a spade up with me. The spade went under a loosetopcoat which I had put on at Thornbush when I went back for thewrapping material. I had left the door with the latch caughtback. I went in, took off Clifford's clothes, did them up intotwo parcels, and addressed them to fictitious names—I'veforgotten what names, or where, for then I took the head..." Hisvoice shook. "I don't need any punishment for having done that.It's punishment enough. I see it night and day. Shall seeit...You can't do a thing like that and be the same manafterwards. However...I poured plaster into the tin, and so on,as you already know. And after some thought I decided that thebest place for it would be Haslar's warehouse. He had once toldme how things got snowed under in the cellars, do what theywould. Besides, I thought then that there was a poetic justiceabout it, for I believed that Haslar had killed JulianClifford."
"But we found the tin on a shelf in Mr. Haslar's strong room,"Pointer said doubtfully.
Hobbs swore at himself. "Like a fool I put it there when Iwent to Arnold Haslar's this afternoon and found it on the halltable."
"And what took you to Mr. Haslar's house?"
Hobbs kept sullen silence for a moment. Then, "I had found theHaslar letters Wednesday night which had been on Mr. Cliffordbefore his death, and for which I had been looking everywhere,letters which only interested Haslar, in a secret drawer in hislibrary along with Clifford's umbrella. I forgot the letterswhile talking to Miss Haslar, and getting her to take some moneyacross for me to Mrs. Orr. I knew quite well that I was watchedby day, but I thought I could slip across at night and get them.They were better destroyed."
"That version won't do, Mr. Hobbs," Pointer said decidedly."You took those letters from Mr. Clifford's body—from hisdead body you maintain—when you took the cheque. Just asyou—not Haslar—took the umbrella, hacked it intopieces to get it into a parcel with the clothes, and then foundafter all that it was too awkward to manage."
This was only the sounding of a pilot going carefully indifficult waters.
"You went out for a walk on Tuesday morning as soon as youcame down. You walked over to Mr. Haslar's house, let yourselfin, or found the door open and walked in, and put the umbrella inthat secret partition. You could easily hide the umbrella on you,or carry it in a roll of maps or papers...Then when the wholeaffair began to get unpleasantly hot, you decided that theletters which you were carrying on you must be hidden somewhere.Somewhere known only to yourself. Some hiding-place, moreover,that would tell against the person in whose presumed possessionthey were found, should they be found. Mr. Haslar is not likelyto open any of his drawers for a long time, so to Mr. Haslar'sold bureau you carried them Wednesday night. Miss Haslar caughtyou with them in your hand. You pretended, of course, that youhad just taken them out of the place where her brother had hiddenthem."
That Diana had actually seen Hobbs with letters in his handwhich it was known that Julian Clifford had been carrying onMonday night, the night when he was murdered, was one of thethings that explained why she ran so much danger in going to theBéguinage. Why, once her help was no longer needed, it was notintended that she should return to England.
Pointer reasoned—rightly—that when Hobbs had tosend the money to Mrs. Orr by some carrier who he believed wasnot being watched, he was in a quandary. Whoever was taken intohis counsel, however slightly, would be a permanent danger to himand to Mrs. Orr. That person had therefore better be silenced.Hobbs, so Pointer believed, chose Diana both because she could beeasily induced to take the letter, and because she would be aswell out of the way. She knew too much. She had opened a lettermeant for Hobbs, Sir Edward said. One that had made her suspectthat the literary agent's entries were not accurate. She was agrave menace. Once let the idea that Hobbs had been robbing hisbrother take root in Sir Edward's mind, and—supposing thathe himself knew nothing of the crime—then, in spite ofNewman's confession, Hobbs's chance of getting away with, orwithout, the money for the crystal would be small.
"You decided this afternoon to get back those letters in orderto frighten her into silence if things went wrong," Pointercontinued, "that is, if she should by any chance return fromBruges. And that was why you went to Mr. Haslar's house when youfancied yourself unwatched. You evidently have a latchkey. Youlet yourself in this afternoon, and the first thing you saw wasthat tin in the hall. You put it in the strong room whosepassword you knew, like most of Mr. Haslar's friends. And becauseit was there, Miss Haslar had been locked in by you when youthought she had gone in after it—you refused to say to whatword you had set the dial." Pointer bit back with difficulty hiscomments on what had happened.
"I forgot the word." But Hobbs's eyes did not meet theother's. "Besides, I'd had a glass of brandy. Neat too. Whowouldn't, when they found that damned tin resurrected, andstaring at them from a hall table? Ever since that night in theflat I've only kept going by—" He pulled himself up and satbiting at his cigarette.
"And the crystal was never intended to be really a sale?"
Hobbs set his teeth for a second. "No, just a plant. We haddecided to burn our boats, Mrs. Orr and I. As soon as we got holdof the notes for the cheque, I was to leave England and join her.But I couldn't get off at once, things had come too much in arush for that. And by Tuesday evening I was told by EdwardClifford and you that the body had been identified."
"Did Newman know about the crystal?"
"Certainly not! He was our greatest danger. Of course had Ihad an idea of the truth—"
"What truth?" Pointer asked casually.
"Why, the reason for which he killed Julian Clifford. That hewas in love with my cousin. Mrs. Orr had long suspected as much.I had always laughed at the idea."
"It was Mrs. Orr's notion to get Mrs. Clifford into thingstoo? So that if they went wrong there would be your cousin tofall back on?" Pointer asked in his most colourless voice.
"That was the idea," Hobbs said shortly.
"Mrs. Clifford believed the crystal was to be genuinelybought?"
"Oh, lord, yes! Only thing she had ever wanted. She had seenit in Bruges some years ago, and told Julian then that she wouldgive her eyes to possess it. That was quite enough for him. Hewanted it as a sort of peace-offering for his frequent absences,I think."
"And Mrs. Clifford believed that Mr. Julian Clifford left forBruges on Monday night?"
Hobbs nodded.
"And the letters left in Julian Clifford's name?"
Hobbs hesitated. "It's a bad business. But it's not murder. Iwrote the letters, of course, the letters signed by Clifford'sname. There's nothing easier than what's called forgery. No oneever thinks of doubting a letter when they see a familiar name atthe foot. I had to do something to keep people from suspectingwhat had happened. I knew about what to say in each, of course.Fondest love to Alison. Poor girl. General directions to Newmanto carry on. Same to Diana. Straight was to start on the subject-index I'd heard Clifford speak of. I wrote the notes Tuesdaymorning after leaving the tin."
"You think Mrs. Clifford had no doubts throughout as to thegenuineness of the two she got?"
"None whatever. A baby in swaddling clothes could deceive mycousin."
"And was it usual with Mr. Clifford to leave her likethat— with only a written note for good-bye?'
"He had done it at least once before, I knew, when he was atwork on a serial. He never worked out his serials beforehand. Iremembered that on that occasion he had scribbled her a line,poked it under her door, and been out of the house when she gotup."
Pointer nodded. "I see. Now, as to the cheque? We know, ofcourse, that you altered the name to Selfe. But how did youaccount for the name to Mrs. Clifford, I mean?"
"I told her Selfe was the man through whom the crystal wouldactually be purchased."
"And the second letter, also in Mr. Clifford's writing, theletter which Mrs. Clifford received Wednesday morning atbreakfast? The letter posted in Bruges by Mrs. Orr?"
Hobbs grinned sarcastically.
"Well, naturally, I had to take it from her desk and destroyit. It wouldn't have deceived either of you. It wasn't meant to.It was meant to do what it did. Keep my cousin, Mrs. Clifford,quiet."
Again here was a silence.
"Now about the man whom you saw coming out of the flat atHeath Mansions. Did you recognise him?"
Hobbs gave him a long look. "You're clever, Chief Inspector,damned clever. But you'll get a surprise. The man I saw wasStraight."
"The new librarian? The man who has just found out thedefalcations?" Pointer murmured equably. "Indeed. You saw himclearly enough to swear to?"
"Quite."
"It couldn't have been any one else? Any one of about hisheight and general appearance?"
"You mean Edward Clifford? It might easily have been. He'salways been in love with my cousin. But as it happened, it wasStraight."
Pointer sat on a moment, looking at his shoes.
"One thing more, Mr. Hobbs. Mr. Clifford made some notes onhis novel, the novel that is coming out in theArcturus.They're not among his papers. Do you know where they are?"
"I've nothing to do with any notes of Clifford's," Hobbs saidimpatiently, "if they're lost, it's no use coming to me."
"Would Newman know about them?" Pointer asked.
"He might. But Clifford, as a rule, saw to everything to dowith his writing himself. Newman's work was social. Clifford, ofcourse, got invitations and letters by the ton."
"But I suppose Mr. Newman typed out Mr. Clifford'smanuscript?"
"No. Clifford did his typing himself. He revised too,constantly. As a rule his work went straight from him to hispublishers. Though Newman would have the actual sending or takingof it, after I had settled about terms."
"Would Newman know beforehand what was coming in a novel?"
Hobbs yawned. His face was lined with weariness—nerveweariness.
"Couldn't say. Clifford had taken to discussing his comingbookThe Soul of Ishmael with him lately."
Again there was a silence...of utter fatigue on Hobbs's part.Pointer rose.
"Well, Mr. Hobbs, of course I must verify your statements asfar as possible. Meantime you're at liberty to return toThornbush. Sorry, but I must insist on its being Thornbush. SirEdward has not spoken. Straight can be trusted not to speak whenhe's asked not to. Until to-morrow, when other arrangements canbe made, the household at Thornbush must remain as it is. Norestrictions will be put on any reasonable outings."
Pointer saw Hobbs off, and then telephoned to Thornbush. WasStraight there? He was. So was Miss Haslar, who had not yetreturned to her brother's house.
Pointer found them deep in talk.
"Maud Gillingham would be just the wife for you," Diana wassaying as Pointer stopped for a second outside the door.
"I want you two to see more of each other. I shall nevermarry. I shall wait for Sam and another life. But Maud is ever somuch sweeter tempered than I am, and she's biddable, which Ishould never have been. Also she's got pots more money."
"Diana!" Straight protested, without any over-vehemence. Afterall, Diana had openly chosen the Basque anarchist.
Pointer entered and asked Straight for an interview. Dianaturned to Richard.
"Please let me stay! Oh, Dick, please let me hear the worst. Iknow—I know that—that it may be hard hearing, but Ican't be kept out of this. For Arnold and Sanz both keep me init. In its heart. Please, Chief Inspector, let me stay."
"It rests with Mr. Straight," Pointer said at once; "if he hasno objection, I have none."
"Stay, then, Diana, but you mustn't mind if I have to saythings, and say them in a way that may hurt you," Straight warnedher.
"Mr. Straight," Pointer began promptly, "we have just had apiece of information which concerns you."
Straight had not expected this. He sat up.
"You were seen last Monday night leaving Fourteen HeathMansions after Mr. Clifford was shot, and leaving it in a hasty,almost furtive manner. Can you explain this?"
Diana gave a gasp of resentment, but Straight silenced herwith a smile.
"Patience, Di!" He turned to the detective officer. "I leftHeath Mansions after Mr. Clifford arrived, but not after he wasshot. Your witness is lying there. It's an odd story; but itwon't help the case forward at all."
"It should have been told me," Pointer said stiffly.
"And it would have been told you. But I like to think thingsover. Also, it implicates a friend."
"Arnold?" breathed Diana.
"Arnold," the name came reluctantly.
"And the story?" Pointer asked. Still Straight hesitated."I'll try not to jump to conclusions," Pointer promised.
"Well, as I told you, I dropped in at Haslar's on Monday afterdinner, but found that he was unexpectedly called out oftown."
Straight paused.
"Did he give you any idea of why and where?"
Pointer had asked this before. Then Straight had given anevasive reply, now he said, "None. I think he was inclined to,but he finally said, 'You're too straight-laced a chap, Dick, myson. We will not blacken your innocent soul with the night's darkdeeds.' I decided to go for a walk, it was a heavenly evening,and turn in early. I had only landed that morning. I walked aboutthe heath at random, and then made for Thornbush. Passing what Inow know to be Heath Mansions, I ran into Mr. Clifford. Hestopped me, asked me if I'd mind dropping a couple of letters ina pillar-box for him, and then coming on after him to flatFourteen in the building to which he pointed. Headded"—Straight looked at Diana as though asking her toforgive him—"he added that he expected to have rather anunpleasant interview with Arnold Haslar. Would I mind comingup?"
"He had left a message for Hobbs, but Hobbs mightn't get it intime. I wasn't very keen on an unpleasant interview between myfriend and my employer. Mr. Clifford evidently read as much in myface, for he said, 'It's all right. I only want to borrow youreyes. Haslar has just telephoned me that he has a friend wholives there and who can prove that certain letters which Ibelieve to be genuine are forgeries.' With that he turned in atthe gates of the flats. I didn't find a letter-box at once.Doubtless I passed several. When I got back, I walked up thestairs and to my surprise found the door of Number Fourteen ajar.I rang, and then, as no one came, I walked in. The door of a roomon my right was open. There sat Mr. Clifford at a little sidetable beside a lamp, reading a letter. He glanced up and said,'It's all right, Straight. I shan't need you after all. Sorryto've given you the trouble of coming up here for nothing.' Imurmured something and went out. As I closed the door, Mr.Clifford said something which I didn't quite catch. But Ithink— I onlythink, mind you, Chief Inspector, thatit was 'Newman's here. I shall be quite all right.'"
"Newman!" Diana echoed in a little gasp.
"I may have heard him incorrectly. His back was to me and hespoke hurriedly. At any rate, I went on out. In the doorway Iheard"—again he glanced at Diana—"I heard a soundlike Haslar's cough. I stopped to listen. I wasn't sure whetherit came from behind me—from inside the flat, thatis—or from outside the flat—from the stairs. I lookedout of the door, up and down the landing and stairs. I couldn'tsee any one. I went to the lift-shaft to press the button for thelift, and as I did so, I thought I caught sight of Haslar'sulster below me—"
"Going down or coming up?" Pointer asked.
"I couldn't say. I thought I saw it on a landing. I ran ondown, but I saw nothing of Haslar. So I returned to Thornbush andbed. Next morning I heard that Mr. Clifford had left. I sawnothing improbable in that. Next I heard of the Etcheverreymurder in flat Fourteen. That did stagger me. But obviously therecould be no connection between Mr. Clifford and a murder. Itwasn't as ifhe had been announced as murdered. I shouldhave come forward at once then, of course. Next, I learn thatEtcheverrey's body was claimed by you and Sir Edward to be thatof Mr. Clifford, but that Mrs. Clifford and Hobbs denied that itwas he, and were certain that he was safe and sound. Obviously Ihad to think things over. I decided that my tale would addnothing to the facts. I found Mr. Clifford alive, and I left himalive. I confess that the thought of being mixed up in acrime— It was a terrible position...I would have had tobring in my friend Arnold Haslar. Altogether I decided to wait alittle while longer and see."
There was a little silence.
"And one thing more," Straight went on, "I stood outside thedoor listening, as I said, to see if I had really heard Haslar,and how I could not have seen any one if they had been standingoutside the fiat, or on the landing—" Straight shookhis head.
"You think whoever saw you was inside the fiat, not outside?"Pointer asked.
"I don't know what to think," Straight replied, "it's tooterrible a case to decide on quickly."
There was another silence. Diana sat with her head resting onher hand, her face shaded, her lips tightly pressed together.
"And you, Miss Haslar, you knew of this meeting on Mondaynight between your brother and Mr. Clifford?"
She looked at Pointer, tightening her lips still more.
"I'd like a word alone with you if you would let me have it,"Pointer said.
Straight rose reluctantly at her glance. He stepped up toPointer before opening the door.
"Be gentle with her," he murmured under his breath, "she'sgoing through a frightful ordeal."
When the door closed behind him Pointer began again.
"Suppose you chance it, Miss Haslar, and trust me to see thetruth through all the maze of misleading events and side issues.I don't see how you can do any harm by speaking out. Nothing canmake matters worse for Mr. Haslar, and knowing that, suppose youtake heart."
"Then you don't believe in Mr. Newman's confession?" she askedeagerly and yet with dread in her voice.
"Until all the facts are cleared up, it's not possible to becertain who was an accomplice and who not," Pointer saidtruthfully. "We know your brother took the flat. But it'spossible that he may have taken it simply as the first step in arather elaborate plan to get back those letters blackening yourgrandfather's character which Mr. Clifford intended to include inhis coming biography of Sir William Haslar. We have the lettersthemselves."
Diana looked sceptical. But her look changed as Pointer drew anote-case from his pocket and took out of an envelopephotographic copies of the two fateful notes. She was startled.Yet, oddly enough, it gave her courage. Here was a man who wantedbut the truth. A man who had the knack of getting it, moreover.Diana searched his face again. It was the face of a man of highpersonal character. There were brains in it. But it could be anabsolutely unyielding face. She sat through another agonisedmoment of silence. There was danger whatever she did or said.
"I think he may have taken it in order to lay a trap for Mr.Julian Clifford," Pointer said again, "a trap to get possessionof those letters. Am I right? I've thought so all along. But itwasn't easy to get the proof, to find out what he wanted."
Diana surrendered the position.
"I think so too," she said slowly. "I know nothing definite.But I think he meant to—well, keep Mr. Clifford there for afew days."
"Against his will?"
Diana nodded.
"That, at least, was what I feared when I heard on Tuesdaymorning that Mr. Clifford had left Thornbush so suddenly beforebreakfast. And when a man from the Home Office called during themorning, and spoke of Uncle Julian's absence as such a riddle.Seemed so amazed at it! But Mrs. Clifford and her cousin appearedso certain that they knew where Uncle Julian was, that I thoughthow silly I had been...But you see Arnold had just been taken illthat morning, at the breakfast table, and the doctor had spokenof some excitement or shock." She bit her lip.
"Suppose you tell me everything you know about your brother'staking that flat," Pointer suggested. "How did he learn ofit?"
Diana hesitated. Pale, she grew whiter still. So it probablywas, as Pointer thought, through Newman.
"I reallyknow nothing. Not even that he had a plan,"she said finally. "It was only that when Uncle Julian refused topromise not to use the letters, when Arnold could not budge himfrom his intention of adding them to the Life which was alreadybeing proof-read, I felt sure that Arnold would try something. Hegot the position he holds because of his daring plans, and theabsolute fearlessness with which he goes ahead and carries themout. You see, I know him so well that I can guess a good deal ofwhat's going on in his mind. Besides, one day when I said I'dsteal the letters if I could—and so I wouldhave"—Diana's eyes flashed—"they were cruel liesabout one of the best and kindest men that ever lived. And liesabout him when he was dead and could no longer defendhimself—Arnold told me not to worry. Just that."
"When did he say that?"
"Last Friday."
"You two were alone?"
She nodded.
"You had no idea of what his plan was?"
"Well, Uncle Edward—Sir Edward Clifford, Imean—was chaffing a friend that night at a dance club whereArnold and I were. He accused the boy of having kidnapped theexaminer and taken the exam papers from him. Arnold started, andgave Sir Edward the look of some one who thought for half amoment that his secret had beets guessed. I knew then what hisscheme was, or at least suspected something of it. There weren'tmany things youcould do to get those letters." She spokewith an unconscious irritation which would have amused Pointer atanother time.
"You were on his side, of course? You thought anything fairunder the circumstances?"
She shook her head.
"Not towards Uncle Julian, no. I wasn't on Arnold's side atall. Uncle Julian hated publishing those letters. But he thoughtit the right thing to do. When people have to do dreadful thingsbecause they think them right, what is there one can do?" Diana'stone was infinitely sad and hopeless. "However dreadful, what canone do? Besides"—her voice changed—"besides, I wasafraid that Arnold would overreach himself. You could no morebully or frighten Uncle Julian than you could Arnoldhimself."
"Did you attempt to dissuade him?"
"Oh, yes. Coming home from the Havana. But he only gotimpatient, and told me I was all wrong. That there was noquestion of personal violence in his mind, nor of bullying. Hetold me to be quite sure of that; said he wasn't an absoluteidiot."
"You think he meant what he said?"
"Arnold always means what he says."
"Did you ever hear the flat referred to?"
She did not reply.
"I wish I could spare you these questions," Pointer saidregretfully, "but truth is your best course, believe me. The verybest course—for every one."
She flashed him an eager look. There was a sparkle of almostpainful hope in it.
"You—you mean?"
Something in Pointer's eyes encouraged her.
"I think I must have heard Arnold refer to it over thetelephone last Saturday evening. I heard him say, 'He can't cometill Tuesday, but the flat's taken for a month, so that's allright.'"
"Do you know to whom he was talking?"
Diana hesitated.
"Was it to Mr. Newman?"
Her silence was answer in itself.
"Mr. Straight is a great friend of yours and your brother's, Ibelieve?"
"Very great."
"Did he know about the letters—I mean about theirexistence?"
"Not in the least," she said earnestly. "Mr. Straight is thelast man to permit himself to be drawn into a familysquabble."
"And Mr. Newman?"
"Mr. Newman was with Uncle Julian when they were found. He andAdrian Hobbs both knew of them."
"And Sir Edward Clifford?"
"I begged Uncle Julian not to tell him. Sir Edward has alwaysbeen most unjustly critical of my grandfather's policy about theAustralian navy."
"And now—how did you come to go to Bruges, Miss Haslar?You found Mr. Hobbs at that desk in your brother's study, didn'tyou—at the secret drawer?"
"He had the letters you've shown me, in his hand. And UncleJulian's umbrella too. He told me that he had only just foundthem in that old concealed double back, after hunting for themall day. But I hardly cared about the letters, for he told mesomething else. I thought it too good to be true, and yet, Ibelieved it!"
"That Mr. Julian Clifford was alive after all?"
"Yes, that you had made a mistake about identifying the bodyfound in Heath Mansions as his; that Alison was right, that UncleJulian was safe and sound only in a most awkward position. Iwould rather not tell you about that," Diana said, pausing.
Pointer assured her that the police knew it already.
"And you? Did youknow that the nun was Mrs. Orr?"Diana asked. "Or did you just suspect it?"
"I suspected it so strongly that I knew it," Pointer said, atrifle grimly, "chiefly from her manicured nails. They positivelyglittered. And a little from the marks of having worn rings veryrecently on her fingers, especially the dent of a weddingring."
"And was it really her intention to—or was that aboutthe window and the canal only to frighten her?"
Pointer did not answer. He thought that the less said aboutthat the better. He had practically had to promise as much toMrs. Orr before she would speak. He had only his suspicions onwhich to go.
"And did Adrian Hobbs intentionally shut me in that strongroom?"
Pointer did not answer that either.
"And about Sanz," she said, after a pause, in a low voice;"what is going to be done with him?"
A door had just opened in the east library. Pointer had heardit and recognised the step. Not so Diana.
"You would never have known that he was Etcheverrey, but forme!" Suddenly she sprang up. Diana's spirit was ever for action,weary though her body might be. "Chief Inspector, I feel asthough somehow you were my one hope. Sanz Etcheverreycouldn't have killed Uncle Julian. I know he traded on mylove for him to take those Melbourne plans, but that wasdifferent—that was political. He was against us all duringthe war, and I thought I hated him. I told myself I did. I lostmy only other brother though he was a chaplain, in the war. Butthis is quite different. In spite of all, Iknow he didn'tkill Uncle Julian."
Pointer looked at her. She read his look.
"You mean that I think that because I love him?" She seemed tothink over that possibility. "I do. And in that awful strong roomlast night I learnt that nothing in the world is more worth whilethan being able to love. It's a miracle. To be loved isnothing— that's easy; that's chance. But to be able tolove! And I had been trying to crush it out of me all theseyears. I thought hatred finer. For years I've been trying tothink that Sanz was playing some deep game of his own here atThornbush. But he didn't play a game when he came back, in spiteof his confession, to get me out last night. He offered up hislife for mine. Has he—has he given up his life formine?"
Diana asked the dreadful question with indescribableanguish.
"That coming back to rescue you stands to his credit whateverthe issue." Pointer would not say more.
"And that confession?" Diana was in an awful position. Herbrother stood on the one side, her lover on the other.
"It's a good thing to doubt everybody and everything in a caseof this kind," Pointer said vaguely but kindly.
Diana looked at him imploringly. A very strange look to see onDiana's face. But nothing of the thoughts behind them weremirrored in the Chief Inspector's inscrutable gray eyes. He wasas usual aloof, remote, and tranquil.
"But if he didn't kill Uncle Julian, then he must have writtenthat letter to save some one. To save Arnold. Not that Arnoldneeds saving," Diana added hastily, "but I've wondered whetherSanz didn't think he did, and so jump in to the rescue. I was madto think Sanz could have tried to shoot Arnold. I wanted to thinkanything bad of him, so as to—" She seemed to recollectherself. "Forgive me ranting like an Adelphi heroine. I'm nottaken that way often. But what's his fate to be? Mind you," shecame a step nearer, "nothing will alter my feelings towards Sanz.Imprison him for life, hang him—I shall always love him,always wait for him! For no matter what his ideas of duty forcehim to do, however horrible his political opinions, hehimself—Sanz Etcheverrey the man, not theanarchist—is a hero!"
The communicating door between the two libraries openedsharply with a jerk. Algernon Newman, as he still signed himself,came in very gravely. He hardly glanced at Diana.
"Chief Inspector, I've come to clear up a few things—no,not directly concerned with what interests you, but only personalmatters. No, please stay, Miss Haslar!"
"Miss Haslar? It wasn't 'Miss Haslar' whom you got out of thesafe last night, Sanz," Diana threw back at him. There is noconfidence in the world greater, no power surer than that of awoman who is talking to the man whom she knows loves her. AndDiana had looked deep into the eyes of her rescuer last night.She knew his heart.
"It wasn't Sanz Etcheverrey who opened the safe," Newman saidheavily. "Sanz Etcheverrey is a more or less romantic figure, atleast in a woman's eyes. There's nothing romantic about me." Hepaused. Diana said nothing, but she was obviously with him in anychange of name or personality which he might be going tomake.
Newman looked ill and very tired. Evidently some fiercefighting had gone on within him. "I'm only a crook's son.Worse— a murderer's son."
Diana half rose. He stopped her with a weary lift of hiseyes.
"You mustn't sacrifice your life to a sham romantic personage.You are romantic, you know. There's no romance about being theson of Henry Cadby, embezzler, forger, thief, and finallymurderer. That was where I learnt how to open safes—athome." He turned to Pointer. "Oh, I know Cockerell recognised myfather's invention of packing with powdered aluminum and ironoxides and then using electricity in a totally new way. But itwasn't because of Cockerell I'm telling the truth now. I couldhave pretended that I'd caught Cadby once, and so on...Butyou mustn't go on thinking me anything but what I am: mud;the scourings of the street." He was talking only to Diana now.He came up to her chair. "Thank you for saying what you did justnow. It was what Padre Haslar's sister would say. It helped me todo—what's lot harder than coming back last night." Hefinished with a half smile, an unconscious flicker of his lipsthat lent the foreign leanness of his face a touch of ironicvividness. In it was experience, suffering, and bitter wisdom."Then you were in danger," he went on softly. He stopped asthough struck by the phrase. "Perhaps, after all, the danger wasas great just now. Anyway, you know the truth—the reasonwhy I would never let you become engaged to me. You engaged tome!"
"How can I know the truth when I don't understand it?" Dianaspoke with unexpected coolness. "Why did you tell me you wereSanz Etcheverrey long ago at Hendaye? And those men at Pamplona,they called you by that name."
Newman sat down.
"I'll begin at the beginning. I learnt to speak Spanish as ababy, for I was born at Barcelona, where my father was a ratherwell-to-do mining engineer. Cadby and Penfold was the firm. Mymother died when I was born. My father had spent several years inthe tin mines of Cornwall. That's where he and Penfold decided tostart together in the Catalan capital. When the firm got intodifficulties after Penfold's death, my father came to England. Ibelieve there was a fire, and he started with the insurance moneyas manager in a biggish firm. Anyway he began to speculate, lost,and borrowed the firm's money; to conceal these he forgedentries, stole more money, and so on—the usual thing. Hewas convicted and sent to prison. Meanwhile he had married awoman in the set into which he had by this time sunk. Crooks, allof them. My father came out of prison—I was twelve by thattime—and went from bad to worse. He now made his living asa safe breaker, a cracksman. He invented a wonderful way ofopening safes; had he been honest he might have risen high, Isometimes think. He made a great deal of money, stole it, inother words. Lived in great style. Called himself Baron deRibiera from Argentina. Then came the war. I was just short ofeighteen, but I joined up, thankful to get free. I had triedseveral times to earn my own living, but something always gave meaway. My father would find out where I was, or some friends ofhis recognised me, or the police warned my employers whose son Iwas—"
"Butyou weren't a thief!" Diana said withconfidence.
"Not I! I'd have starved first. I hated the life, the wholehorrible family life—I enlisted under the name of Pollock,my mother's name. Then came the news that my father had murderedone of his accomplices who was about to give him away. He wascaught red-handed, and hanged. You remember the case, Isuppose?"
Pointer had been looking it up. Cockerell had finallyremembered where he had seen a safe that had been opened on linessimilar to those followed for that strong room door lastnight.
"Man called Strachey?" he asked gently.
"Just so. Well, I slogged away at soldiering. They put me intothe quartermaster's office because I was quick at figures. Nochance to do more than jog along...And then in 1917 I got hold ofsome information through a friend in the Foreign Legion, a chapwho came from Malaga, about Sanz Etcheverrey, a Basque who atthat time was rather on the German side. He was against all thecountries of the war, but now he would help one, now the other,for his own reasons, his own price. This information was that acertain official high in the Spanish Government had promisedEtcheverrey an amnesty for some followers of his who were dyingin Spanish prisons, if he would get hold of details about theAnzac troops and troopships. The official's wife was a von Buck,by the way. They had heard of Riply's escape from the torpedoedship, and they knew of those plans. Etcheverrey had agreed. Thechap from Malaga didn't tell me all this, of course. I had topiece things together. I worked out a plan for catchingEtcheverrey and laid it before the quartermaster-general. It wasturned down. I was told to stick to figures. I deserted. When Iwent off in 1914 my father—he was always a generous manwith money, and always kind to me, put a thousand pounds to mycredit in Cox's bank as a parting gift. I told him I was leavinghome for good. I hadn't touched the money, and didn't mean to.But I drew on it now, brushed up my Spanish, came down toHendaye, and started in great style.
"I let it be known that I belonged to the Spanish SecretService. I got into touch with two of Etcheverrey's men and moreor less induced them to think that I was Etcheverrey himself.He's double my age, but looked only half his years. I looked alot older than I was. Besides, they'd never seen him. He kepthimself absolutely in the background. I didn't claim to be him,of course. I merely didn't deny it. Little by little I guessedthat the Melbourne Harbour plans were the objective of these two.But it was only that night, the night that Riply died, that I wascertain. I had just half an hour to forestall them. I couldn'ttrust two women to guard those papers from these Catalans. They'dhave cut you both into strips to make you give them up." Newmanthrew this to Diana over his shoulder. He was talking to Pointer,but he included Diana from now on.
"I had to get you out of the way before they could come. Oncelet them see you in that room, and they'd suspect that you hadthe papers. I stunned you and got you into your room. The twoCatalans came along before I got clear. I called out that I wasoff for Pamplona, Etcheverrey's supposed headquarters. I knewEtcheverrey was expected there. Well, the two hung on to me. Butthey had an accident with their car at a turning when we werealmost in Pamplona. I had to go on. As it chanced Etcheverrey wasworking in Nice, and the rumour that he was coming was spurious.I passed myself off as him with the crew I found there, supplyingU-boats with petrol, they were part of a sort of pipe line thatran to the coast. Then you blew in." He looked ruefully atDiana.
"However, we got clear. Only unfortunately they hit a petroltin on our car over which my coat sleeve hung down. Tin and coatwent up in a blaze together. You got the fire under, but theMelbourne Harbour plans were smoke. They were in a pocket of thatcoat. That meant that I had nothing to show for my absence but avery thin tale of adventure; but I gave myself up and decided totell it, leaving out the purely personal part, of course. Therewas a court-martial, but—well, the news was just out of myfather's execution. They were very decent. They decided tobelieve me. I asked for a front line job, and this time I got it.I chose a Surrey regiment, because your brother was chaplain totheir division, so you had told me at Hendaye." He was speakingonly to Diana now. This might be his last talk to the girl,except for the tragic leave-taking that the Chief Inspector hadpromised her.
"That's what you meant by Padre Haslar?" Diana had hardlynoticed the reference before. He nodded.
"It was next best to being with you. Life was a bit grim thosedays. Your brother was a man in a million. He"—Newman madea gesture of inability—"but what's the good, you can'tdescribe a man like him!"
"He was a dear!" Diana said, with a catch in her voice "heloved the whole world."
"He loved God," Newman said seriously. "It takes a very goodman to be able to love God. But he did. You knew he was killedtrying to get a couple of wounded soldiers out of a shell-holethat was filling with water? Hit just after he got them throughour barbed wire."
Diana nodded. She guessed what was coming.
"I was one of the two. We had been three days in that shell-hole."
There was a long pause.
"When I woke up in hospital—I had collapsed at thewire—I found that no one knew who I was. My identity dischad been cut off when they dressed my arm at a clearing station.So had my few remaining rags. We had all to be evacuated quicklyand my things were left behind. I was too weak to be questioned.And I didn't care to talk. I had heard the Padre had been shothelping poor Wingate to make a last effort. Wingate was muchworse wounded than I was. I didn't want to live. But in the wardwas a chap who had lost his memory. It struck me that he was alucky devil. And then I pretended to've lost mine. Only to beleft in peace, at first. But I began to think what a wonderfulthing it would be if I really had lost it—for ever. Thememory of that circle of crooks, of the underworld, of all Iloathed, of my father whom I secretly loathed too. Though, as Isay, he was always kind to me—kind and forbearing. To be rid ofit all! To drop it of like a dirty shirt. It seemed a heavenlythought. I played it. It worked. No one suspected me. You see, Ihad been studying the poor fellow in the ward who really had losthis memory.He wanted it back. Lucky man! Then Mr.Clifford came along, and spoke of Padre Haslar. Spoke of him as afriend. I couldn't claim to've known him, but that made me acceptMr. Clifford's offer to see what he could do for me. What I coulddo for myself was how he put it. Well—the rest you know.Any one of the name of Haslar could wipe their boots on mefor"—he pulled himself up—"for Peter Haslar's sake,"he finished hastily. But he had intended to bracket another namewith the dead chaplain's.
"And now, Chief Inspector, what are you going to do about me?Nothing of this alters my confession. Diana, Miss Haslar, isgoing too far there. I give myself up for the murder of JulianClifford and the shooting of Arnold Haslar." Newman spoke in asteady, firm tone. "I stand to that."
Pointer said nothing. He seemed lost in a profound convictionthat his bootmaker had sent him two rights or two lefts, and thata closer scrutiny of his shoes would reveal the mistake.
"What are you going to do with me?" Newman asked again.
"Have a word in private, I think, first of all," Pointersuggested.
Diana got up. She looked as though she felt the need forthought. This Newman was another man. Son of a crook, son of amurderer, and yet...Diana felt that life could be extraordinarydifficult. Suddenly she wheeled.
"Then if you're not Etcheverrey, why did you kill UncleJulian? If it's not political, if you're not—" She did notfinish either sentence.
Newman's face hardened. His jaw line showed more clearly. Hesaid nothing, only stared with expressionless eyes out of thewindow as she left the two men together.
"WHAT about Mr. Pollock's flat?" Pointer asked."Where did Mr. Newman get the money for such furnishing?"
Newman looked fixedly at him.
"Quick work! Yet I haven't gone near the place since all this.I thought you were more than usually clever when I first saw you.Or have I been under surveillance all these years?"
"No, the address was only discovered in the course of someroutine work on this case. But about the things there?"
"Ah!" Newman's smile was bitterness itself. "Family traitsproving too strong for me might explain them, mightn'tit—to a Chief Inspector? Just as what I might call HomeHints made it easy for me to get away from your men, and todisguise myself afterwards. If you're a criminal it's handy toknow the ropes from childhood."
Pointer's eyes were apparently on his shoes.
"I see. Yet with that explanation of your furniture, how wasit you worked on with Mr. Clifford as his secretary so long?"
"Thornbush was home to me, Chief Inspector. At least, let usput it that the motive for murder kept me there."
"Mrs. Clifford?" Pointer asked bluntly.
Newman leapt from his chair.
"Who dares say that?"
"It's what people always wonder when a man kills a married manfor no apparent reason. And in your case, it was suspected forsome time before."
The iron self-control broke in Newman's face.
"It's a lie! A foul, infamous lie! Mrs. Clifford? She's asaint! Perhaps that's why, to my shame be it said, ChiefInspector; and though she has been kindness itself to me, shebores me even more than she does Hobbs. And that's sayingsomething! Mrs. Clifford wasn't the reason why I—killedJulian Clifford."
"Then what was the reason?"
Newman lifted his dark eyes for a second to the window."Neither to you, nor to any one else, will I give the reason,Chief Inspector." He spoke with absolute finality.
"The prosecution will be based on a clandestine love affairbetween you and the lady. There's no other motive possible."Newman looked darkly at him.
"The reason I killed Julian Clifford was because he hadstumbled on the truth about me," he said slowly; "and onsomething disgraceful in my past as well. Something which heintended to tell." The sentences, came out slowly, as steel isdrawn out inch by inch. Newman's face was impassive as ever. Thewords rose before Pointer, "I know the danger"—"discoveredyour secret." Words in the murdered man's handwriting found burntin this man's room.
Pointer said nothing for a while.
"And about Mr. Clifford's general knowledge of Etcheverrey?And his special knowledge of his signature and the name of hishome?"
"I learnt all I could while planning to get hold of him atHendaye. 'The plan that failed!'"
"Because of Miss Haslar?"
"Well, obviously it tore it when she and I fled together."
Newman's swift, sardonic smile came and went, leaving his faceas grave as ever.
"And you told Mr. Clifford what you knew?"
Newman looked at him thoughtfully. "Little by little. When hebegan to be so interested in the fellow, I let him think I had aSpanish anti-revolutionary friend with whom I talked over week-ends. Mr. Clifford liked to get hold of something that Sir Edwarddidn't know. I think he wanted his book to surprise him."
"Was this information confidential?"
"Not in the least. But I'd rather not discuss Mr. Clifford.Not with you, Chief Inspector. Not with anybody, but least of allwith you. Your questions aren't always what they seem on thesurface." Newman's voice was dry. "I had hoped, of course, to getclear away and stay clear away, after my confession."
"I see. And now, Mr. Newman, Mr. Clifford made some notes onthat novel of his that is coming out in theArcturus.They're not among his papers. Do you know where they are?"
Unlike Hobbs, Newman did.
"The only notes I know of were some he left by an oversightabout two weeks ago at his publisher's house. But as heafterwards decided to shift Etcheverrey's headquarters to theSpanish side of the Pyrenees, he decided that they would be of nouse to him."
"And about the novel itself? You know, I suppose, what heplanned to do? You have an idea of how the story would haverun?"
"I have an idea of the main outlines. But—" Newmanchecked himself. "I refuse to discuss Mr. Clifford, as I havealready said once before."
"Pity. Well, should you decide to make a clean breast ofeverything, though I shall not be available, the AssistantCommissioner will always be there. I may have to go away on aninvestigation at once. As long as you confine your strolls tothis neighbourhood, not farther than Haslar's house say, you cancome and go as you like—for the present. Of course you'llbe followed, and by a good man. I needn't say what any attempt toshake him off would entail."
Newman gave a short and very bitter laugh.
"There are a few more questions I must have answered if Mr.Haslar is really to be cleared." Pointer went on. "First, who wasin the room when you spoke to Mr. Clifford of the diagramsignature of Etcheverrey's and of the name of the Basque'shome?"
Newman seemed to think. "No one but Hobbs. But he wasn'tpaying any attention. He was hunting out some mistake inroyalties that he'd just found out."
"And when was this?"
Newman could not say for certain. Some time the latter half oflast week.
"And now about Mr. Haslar himself. We know, of course, allabout his connection with the flat. But was it you who firstmentioned the flat to him?" Newman thought a moment. Pointer feltsure that he was going to give an evasive reply, or refuse toanswer.
"I hope we can clear Miss Haslar," he said sadly."Unfortunately, she seems mixed up in that business of theflat."
"Miss Haslar?"
"She was heard talking of it to her brother before he took it.We are sure that he had some helper there. I'm afraid that thathelper could only have been his sister. He wanted her to get theletters away from Mr. Clifford, we think, or rather we are fairlycertain."
"I told Haslar of that," Newman said briskly.
"Is Marshall a friend of yours?"
"No, a mere acquaintance. But he happened to mention to mewhen I met him by chance in the tube last week, that he wished tolet his flat furnished. So, as I say, when there was a questionof a furnished flat being wanted—"
"By Miss Haslar, I suppose."
"By Haslar himself," Newman corrected shortly. "Miss Haslarknows nothing of the flat. Or, if she knows of it, it's only beenafter the event."
"But she was to help her brother about the letters. It's nouse, Mr. Newman, attempting to shield her, we know that Mr.Haslar had a helper. Had a plan to get those letters of hisgrandfather's away from Mr. Clifford. No one but Miss Haslarcould have helped him."
"I take back about having thought you more than usuallybrilliant," Newman said curtly. "There are other people in theworld, Chief Inspector, than this little circle here and aroundThornbush. There is, or was, for instance, a man called CaptainCory. You asked me about him yourself once. He's a man who has agrudge against Clifford. He's also a man who had showed himselfuncommonly skilful at getting hold of papers, Haslar had beenpresent at his trial. When he concocted the plan of the flat, orrather—" Newman waited a moment. Then he said: "I thinkabsolute frankness is best here. I don't want you to think thatthere was any mix-up between the taking of that flat and Haslar'sarrangements about the letters and my part in the matter; thatis, the death of Mr. Clifford. Haslar took the flat for onesingle purpose only—that of getting back the letters withCaptain Cory's assistance. I used the flat for my own purpose.That clear?"
"Did you meet this Cory yourself?"
"No, Haslar telephoned me Friday evening that Cory wouldn'tget to the flat till Tuesday, but on Saturday morning Coryhimself came to Thornbush. He asked for me, but I was out. Irather think he came to find out if Mr. Clifford carried theletters on him, always. Or possibly he intended to double-crossHaslar in some way. Get hold of the letters and sell them at astiff price. He only saw Hobbs, as it happened."
"Was Haslar going to be present in the flat when the letterswere taken?"
"We both were. We didn't trust Cory an inch further than wecould see him."
"The plan was not one that included violence?"
"Haslar's plan? Certainly not. We were to be there to preventanything of that sort. That at least is what Haslar thought."Newman gave his unmirthful smile. "The taking of the papers wasto be entirely Cory's part. I believe the idea was that Haslarwould telephone to Mr. Clifford that he had met a man who couldprove that the Haslar letters were forgeries, if Mr. Cliffordwould bring them to Fourteen Heath Mansions. Then Cory, made up alittle as Major Brown, would receive him, look at the letters,and—the rest was left to him, as to how he intended totrick Mr. Clifford into thinking he returned the same letters tohim."
"When was this plan arranged?"?
"I don't exactly know. Thursday and Friday, I think. I wasn'tpresent."
There was a pause.
"I suppose you know that the doctors are as hopeful thismorning about Haslar as they were pessimistic up till now?"Pointer asked. "You know they think that he took a mostunexpected turn down the right road to-day?"
Newman said nothing.
"They're trying the latest craze, no nurses to-day," Pointerwent on half-absent-mindedly. "Once an hour a nurse slips intohis room and gives him a capsule. Strychnine. For the rest of thehour he's left in absolute stillness and darkness. Funny thingmedicine. One capsule an hour makes for recovery, while threewould kill him before he could swallow them. He'll be able tospeak to-morrow. To tell us the real story. For, of course, Mr.Newman, until he does that, it's hard to believe that he was notmore implicated in the murder than you represent him."
Newman's face had darkened at the good report of Haslar.
"And that rope on your sitting-room wall," Pointer went on; "Irecognised it as one of ours, of course. From inquiries I findthat the rope that hung Cadby is missing. They are always kept,as you know, together with a death mask of each man. You tippedsome out-going sergeant of police a little too freely, I'mafraid. But it belongs to us, Mr. Newman. You must let us have itback."
"You can have it any time you like," Newman said through histeeth. "It's served its turn. I put it there to remind me of whoI am. But as Miss Haslar knows the truth now, it can go. She'llbe wise and take the respectable side of the road. Oh, life isdamnation!" The sudden outburst was repressed as soon as itflashed out.
Pointer looked at his shoes for some moments.
"That rope belongs to us," he repeated slowly. "I suggest thatyou have a talk with a Superintendent of Police whom I've askedto come here as soon as he can. He's a man who was sent over toBarcelona in connection with the Strachey case."
Newman's face grew more sombre still.
"I don't want any last messages," he said hoarsely.
"You'll want this one. You'd have had it long ago but for yourchange of name. Pollock was posted as missing, of course. The manwho murdered Strachey was not your father. Your father, so Cadbyswore in a duly witnessed statement which he made to the governorthe day before his execution, was Penfold. The statement wasinvestigated and found to be correct."
"Penfold? His partner?" Newman could hardly speakarticulately.
"His partner—a civil engineer—a man of the highestcharacter; of whose integrity there never was any question. Youare John Penfold, only child of Henry Penfold, a very honestgentleman, and of Isabelle Treherne, daughter of a solicitor.Both of them of Penzance, Cornwall. She had Armada blood in her,which I think accounts for something in yourself which puzzled usall a bit—though as a Devon man I know a Cornish man when Isee one. However, to go on—that fire in Barcelona wasCadby's doing, to cover up some falsifications in the books aswell as to get the insurance money. Unfortunately your father, towhom he was sincerely attached, had gone to the office. Cadbythinks he must have suspected him, and gone to have a quiet lookat the books. He was burnt to death. With all his bad qualitiesCadby was never the same man again, or so he said in hisconfession. You were an orphan, your mother had died when youwere born. Penfold's money was lost with the firm's smash. Lostby Cadby. Cadby took you back with him to England, passing youoff as his son. He thought that if people knew that he wasbringing up the son of his late partner, some suspicion mightarise that he felt himself in some way responsible for yourfather's death.
"Also, he had a sort of feeling that through you, to you, hemight atone. It wasn't a feeling that kept him straight, but itprevented his ever willingly letting you want for anything, orletting you go.
"You never thought of inquiring in the Barcelona records whoseson it was that was born there. We did, of course. Cadby had noson. Penfold had one boy who is duly entered on the registers,was duly baptized at the English Church there. Your sins are onyour own head. Whatever you have done, now that you know thetruth, you will not be able to plead that it was your father'sblood that was too much for you, family traits too strong foryou. Copies of the papers concerning your parentage will behanded you by the Superintendent when he comes."
Newman stood staring at him. All the colour had drained fromhis face. Before his mind's eye passed his miserable, desperate,hate-filled boyhood in surroundings from which his honest fibrerevolted. He thought of his efforts to get out of them, of theyears at Thornbush, happy years had he been leading a true life.And now! He shut his eyes for a second.
"But for your confession you could walk out of this house witha lighter heart than I dare swear you've known before," Pointerwent on.
"You're a devil!" Newman said passionately. "What you've toldme alters nothing." There was something desperate in the tensevoice and in the eyes that stared out at the sunshine. "Altersnothing! Idid kill Julian Clifford and shoot Haslar. Butnot a word of this news of yours about myself to Miss Haslar, norto any one."
"Oh, certainly. It's entirely your own affair," Pointeragreed.
Newman, very pale, stood biting his lip, swallowing hard.
"It was Mr. Clifford I understand who wished Hobbs to leavehim?" Pointer asked suddenly.
Newman stared for a second as though he could hardly hear theother through the tumult in his head.
"The other way around," he said absent-mindedly.
"I asked, because, but for your confession, Mr.Newman—since you wish me to continue calling youthat—we at the Yard would wonder whether he might not havejust found out that Hobbs had been systematically robbing him. Wecould go on to wonder whether Hobbs had not murdered Mr. Cliffordto save himself from prosecution, and all that that would mean.Mr. Hobbs, we might say, had learnt of Arnold Haslar's plan aboutthe flat on Saturday morning from Major Cory, who sold him theinformation, and had gone to the flat Monday night—Cory hadbeen given a key which he might have handed over—and thereHobbs murdered Mr. Clifford after luring him to Heath Mansions.He would have a dozen pretexts. That is what the police mightthink. They might look on Mr. Haslar's injury as an accident. Infact, but for your confession, the whole case might assume a verysimple aspect."
The skin on Newman's face seemed to tighten as a wet drumtightens, till it stretched taut across his highcheekbones—the cheek-bones of a man of action. For thefirst time Pointer saw his hands shake as he clenched them.
"You're the devil himself!" Newman said hoarsely, in a tone ofanguish, and turning, he stumbled from the room as though thefloor were pitching and tossing beneath his feet.
Sir Edward looked in. Straight was with him. Seeing Pointeralone, they came on in.
"I suppose you are arresting Newman?" Sir Edward asked. "It'svery trying meeting him face to face—atliberty—around this house. The house of his victim."
"Mr. Newman won't be here to-morrow, I fancy. But, Sir Edward,I thought you were doubtful of his confession?"
"I'm doubtful of everything," Clifford said wearily. "Thisnews about Hobbs, frightful! A cousin of Mrs. Clifford's. Amember of my brother's family, so to say. He cannot beprosecuted, of course. Mrs. Clifford would refuse to do so in anycase and my hands are tied. Why, he would only so gladlybroadcast my brother's unfortunate idea of purchasing the BrugesCrystal. My sister-in-law believes that he will surely bepunished in some esoteric way. I'm afraid I should find jail moresatisfactory."
"It may come to that yet, Sir Edward, and more," Pointer saidslowly. Then he changed the subject, and told Clifford the goodnews of Haslar's expected, or at least hoped-for recovery. SirEdward seemed delighted at the prospect of hearing from theinjured man exactly what had happened.
"He'll at least be able to name his assailant, it was broaddaylight when he was shot." Straight said that according to thelatest bulletin, Arnold Haslar was expected to be able to bothspeak and answer a few questions by to-morrow morning. Until thenthe doctors wanted him kept in silence and absolute stillness.Straight was beginning to look himself again. Diana had knownbest all along. He did not claim to be heartbroken at herdefinite turning-down of any idea of marriage between them. Afterall, there was something to be said for not being engaged to agirl who had a love affair with a Basque bandit, and a brotherwho, wearing flamboyant coats, took a flat in which people wereafterwards found murdered.
About nine o'clock another and a startling bulletin came fromthe sick room. It stated that Arnold Haslar had recoveredconsciousness and asked for Chief Inspector Pointer.Unfortunately Pointer was not to be found at the Yard, nor in anyof the places suggested by his clerks. So the sick man hadcontented himself with a few laboured words only, but these werestartling enough.
Haslar had been in the flat at the moment when the murder wascommitted. He had actually seen Julian Clifford shot.
The bulletin finished with the news that he had just fallenback again into a profound sleep which must on no account bebroken.
An hour went by. Then another. There was no sound or stir inthat darkened bedroom where on a narrow white bed it took keensight to make out a shape lying motionless. A head so bandagedthat it was scarcely distinguishable from the pillows into whichit sank. A chalk-white hand lay inert on the metal brocade of theblanket. Light, and slow, and faint, came the breaths frombetween lips but a few degrees less colourless than the bandages,than the linen.
The nurse had come and gone, the patient had had his hourlycapsule, and had immediately seemed to slumber on—ifslumber it could be called.
It was past midnight when the door opened slowly—slowlybut not furtively. In came a man. He stood a second to get hisbearings in the dimness of the one light that shone like a largepearl above the table on which stood the medicine. He stepped upto the bed. Then he moved to the little table and looked at thebox of capsules—read the label, the directions, and stood asecond quite still. He switched off the light and crossed to thewindow. Looked out. Rearranged the curtains and turned up thelight. Then he went to a huge walnut wardrobe—opened it andfelt inside. Once more he came back to the bed. Something in hiscircling suggested a vulture about to settle. His hand went outto the box. He opened it and counted out six of the littleobjects inside. From an envelope in his pocket he shook out sixother capsules into the box, the same as the others inappearance. Now he paused, listening intently. Then bending overthe bed, he pressed shut the nostrils which a bandage looselycovered. The mouth under Haslar's toothbrush moustache opened.Into it the man swiftly dropped the capsules taken from the box.Instantly the breathing stopped half-way. A faint shudder ranthrough the body. The hand drew down in a spasm beneath thesheet. The whole body seemed to straighten itself. The headslipped sideways off the pillows on the farther side. The manwaited a second. Then he laid his hand on the man's heart. Thereis an elementary trick in Ju-Jitsu by which a hand so placed isheld by a grip above the elbow, while the body on which it restsbends forward all but breaking the wrist. This happened now. Theman screamed like what he was—a trapped animal.
"Take it quietly," said the man whom he thought dead."Tindall, Doctor Evans, and an Inspector are in the next roomwatching you.
"Richard Straight, I arrest you for the murder of Mr. JulianClifford last Monday night." The usual warning was given by ChiefInspector Pointer—in bandages, lavish chalk make-up, and ashirt which fastened up his back by tapes.
"Inspector Watts, you can take away the Japanesecinematographic camera from the top of the wardrobe. It's acamera that works in the dark, Mr. Straight."
"Rubbish!" Straight had some difficulty in getting his lips toshape the words. "Why, I had only met Mr. Clifford an hour or sobefore—what earthly motive would I have had for killinghim?" He tried for a note of derision.
"Motive? His novelThe Soul of Ishamel is coming out inmonthly parts in theArcturus magazine. Either you had metMr. Clifford before, or he had come on your story by some chance,without knowing your name. You might have met without either ofyou recognising the other again for he often dressed in adisguise when he was on his investigations, and he was very near-sighted. At any rate, inThe Soul of Ishmael, the reasonwhy the chief character has to leave England, is the same as thatwhich made you leave England. Only you went to Australia, whilethe man in the book was to go to the Pyrenees and joinEtcheverrey's band. And that reason was appropriation of moneywhich the town council thought was properly invested. With aswindle to cover the tracks—a clever swindle. Your trackswere carefully covered, I admit—so carefully that anotherman went to prison for what you did. But the tracks arethere—down in Bedford. And the tale as told in Mr.Clifford's novel is so exact, the steps so carefully given, thatany acquaintance on reading it, knowing you of old, knowing aboutthe money which you claimed had been left you as a legacy, couldnot but link you with the story, had it gone on for but one morechapter. And that linking up by an intelligent reader would havemeant prison for you, Mr. Straight—a long term—prisonand an end to all your ambitions. You were quite safe so long asthe little connecting link could not be brought home to you. Mr.Clifford's novel showed how this could be done."
"Preposterous!" But Straight looked as though his spine werecrumbling inside him. "What about Newman's confession? What abouthis being the anarchist of whom Clifford was writing? And howshould I have known anything about the flat at Heath Mansions?Your tale's a tissue of absurdities."
"That flat? You were sitting in the south library downstairshere after dinner at Thornbush, while Mr. Haslar was talking toCaptain Cory on Monday in his study. Every word they said musthave been heard by you through the communicating door. The wholeplot was gone over for the last time.
"How Mr. Clifford could be lured to the flat by the messageabout the Haslar letters, of how Cory was to steal the letters,and so on. You heard Cory say that he could do nothing untilTuesday."
Pointer was guessing the unknown by the known facts. But thetrial of Richard Straight for Julian Clifford's murder provedthat he was right.
"But this is lunacy!" broke in the man under arrest. "I hadonly parted from Mr. Clifford after my first dinner with him, andon the best of terms, as the servants, as every one at Thornbushcan testify."
"Quite so. Therefore it was probably after that dinner thatyou read the current number of the Arcturus. A number in whichthe story breaks off just before the crucial point—for you.A few more pages and it would be too late. AnArcturus waslying on the table in the library where you sat while waiting forMr. Haslar's visitor to go. You read it, saw your danger, it'simminence, and heard a plan being finally run through beside youwhich you thought would save you. That was why you shot Mr.Clifford in the flat to which you lured him by just such atelephone message as you had heard suggested. You doubtlessimitated Haslar's voice, or claimed to be speaking for him. Andafterwards you took away from his writing-table drawer thetypescript pages which would have betrayed your story.
"It was you, not Mr. Haslar, who postponed the plannedgaieties of last Monday night. You probably alleged some workfor, or talk to, Mr. Clifford. Or your own fatigue after yourjourney. That telephone call that you told us arrived after yougot to the house and which hurried Mr. Haslar into the country,came from you yourself as soon as you left him. You sent anotherto Mr. Newman. So that neither man could stray into the flat. Andalso so that if things went wrong, neither man could have analibi. I think you used Cory's name for that purpose, and letthem think they were to meet him for some urgent reason. Afterthe murder, Mr. Haslar would of course think those bogusappointments confirmed Cory's guilt. To Mr. Newman it would looklike Haslar's doing. The key to flat Fourteen you took from Mr.Haslar's ulster hanging in the hall before you left the house.You also took his automatic which you know from his habits inAustralia he kept beside his bed. You were friends enough tochance being found upstairs. Then you went to the flat. Youthought it might be as well to leave some sort of a trail. Littledreaming how Mr. Hobbs would help you by taking away everythingthat would ordinarily identify Mr. Julian Clifford. Youremembered hearing at dinner about Etcheverrey and the hunt forhim. You passed the time until Mr. Clifford could get to you bywriting a couple of notes which you crumpled up in a way that youalways do crumple your thrown away paper, a tight, egg-shapedball. You could not know, that they would bring the trail loopingback to Thornbush, and Mr. Clifford. When Mr. Clifford came, youlet him in, doubtless saying that Haslar or the supposed owner ofthe flat would be back in a moment. You left Mr. Clifford seatedby the lamp looking at some book placed there to catch his eye.You went into the bedroom, pushed the door open, and shot himwith Mr. Haslar's pistol to which you had fitted a cardboardsilencer—an Australian dodge which you had evidentlylearned out there. Hobbs saw you leaving the flat after themurder. In your agitation you forgot to notice whether thedefective catch of the front door shut properly. Your account ofmeeting Mr. Clifford, of leaving him alive, is of course pureinvention. Just as was your tale of Mr. Clifford's fears ofNewman, and his dread of his coming journey. You were careful notto overdo it. You onlythought you heard Mr. Haslar'scough. But to run on, after you left the flat, you put Mr.Haslar's revolver back in his room. And then went quietly to bedunder the roof of the man whom you had just murdered. To-day,when you heard that Arnold Haslar had been present in the flat,and claimed to have seen the murderer, you decided to silencehim."
Straight made no further remark except to swear that he wasinnocent and that this was but the invention of ScotlandYard.
He maintained this at his trial, but when his appeal againstthe death sentence passed on him was disallowed, he wrote aletter to the Chief Inspector, one of those long, detailedletters that men of his temperament often do write at such atime. In it he confessed that Pointer's theory of the motive; atheory proved up to the hilt at the trial was right; that Mr.Clifford in the course of talking to him after dinner on Mondayabout his work had let fall that he was going to take the cominginstalment ofThe Soul of Ishmael to his publisher's nextmorning. This was an item which had meant nothing to Straight atthe time but which had spelled disaster, full and complete, whenhe had read while waiting in Haslar's library the last publishedchapters of the novel. Straight knew then that he had only a fewhours in which to avert discovery—practically only Mondaynight.
After many digressions, Straight went on to say, in this finalconfession, that he had probably himself given Julian Cliffordone half of his own story long ago,—on a boat going toCorfu,— when he, Straight, had met a man who claimed to bea commercial traveller in dried fruits. It was after a dinner atwhich Straight had taken too much to drink. The drink and agorgeous night unloosed his tongue, and half the tale of a cleverswindle on the council funds was told to the commercial travelleras a good yarn.
Next morning a very sober Straight found that the commercialhad left the ship at dawn. Straight never touched stimulantsagain. He hoped, and believed, that the part told by him would beforgotten. In any case it was fairly harmless as long as the manto whom it was told did not come upon the other half and put twoand two together to make a most unpleasant four—a four thatcould mean prison. Unfortunately for himself this was what hadhappened. Julian Clifford had come upon the other half of thestory which had been told him by a stranger in the dusk of thatMediterranean night, an utiacen stranger who stood to him merelyfor a base, but intriguing tale. And Julian Clifford, with theflair of the true artist, had welded the two stories together inhis yarn as they had been welded in fact. He had even given theswindler a character strangely like Richard Straight's.
As to Straight's knowledge of Etcheverrey's signature andhome—Julian Clifford, during the after-dinner talk, hadjotted down a few suggestions for some minor headings in thesubject index which was to be the new librarian's first task. Onthe back, as Straight was putting it away in his pocket-book, hecalled the writer's attention to a V in a tiny outline of ahouse, and two incomprehensible words.
Clifford had peered at them, mentioned that he was very short-sighted, and explained them with a laugh as Etcheverrey's codesignature, and the name of his home in the Pyrenees, somethingthat even Sir Edward did not know.
Straight had the paper in his pocket, when the idea of usingEtcheverrey as a trail occurred to him in the flat. A trail thatas Pointer had said, he imagined would lead far afield.
"Any time you have another case like this on, let me know, andyou're welcome to sign my name again to whatever bulletins youlike," Doctor Evans assured Pointer before he hurried off to seeto Haslar. The sick man's bed had been secretly rolled intoanother room. The only truth in the last bulletins, which Pointerhad written, was that Haslar was making a wonderful recovery.
On the stairs the Chief Inspector met Tindall hurrying up.Telephone messages had been trying to reach him for hours.Unfortunately the F.O. man had come upon a most promising shortcut to Etcheverrey and had taken his Chief with him on afruitless excursion into the suburbs.
"Straight instead of Etcheverrey!" Tindall could not read justhis ideas for a moment. "By the way, you telephoned us that youhad absolute certainty that Newman was after all not Etcheverrey.You're sure of that?"
"Absolutely."
"Why?"
"I'm afraid the reasons are confidential."
"Humph—well—he had a most amazing knowledge ofEtcheverrey's secrets if it's true that he was Julian Clifford'ssource of information on the Basque."
"Mr. Newman checkmated Etcheverrey once during the war." Thedoor opened. Sir Edward came in slowly. Heavily.
"I've just told Mrs. Clifford the news," he sank into achair.
"And how does she take it?" Tindall asked sympathetically.
"She—she thinks that my brother is giving her a messagefrom the other world to his slayer. A message of forgiveness. Apromise that expiation in this world will wipe the slate clean,and that Julian will be there ready to greet him as a friend whenhe 'passes over."
"By Jove!" was all Tindall could murmur.
"It must be a wonderful help to be able to believe that sortof thing," Sir Edward said a little wearily, a little wistfully,and a little impatiently. "I confess I found it for once hard tosympathise."
There was a short silence. Then Tindall turned to Pointer.
"I've heard you say, Chief Inspector, that the game's neverlost until it's won. You've certainly won this one. And won itwell. Clues versus deduction, eh? Well, for once they havescored."
"I never knew a case where deductions alone could have led onemuch further afield," Pointer said thoughtfully. "Only clues,pure and simple, could get one out of such a labyrinth."
"So Julian's notes, which to us, seemed to point full toEtcheverrey, to you pointed to Straight? Odd!" It was Sir Edwardspeaking.
Tindall made a grimace.
"His carbon sheet, rather? Eh, Pointer? The sheet I turneddown."
Pointer nodded.
"Still, that phrase in the notes about 'England dangerous'struck me very much. Seeing that I had Straight in my mind as theprobable criminal. I wondered if Roberts's past, instead of hisfuture association with Etcheverrey, might not be the danger, thecause of the murder. And the five pages on the carbon sheet gaveus just the clue we needed. On the very last page of the chapteras it was meant to be.
"We have two men who are very good at that sort of aninvestigation. By the help of it, they soon worked back to thetruth. Incidentally Newman, who I found knew about the notes leftnearly a fortnight ago with Mr. Bancroft, had made no effort toget hold of them."
"You suspected Straight from the first!" Clifford asked, "Onwhat grounds?"
"I suspected everybody," Pointer said a little dryly. Tindallsmoothed away a grin under cover of stroking his beard. He knewquite well whom Pointer had included in his suspicions.
"Of course Hobbs' telling you that you saw Straight come outof the flat was a plain enough tip," he murmured, "but I imaginedyou didn't believe the tale. Hobbs himself thought so.
"Hobbs had to think so. He was going to be under the same roofas Straight, and had a tremendous grudge against him. Which waswhy I had to question Straight about the incident, for if he hadlearnt from Hobbs that I knew of it, he would have known by mysilence, that he was suspected."
Tindall nodded to each point in turn. "But what set you onStraight's trail in the beginning?" he pressed. "You talk ofclues. Surely it was reasoning rather. Reasoning from the facts,not to them. Pointer too preferred the latter way when possible,but it had not been possible in the Clifford affair. In otherwords reasoning from a clue I found."
"Which clue? Where?"
"The tape pinned across the door catch. If the murderer wasone of the narrow circle at Thornbush, in which circle I includedthe Haslars, that pointed to some very hurried, very improvised,plan.
"Whoever did that, knew that only a short time could elapsebetween the arrival of the victim and his death. Else so clumsy aprecaution would have aroused suspicion. But evidently the manwho came was not, and was not expected to be, suspicious. Herewas where the oddity lay. For apparently, too, he did not knowthe fiat well enough to roam about it. That tape looked to mevery unlike the work of whoever had taken the flat. Let alone thework of Etcheverrey. For, they would have had ample time tosilence the lock invisibly. It certainly did not look like thework of an engineer, let alone an electrical engineer of ArnoldHaslar's standing. It looked to me like some sudden arrival tothe Thornbush circle, and the choosing of Monday night, also madethe crime seem the work of a newcomer. For if the criminal knewof the flat, he would probably know that Cory, who never runs twoenterprises simultaneously—he had some pigeon-plucking tofinish—might come in by Tuesday. But why should any onewait until the last night when the flat would be free unless hecouldn't help himself? Unless that was his first opportunity? ForMr. Clifford might have refused to come to Heath Mansions, orsome hitch might have occurred. On the other hand, if a newarrival, it must be one who knew that Mr. Clifford was short-sighted, or he would never have chanced that tape.
"Also, supposing I was right, and those paper scraps in thebasket were the work of the murderer, he would have to be someone who could have heard of Etcheverrey. Straight fitted allthese provisos. In short all this pointed so directly to him, asthe only newcomer to Thornbush, that I very carefullyinvestigated all other possibles for fear lest I had got an ideainto my head. Getting an idea into one's head is a detective'snightmare."
Pointer did not add that he had also suspected—in theabsence of any other known motive—the new librarian ofhaving known and loved Mrs. Clifford in the past, and that,therefore, he had been very doubtful of her too, for it was onlyin the last few hours that his men had been able to prove his ownidea right, and working by the clues on the carbon sheet, gethold of the real reason for the murder, and so free all the otherinmates of Thornbush, except Straight, from suspicion.
"Yet, otherwise, after the crime, Straight never gave himselfaway?" Tindall thought. "Until just now. When he fell into yourtrap."
"That trap was the only thing that could catch him. The onlything that would prove who the murderer of Mr. Julian Cliffordhad been. He had left no clue behind. It might be Newman, afterall, or Hobbs, or any one. I might be all wrong. But Straightgave himself away once—badly. When he described to me howMr. Clifford was sitting beside the little table in the flat.Unless his story was true, the mere fact of his knowledge of Mr.Clifford's real position marked him as the probable murderer.And, too, I think, I should have suspected him anyway after alittle scene which I witnessed between him and Miss Haslar. Itwas a sort of lover's quarrel. At least that was the impressionat which Straight aimed. He acted like an impetuous, quick-tempered young fellow who was jealous, and intensely hurt by agirl's preference for another. Now impetuous and quick-temperedRichard Straight certainly is not. Even without any previoussuspicions, I should have asked myself why Straight should takethe trouble to act—before me."
"And why did he?" Sir Edward demanded.
"He wanted to get free. From the man who had worn that ulsterand taken that flat. Free because of him even from Miss Haslar inspite of her large fortune. Then came the news that the truth wasout. That we knew that the dead man was Mr. Clifford. After that,Straight wanted to be known to be in love with Mr. Clifford'sdevoted niece and about to enter his family circle. But when hefound finally that she definitely turned him down, he was quitewilling that she should smother in that strong room. He told methat he didn't know the code-word. Yet when Mrs. Clifford came,he hastened to ask her if she knew of no other word butVisit. No one had mentioned Visit. That was a badslip."
"He would have let her die? Good God! Why?"
"If she wouldn't marry him she was a possiblehindrance—a restraint. Straight knew that he might yet bepushed into a tight corner. Hobbs suspected him. And with MissHaslar and Arnold Haslar both out of the way, he could be free tosay what he liked. Just as Mr. Clifford's death left him free togive us that extraordinary improvisation about his after-dinnertalk with him. Straight had no intention of murdering either MissHaslar or her brother, of course. Murder is dangerous. Itsadvantages must be great, therefore. But Straight would havestood by and let things run their course this afternoon."
"Straight!" Tindall muttered again as one mutters a riddle'sunexpected solution. "That little rat! I always wondered whatMiss Haslar could see in Straight, even for a short time."
"I think she never saw anything in him but a steady, reliablecharacter, a good guide through life! I think she did her best tolike him, and never succeeded because of an inward voice thatrefused to be told how sterling a character was his."
"Straight must have been slightly bewildered when he heard ofClifford's head being missing." Tindall said under his breath toPointer.
"When he was told that Newman was Etcheverrey, I fancy hethought that he had only forestalled another criminal by a fewminutes."
"You never suspected Haslar at any time?" Edward Cliffordasked coming out of a reverie.
"If murder were Mr. Haslar's object, I couldn't see why hetook a flat. Took it in a way that he might fancy would throw anyordinary inquiries off the track, but which he would know as wellas any other man would not put a detective off. That coat! Alsolike you, Mr. Tindall, I couldn't see why the murderer should sethimself the horrible task of cutting off a head, when there wereso many easier ways of concealing the body's identity. Thatlooked to me only the desperate resort of some one who found theman dead, and to whom it was of the most vital importance thatthe death should not be suspected, at least for a time. Oncegranted that Julian Clifford was the murdered man, then, if notan outsider, Mr. Hobbs was clearly marked as the probabledisguiser of the identity, provided there were heavy defalcationsin his books—so heavy that the death of Mr. Clifford andthe subsequent looking into his affairs would spell ruin forhim—a ruin far beyond any legacy of five thousand pounds toput right. The cheque was confusing, of course. So was the effectof Mr. Clifford's supposed endeavour to purchase the CharlemagneCrystal. Then there was always the question of collusion—ofhelpers. Altogether, it's been a most puzzling case."
"Yet Newman never puzzled you?" Tindall wondered.
"As a personality he did indeed. And also as to what, or howmuch, he knew. But apart from suspecting Straight at once, I soonsaw that Mr. Newman knew too much to have left that Etcheverreytrail behind him on the scene of the murder. For he alone of theThornbush circle was aware that Mr. Clifford intended using theanarchist in his work, and had talked the idea over with Mr.Bancroft. To Straight that news came as a fine shock. He thoughthe had been so clever!"
"When did he hear of it?"
"When Miss Haslar told me that she believed Mr. Newman to bereally Etcheverrey. A belief that seemed to me to rest on a veryshaky foundation."
"Chief Inspector!" It was Diana who burst in on them. "Whoshot Arnold? It wasn't Mr. Straight, for he was in the library atThornbush with me at the time! Horrible, horrible thought!" Herface blanched.
"No, it wasn't Straight. He of course insisted that the sameman who killed Mr. Clifford had tried to kill your brother,because he had an absolute alibi during the time when Mr. Haslarwas shot."
"But who did try to kill him?" she demanded frantically.
"Suppose you had done what your brother had done," Pointerbegan gently; "taken a flat for one purpose. Made yourarrangements for that purpose. Suppose some one else used thosearrangements for quite another purpose. For murder. And youlearnt the awful truth. Not the report in the papers. Sawyourself implicated very deeply. Believed that you could notclear yourself. Knew that you had opened the door to life-longblackmail. Suppose you were suffering from an illness whichpeculiarly affects people's nerve. Couldn't you imagine yourselfgoing up to your room, getting your revolver, and tellingyourself that you must use it, and use it at once. 'Do it' werethe words Mr. Haslar used. 'Do it, and do it at once!'"
"Arnold does talk to himself when he's very much stirred."Diana was half dazed. "You mean that Arnold shot himself?" Therewas horror, and there was boundless relief, in her voice.
"Just so. With the second bullet in his revolver. The firsthad been fired by Straight, who used a silencer. The faint markis on the revolver still. I think that your brother had but thatmoment come downstairs and learnt from Mr. Newman, who had rushedin to tell him the terrible truth—the truth he had toknow—of who it was that really been murdered in HeathMansions. Then Mr. Newman had to leave him for fear lest throughhis presence that truth be suspected, and Thornbush be connectedwith the brown and orange ulster. Probably your brother let Mr.Newman out. In the letter-box he saw a letter which Major Coryhad just dropped in. I've had a chat, rather unwillingly and one-sided, perhaps, with that gentleman. It was a peculiarly menacingletter from a man who felt that he had been intended for ascapegoat. It was, I fancy, the little heap of charred paper thatMr. Tindall and I found under Mr. Haslar's writing-table."
"But how did Mr. Newman know who the dead man was?"
"When Mr. Clifford left his home so abruptly, Mr. Newman, Ithink, suspected that Mr. Haslar had had a hand in his absence.And even on being told by your brother that he had nothing to dowith that absence, I think he still had his doubts, and hadtipped a porter at Heath Mansions to let him know when the new,temporary tenant of Mr. Marshall's flat arrived. The man let outthe truth that a murdered man had been found there, and told himof the taking away by the police of the body. Mr. Newman, Ithink, stuck on a big black moustache, and going to the mortuarychapel posed as a Spaniard who might be able to identifyEtcheverrey. We know that such a man called. I think Mr. Newmanrecognised Mr. Clifford's very remarkable hands, and recognisingthem, hurried at once to your brother's house—was met byyou and left. Returned again, and had a word with Mr. Haslar. Weshall soon learn if my ideas are fairly right."
They proved to be absolutely correct.
"But how do you know—did you suspect from thefirst—I mean, that no one had shot Arnold but himself?"
Pointer looked across Diana at Tindall.
"There was a palm in a pot. The palm had been watered thatmorning—it was all wet. The brass pot, in which theearthenware one stood, was dry and even dusty. Yet when I triedto lift the inner one out, it couldn't be done because of a deepdent in the jardinière, a dent that obviously could not have beenthere when the maid last took out the palm, a dent cause by thatrevolver crashing against it when it fell from Mr. Haslar's hand.Deflected by the brass pot, the weapon skidded along the floor tonear the window. I think Mr. Haslar utilised a moment to firewhen a motorcycle outside his house was starting up itsengine."
"But those awful words of Arnold's," Diana broke out: "'I didit for nothing!'"
"He had shot, but not killed himself. And when he said he hadkilled Mr. Clifford I think he believed that by devising thatplan for Cory to get the Haslar letters away from Mr. Clifford,he had handed Julian Clifford over to a man who had killed him inrevenge for what had happened years ago—happened and neverbeen forgotten by Cory. The rest was but the effect of the shockof the lurid descriptions in the papers, and of his knowledge ofwhose that missing head was."
"Straight seemed shocked enough at what happened to Haslar,"Tindall pointed out.
"Because he guessed the truth—that Mr. Haslar shothimself. Straightknew that there was no murderer at largebut himself. And that meant that Mr. Haslar had learnt who it wasthat had been killed in Heath Mansions, and did not believe inthe Etcheverrey trail. And if Mr. Haslar, then why not others?When Mr. Haslar called out those words that night, Straight sawthat his best chance—there was no question of concealingthem— was to take his stand beside Miss Haslar. For awhile."
Again came one of the short pauses which people need when theyare trying to keep up with information that quite upsets theirown ideas.
"Then it wasn't my brother whom Mr. Straight had seen nearHeath Mansions?"
"I should say not, Miss Haslar. I think that was part of aplan of Straight's to frighten you about your brother'sconnection with the murder for his own ends. To play the part ofthe faithful friend."
"But Arnold must have had some shock, so the doctor thought,to account for his state that morning."
"That was probably administered by Mrs. Orr. In our talk atBruges after you left, I learnt from her that she hadwritten— well—a farewell little note to Mr. Haslarfrom Paris. It reached Hampstead Tuesday morning. He found itlying on the breakfast table for him. It was a very cruel littlenote.
"A definite break. Mrs. Orr did not want your brother comingon after her, and interfering with her quite well-laidplans."
At any other time Diana would have made a scathing comment onMazod Orr giving up her brother, but now all she cared for wasthat Arnold was cleared, and that Newman was cleared. Tindall andSir Edward left the room.
Diana took a deep breath. Her eyes were softly luminous. Noone could say that her face was cold now.
"And Mr. Newman took everything on himself!" There was alittle pause. "Oh, if only I dared! Does blood—even suchblood matter really. After all, we Haslars—he is all that'sfine. Surely if he could come unscathed from out of such a home,others could. Under better, happier circumstances."
"Come along and let's see what Mr. Newman has to say,"Pointer's tone had something boyish in it, as he led her into aroom where Newman was standing, his face like the face of acrusader who has won through to Jerusalem.
"Well, Chief Inspector, I take off my hat to you! Especiallyafter I—I'm glad you know now that I didn't kill JulianClifford. A man I place second only to Peter Haslar. To whom Iowe—all that I do owe him. You are right all along theline. Even as to my being the man who called to see Etcheverrey'sbody. I never imagined any one could unravel this tangle!"
"Especially"—Pointer spoke grimly—"after you hadtwisted it up still more by that so-called confession of yours.Oh, I know why you did it. To pay back the debt you owed to thedead brother. For Miss Haslar's sake, too, probably. But I hopethe thought that you might easily have gone to the gallowsinstead of Richard Straight, will keep you from ever doing such athing again. Your improvised motive to me this evening was reallyalarmingly pat."
It was a very official eye that looked frostily at the otherman.
"I—at the time it seemed the only chance. I knew Arnoldwould never have done it in cold blood, of course. But I wasafraid that some discussion about his grandfather'sletters—And when you nearly broke me down with what thepolice might think but for my confession, I didn't dare speakwithout thinking it all over. I—well, frankly I thought itmight be a trap. Though there was the ghastly chance that itmight all be true. It was—it was— "
With a deep sigh, Newman tossed what it had been, away fromhim for ever.
"It was my duty to break down what I firmly believed to be aspurious confession," Pointer said, inwardly a little amused atthe positively ferocious glare that Diana was fixing on him. "NowI really would like to hear your explanation of two things.First, Mr. Pollock's furniture."
Diana stared. But Newman looked faintly self-conscious. "Everheard ofThe Knight's Dream?" he asked.
"You mean the musical comedy that's been running for a coupleof years?"
"I wrote it—words and music. It's a gold-mineapparently. I'm working on another. My agents only know me asPollock, of course. And the only address they have are my bankersand the Musicians' Club in Wigmore Street. And your secondquestion, Chief Inspector?"
"We found a charred piece of a letter in your room atThornbush on which we deciphered in Mr. Clifford's writing, 'Iknow the danger,' discovered your secret,' 'wife.' At least Ibelieve the word to be wife. Now those sentences looked ratherdamning, but wasn't the secret that Mr. Clifford thought he haddiscovered your love for Miss Haslar?"
Diana gave a gasp. "What a dreadful scrap of paper tofind!"
"It was puzzling!" Pointer agreed.
"Yes," Newman said, screwing up his eyes in thought. "Yes, thewhole sentence ran somewhat after this fashion. I know thatletter by heart," he added turning round with a look new toPointer—a look that changed him into the lad Diana hadloved at Hendaye.
"'I know the danger of jumping to conclusions, but I feel surethat I have discovered your secret of hoping to make Diana someday your wife.' And Mr. Clifford went on in the kindest way totell me, that in justice to Diana herself, that must not be. Imight be married already."
"When did he write this?"
"Two years ago."
Two years ago was the time when Julian Clifford had alteredhis will so as to leave Newman, if still unmarried, acompetency.
"And you replied?" Pointer thought it as well to takeadvantage of this moment to know all that there was to beknown.
"I told him he was utterly mistaken in my feeling for you,"Newman flashed a grim, yet fond smile at Diana, whose eyes werebrimming. "I kept the letter as an additional help to—stickto my guns. But I wonder that such a sentence, found in such acase, didn't hang me," he threw at Pointer interrogatively.
"You were so careful to make your flight look suspicious,"Pointer said with a half unwilling smile in reply. "You had goneto so much time and trouble in your bedroom to take down asuitcase, and get a bag off your wardrobe top, and strew so manygarments, each of which you had to take from its place, aroundthe room, that it seemed odd you should have burnt this letter ifit really was incriminating.
"But Miss Haslar is waiting to hear what it was that theSuperintendent told you. My best wishes, Mr. Penfold." AndPointer closed the door behind him.
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