A NEW CLUE TO AN OLD CRIME
It was exactly half-past ten on Tuesday morning when I sat down on the
rough wooden bench in my workshop with a little gasp of relief and
exhaustion. Before me, on the lead slab, was a small pile of dark
brown powder, which an innocent stranger would in all probability have
taken for finely ground coffee. It was not coffee, however; it was the
fruit of four days and nights of about the most unremitting toil that
any human being has ever accomplished. Unless I was wrong--utterly and
hopelessly wrong--I had enough of the new explosive in front of me to
blow this particular bit of marsh and salting into the middle of next
week.
I leaned forward, and picking up a fistful, allowed it to trickle
slowly through my fingers. The stuff was quite safe to handle; that
was one of its beauties. I could have put a lighted match to it or
thrown it on the fire without the faintest risk; the only possible
method of releasing its appalling power being the explosion of a few
grains of gunpowder or dynamite in its immediate vicinity. I had no
intention of allowing that interesting event to occur until I had made
certain necessary preparations.
I was still contemplating my handiwork with a sort of fatigued pride,
when a sudden sound outside attracted my attention. Getting up and
looking through the shed window, I discovered a telegraph-boy standing
by the hut, apparently engaged in hunting for the bell.
"All right, sonny," I called out. "Bring it along here."
I walked to the door, and the next minute I was being handed an
envelope addressed to me at the Tilbury Post-Office in Joyce's
handwriting.
"It came the last post yesterday," explained the lad. "We couldn't let
you have it until this morning because there wasn't any one to send."
"Well, sit down a moment, Charles," I said; "and I'll just see if
there's any answer."
He seated himself on the bench, staring round at everything with
obvious interest. With a pleasant feeling of anticipation I slit open
the envelope and pulled out its contents.
"CHELSEA,
"_Monday._
"DEAREST JAMES,
"It looks rather nice written--doesn't it! I am coming down tomorrow
by the train which gets into Tilbury at 2.15. I shall walk across to
the _Betty_ and sit there peacefully till you turn up. Whatever stage
the work is at, don't be later than 7.30. I shall have supper ready by
then--and it will be a supper worth eating. My poor darling, you must
be simply starved. I've lots to tell you, James, but it will keep till
tomorrow.
"With all my love,
"JOYCE."
I read this through (it was so like Joyce I could almost fancy I heard
her speaking), and then I turned to the telegraph-boy, who was still
occupied in taking stock of his surroundings.
"There's no answer, thank you, Charles," I said. "How much do I owe
you?"
He pulled himself together abruptly. "It will be two shillings, the
post-office fee, sir."
"Well, there it is," I said; "and there's another shilling for
yourself."
He jumped up and pocketed the coins with an expression of gratitude.
Then he paused irresolutely. "Beg pardon, sir," he observed, "but
ain't you a gentleman who makes things?"
I laughed. "We most of us do that, Charles," I said, "if they're only
mistakes."
He looked round the shed with an expression of slight awe. "Can you
make fireworks?" he asked.
I glanced instinctively at the little heap of powder. "Of a kind," I
admitted modestly. "Why?"
He gave an envious sigh. "I only wondered if it was hard, sir. I'd
rather be able to make fireworks than do anything."
"It's not very hard," I said consolingly. "You go on bringing my
letters and telegrams for me like a good boy directly they arrive, and
before I leave here I'll show you how to do it. Only you mustn't talk
about it to anybody, or I shall have everyone asking me the same
thing."
His face brightened, and stammering out his thanks and his
determination to keep the bargain a profound secret, he reluctantly
took his departure. I felt that in future, whatever happened, I
was pretty certain to get anything which turned up for me at the
post-office without undue delay.
For the next half-hour or so I amused myself by constructing a kind of
amateur magazine outside the hut in which to store my precious powder.
It was safe enough in a way above ground, as I have already mentioned,
but with inquisitive strangers like Mr. Latimer prowling around, I
certainly didn't mean to leave a grain of it about while I was absent
from the shed. I packed it all away in a waterproof iron box, which I
had specially ordered for the purpose, and buried it in the hole that
I had dug outside. Then I covered the latter over with a couple of
pieces of turf, and carefully removed all traces of my handiwork.
It was not until I had finished this little job that I suddenly
realized how tired I was. For the last four days I had scarcely
stirred outside the shed, and I don't suppose I had averaged more than
three hours' sleep a night the whole time. The excitement and interest
of my work had kept me going, and now that it was over I found that I
was almost dropping with fatigue.
I locked up the place, and walking across to the hut, opened myself
one of the bottles of champagne which I had so thoughtfully purchased
at the Off-Licence. It was not exactly a vintage wine, but I was in no
mood to be over-critical, and I drank off a couple of glasses with the
utmost appreciation. Then I lay down on the bed, and in less than five
minutes I was sleeping like a log.
I woke up at exactly half-past four. However tired I am, a few hours'
sleep always puts me right again, and by the time I had had a wash and
changed into a clean shirt, I felt as fresh as a daisy.
I decided to walk straight over to the _Betty_. I knew that by this
time Joyce would be on board, and as there was nothing else to be done
in the shed, I thought I might just as well join her now as later. I
had been too busy to miss any one very much the last four days, but
now that the strain was over I felt curiously hungry to see her again.
Besides, I was longing to hear what news she had brought about Tommy
and George.
With a view to contributing some modest item towards the supper
programme, I shoved the other bottle of champagne into my pocket, and
then lighting a cigar, locked up the place, and set off for the creek
by my usual route. The tide was very high, and on several occasions I
had to scramble up and make my way along the sea-wall in full view
of the marsh and the roadway. Fortunately, however, there seemed,
as usual, to be no one about, and I reached the mouth of the creek
without much fear of having been watched or followed.
The _Betty_ was there all right, but I could see no sign of any one on
board. I walked up the creek until I was exactly opposite where she
was lying, and then putting my hands to my lips I gave her a gentle
hail.
In an instant Joyce's head appeared out of the cabin, and the next
moment she was on deck waving me a joyous welcome with the frying-pan.
"Oh, it's you!" she cried. "How lovely! Half a second, and I'll come
over and fetch you."
"Where's Mr. Gow?" I called out.
"He's gone home. I sent him off for a holiday. There's no one on board
but me."
She scrambled aft, and unshipping the dinghy, came sculling towards me
across the intervening water. She was wearing a white jersey, and with
her arms bare and her hair shining in the sunlight, she made a picture
that only a blind man would have failed to find inspiring.
She brought up right against the bank where I was standing, and
leaning over, caught hold of the grass.
"Jump," she said. "I'll hang on."
I jumped, and the next moment I was beside her in the boat, and we
were hugging each other as cheerfully and naturally as two children.
"You dear, to come so soon!" she said. "I wasn't expecting you for
ages."
I kissed her again, and then, picking up the oars, pushed off from the
bank. "Joyce," I said, "I've done it! I've made enough of the blessed
stuff to blow up half Tilbury."
She clapped her hands joyfully. "How splendid! I knew you would. Have
you tried it?"
I shook my head. "Not yet," I said. "We'll do it early tomorrow
morning, before any one's about." Then, digging in my scull to avoid a
desolate-looking beacon, I added anxiously: "What about Tommy? Is he
coming?"
Joyce nodded. "He'll be down tomorrow. I've got a letter for you from
him. He saw Mr. Latimer last night."
"Did he!" said I. "Things are moving with a vengeance. What about the
gentle George?"
Joyce laughed softly. "Oh," she said; "I've such lots to tell you, I
hardly know where to start."
I ran the boat alongside the _Betty_, and we both climbed on board.
"Suppose we start by having some tea," I suggested. "I'm dying for a
cup."
"You poor dear," said Joyce. "Of course you shall have one. You can
read what Tommy says while I'm getting it ready."
She fetched the letter out of the cabin, and sitting in the well I
proceeded to decipher the three foolscap pages of hieroglyphics which
Tommy is pleased to describe as his handwriting. As far as I could
make out they ran as follows:
"MY DEAR NEIL,
"I suppose I oughtn't to begin like that, in case somebody else got
hold of the letter. It doesn't matter really, however, because Joyce
is bringing it down, and you can tear the damn thing up as soon as
you've read it.
"Well, I've seen Latimer. I wrote to him directly I got back, reminded
him who I was, and told him I wanted to have a chat with him about
some very special private business. He asked me to come round to his
rooms in Jermyn Street last night at ten o'clock, and I was there till
pretty near midnight.
"I thought I was bound to find out something, but good Lord, Neil, it
came off in a way I'd never dared hope for. Practically speaking, I've
got to the bottom of the whole business--at least so far as Latimer's
concerned. You see he either had to explain or else tell me to go to
the devil, and as he thought I was a perfectly safe sort of chap to be
honest with, he decided to make a clean breast of it.
"To start with, it's very much what we suspected. Latimer _is_ a
Secret Service man, and that's how he comes to be mixed up in the job.
It seems that some little while ago the Admiralty or one of the other
Government departments got it into their heads that there were a
number of Germans over in England spying out the land in view of a
possible row over this Servian business. Latimer was told off amongst
others to look into the matter. He had been sniffing around for some
weeks without much luck, when more or less by chance he dropped across
the track of those two very identical beauties who ran down Gow's boat
in the Thames last Friday.
"Somehow or other they must have got wind of the fact that he was
after them, and they evidently made up their minds to get rid of him.
They seem to have set about it rather neatly. The man with the scar,
who is either one of them or else in with them, introduced himself to
Latimer as a member of the French Secret Service. He pretended that
he had some special information about the case in hand, and although
Latimer was a bit suspicious, he agreed to dine at Parelli's and hear
what the fellow had to say.
"Well, you know the rest of that little incident. If it hadn't been
for you there's not the faintest doubt that Latimer would have
copped it all right, and I can tell you he's by way of being rather
particularly grateful. I was specially instructed to send you a
message to that effect next time I was writing.
"What the connection is between your crowd and these Germans I can't
exactly make out. Of course if you're right in your idea about the
chap with the scar spying on you in London it's perfectly obvious
they're working together in some way. At the same time I'm quite sure
that Latimer knows nothing about it. The reason he came down to look
at the hut on Friday was because a report about it had been sent to
him by one of his men--he has two fellows working under him--and he
thought it might have something to do with the Germans. He described
the way you had caught him quite frankly, and told me how he'd had to
invent a lie about the Surveyor in order to get out of it.
"Exactly what he means to do next I don't know. He has got some plan
on, and I've a notion he wants me to help him--at least he sounded
me pretty plainly last night as to whether I'd be game to lend him a
hand. I need hardly tell you I jumped at the idea. It seems to me our
only possible chance of finding out anything. I am to see him or hear
from him tomorrow, and directly I know what's in the wind I'll either
write to you or come and look you up.
"Joyce will tell you all about George and McMurtrie. If they aren't
both up to some kind of particularly dirty mischief I'll eat my whole
wardrobe. We must talk it over thoroughly when we meet.
"I'm longing to see you again, and hear all about the work and what's
been going on down there.
"So long, old son,
"Yours as ever,
"TOMMY."
I was just making out the last words, when Joyce emerged from the
cabin, carrying some tea on a tray.
"Here you are, Neil," she said. "I have cut you only two slices of
bread and butter, because I don't want you to spoil your supper.
There's cold pheasant and peas and new potatoes."
I pulled out the bottle of champagne from my pocket. "If they're as
new as this wine," I observed, "they ought to be delicious."
Joyce accepted my contribution, and after reading the label, placed it
carefully on the floor of the well. "Sarcon et fils," she repeated. "I
always thought they made vinegar."
"Perhaps they do," I replied. "We shall know when we drink it."
Joyce laughed, and sitting down beside me, poured me out a cup of tea.
"You've read Tommy's letter," she said. "What do you think about it?"
I took a long drink. "From the little I've seen of Mr. Bruce Latimer,"
I said, "I should put him down as being one of the most accomplished
liars in England." I paused. "At the same time," I added, "I think
he's a fine fellow. I like his face."
Joyce nodded her head. "But you don't believe his story?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "It may be true," I said. "Tommy seems
to think so anyhow. If it is, things are a bit simpler than I
imagined--that's all."
"And if it isn't?" said Joyce.
"Ah!" said I, "if it isn't--"
I left the sentence unfinished, and helped myself to a second bit of
bread and butter.
There was a short silence.
"Tell me about George, Joyce," I went on. "What are these particular
dark doings that Tommy's hinting about?"
Joyce leaned forward with her chin on her hands, her blue eyes fixed
on mine.
"Neil," she said slowly, "I've found out something at last--something
I thought I was never going to. I know who the man was in Marks's
rooms on the day that he was murdered."
I was so surprised that I gulped down a mouthful of nearly boiling
tea.
"I wish you'd break these things more gently, Joyce," I said. "Who was
it?"
"It was Dr. McMurtrie."
I put down the teacup and stared at her in the blankest amazement.
"Dr. McMurtrie!" I repeated incredulously.
She nodded. "Listen, and I'll tell you exactly how it all happened. I
dined with George, as you know, at the Savoy on Friday, and we went
into the whole business of my going away with him. He has got that
twelve thousand pounds, Neil; there's no doubt about it. He showed me
the entry in his pass-book and the acknowledgment from the bank, and
he even offered to write me a cheque for a couple of hundred right
away, to buy clothes with for the trip."
"From what I remember of George," I said, "he must be desperately in
love with you."
Joyce gave a little shiver of disgust. "Of course I let him think I
was giving way. I wanted to find out where the money had come from,
but try as I would, I couldn't get him to tell me. That makes me feel
so certain there's something wrong about it. In the end I arranged to
dine with him again tomorrow night, when I said I'd give him my final
answer. On Saturday morning, however, I changed my mind, and wrote him
a note to say I'd come Thursday instead. I didn't mean to tie myself
to be back tomorrow, in case you wanted me here."
She paused.
"I had to go up Victoria Street, so I thought I'd leave the letter at
his office. I'd just got there, and I was standing outside the door
opening my bag, when a man came down the steps. I looked up as he
passed, and--oh Neil!--it was all I could do to stop myself from
screaming. I knew him at once; I knew his cold wicked face just as
well as if it had been only three days instead of three years. It was
the man I'd seen in Marks's rooms on the afternoon of the murder."
She stopped again, and took a deep breath.
"I was horribly excited, and yet at the same time I felt quite cool. I
let him get about ten yards away down the street, and then I started
off after him. He walked as far as the Stores. Then he called an empty
taxi that was coming past, and I heard him tell the driver to go to
the Hotel Russell. I thought about how you'd followed the man with the
scar, and I made up my mind I'd do the same thing. I had to wait for
several seconds before another taxi came by, but directly it did
I jumped in and told the man to drive me to the corner of Russell
Square.
"I got there just as the other taxi was drawing up in front of the
hotel. A porter came forward and opened the door, and I saw the man
get out and go up the steps. I waited for one moment, and then I
walked along to the entrance myself. The porter was still standing
there, so I went straight up to him and asked him quite simply what
the name of the gentleman was who had just gone inside. He sort of
hesitated, and then he said to me: 'That gentleman, Miss?--that's Dr.
McMurtrie.'"
Once more she paused, and, pushing away the tray, I lit myself a
cigar. "It's lucky you've had some practice in surprises," I observed.
Joyce nodded. "Of course I was absolutely flabbergasted, but I don't
think I showed anything. I sort of rummaged in my bag for a minute
till I'd recovered; then I gave the man half a crown and asked him if
he knew how long Dr. McMurtrie was staying. I think he was in doubt as
to whether I was a female detective or a lady reporter; anyhow he took
the money and said he was very sorry he didn't know, but that if I
wanted an interview at any time he had no doubt it might be arranged.
I thanked him, and said it didn't matter for the moment, and there I
thought it best to leave things. You see I knew that whether McMurtrie
stayed on at the Russell or not you were bound to see him again, and
there was nothing to be gained by asking questions which the porter
would probably repeat to him. It would only have helped to put him on
his guard--wouldn't it?"
"My dear Joyce," I said, "I think you did splendidly. Sherlock Holmes
couldn't have done better." I got up and walked to the end of the
cockpit. "But good Lord!" I added, "this does complicate matters.
You're absolutely certain it was McMurtrie you saw at Marks's flat?"
"Absolutely," repeated Joyce with emphasis. "I should remember his
face if I lived to be a hundred."
I clenched my fists in a sudden spasm of anger. "There's some damned
villainy underneath all this, Joyce," I said. "If McMurtrie was there
that afternoon the odds are that he knows who committed the murder."
"He did it himself," said Joyce calmly. "I'm as sure of it as I am
that I'm sitting here."
"But why?" I demanded--"why? Who on earth _was_ Marks? Nobody in
Chelsea seemed to know anything about him, and nothing came out at the
trial. Why should any one have wanted to kill him except me?"
Joyce shook her head. "I don't know," she said stubbornly; "but I'm
quite certain it was McMurtrie. I feel it inside me."
"And in any case," I continued, "what the devil is he doing messing
about with George? I'm the only connecting-link between them, and he
can't possibly mean to betray me--at all events, until he's got the
secret of the powder. He knows George would give me up tomorrow."
Joyce made a gesture of perplexity. "I know," she said. "It's an
absolute mystery to me too. I've been puzzling and puzzling over it
till my head aches, and I can't see any sort of explanation at all."
"The only thing that's quite plain," I said, "is the fact that
McMurtrie and Savaroff have been lying to me from the start. They are
no more powder-merchants than you are. They want to get hold of my
invention for some reason--to make money out of it, I suppose--and
then they're prepared to clear out and leave me to George and the
police. At least, that's what it's beginning to look like."
"Well, anyhow," said Joyce, "you're not tied to them any longer by
your promise."
"No," I said; "it takes two to keep a bargain. Besides," I added
rather bitterly, "I can afford the privilege of breaking my word. It's
only what you'd expect from a convict."
Joyce got up, and coming to where I was sitting, slipped her arm
through mine and softly stroked my hand. "Don't, Neil," she said.
"I hate you to say anything that isn't fine and generous. It's like
hearing music out of tune."
I drew her to me, and half closing her eyes, she laid her cheek
against mine. We remained silent for a moment or two, and then, giving
her a little hug, I sat up and took hold of her hands.
"Look here, Joyce," I said, "we won't just bother about anything for
the rest of the day. We'll be cheerful and jolly and foolish, like we
were on Friday. God knows how all this infernal tangle is going to pan
out, but we may as well snatch one evening's happiness out of it while
we've got the chance."
Joyce kissed me, and then jumping lightly from the seat, pulled me
up with her. "We will," she said. "After all, we've got a boat and a
lovely evening and a cold pheasant and a bottle of champagne--what
more can any one want?"
"Well," I said, "it may sound greedy, but as a matter of fact I want
some of those peas and new potatoes you were talking about just now."
She let go my hands, and opening one of the lockers, took out a large
basin with a couple of bags in it. "There you are," she laughed. "You
can skin them and shell them while I wash up the tea-things and lay
the table. It's a man's duty to do the dangerous work."
Joyce had always had the gift of scattering a kind of infectious
gaiety around her, and that night she seemed to be in her most
bewitching and delightful mood. I think she made up her mind to try
and wipe out from my memory for the time being all thoughts of
the somewhat harassed state of existence in which it had pleased
Providence to land me. If so, she succeeded admirably.
We cooked the supper between us. I boiled the peas and potatoes, and
then, when we had done the first course, Joyce got up and made a
brilliantly successful French omelette out of some fresh eggs which
she had brought down for that inspired purpose.
It was very charming in the little low-ceilinged cabin, with the lamp
swinging overhead and no sound outside but the soft lapping of the
tide upon the sides of the boat. We lay and talked for some time after
we had finished, while I smoked a cigar, and Joyce, stretched out
luxuriously on the other bunk, indulged in a couple of cigarettes.
"We won't wash up," I said. "I'll just shove everything through into
the fo'c's'le, and we'll leave them there for Mr. Gow. A certain
amount of exercise will be good for him after his holiday."
"Do," said Joyce sleepily. "And then come and sit over here, Neil. I
want to stroke your hair."
I cleared away the things, and shutting up the table, which worked on
a hinge, spread out my own cushions on the floor alongside of
Joyce's bunk. The latter was just low enough to let me rest my head
comfortably on her shoulder.
How long we lay like that I really don't know. My whole body and mind
were steeped in a strange, delightful sense of peace and contentment,
and I began to realize, I think for the first time, how utterly
necessary and dear to me Joyce had become. I slid my arm underneath
her--she lay close up against me, her hair, which she had loosened
from its fastenings, half covering us both in its soft beauty.
The lamp flickered and died down, but we didn't trouble to relight it.
Outside the night grew darker and darker, and through the open hatch
we could just see a solitary star shining down on us from between two
banks of cloud. Cool and sweet, a faint breeze drifted in from the
silent marshes.
Then, quite suddenly, it seemed to me, a strange madness and music
filled the night for both of us. I only knew that Joyce was in my arms
and that we were kissing each other with fierce, unheeding passion.
There were tears on her cheeks--little sweet, salt tears of love and
happiness that felt all wet against my lips.
It was only a moment--just one brief moment of unutterable beauty--and
then I remembered. With a groan I half raised myself in the darkness.
"I must go, Joyce," I whispered. "I can't stay here. I daren't."
She slipped her soft bare arms round my neck, and drew my face down to
hers.
"Don't go," she whispered back. "Not if you don't want to. What does
it matter? I am all yours, Neil, anyway."
For a moment I felt her warm fragrant breath upon my face, and her
heart beating quickly against mine. Then, with an effort--a big
effort--I tore myself away.
"Joyce dear," I said, "it would only make things worse. Oh, my dear
sweet Joyce, I want you like the night wants the dawn, but we can't
cheat life. Suppose we fail--suppose there's only death or prison in
front of me. It will be hard enough now, but if--"
I broke off, and with a little sob Joyce sat up and felt for my hand.
"You're right, darling," she said; "but oh, my dear, my dear!" She
lifted up my hand and passed it softly backwards and forwards across
her eyes. Then, with a little laugh that had tears close behind it,
she added: "Do you know, my Neil, I'm conceited enough to think you're
rather wonderful."
I bent down and kissed her with infinite tenderness.
"I am, Joyce," I said. "Exactly how wonderful you'll never know."
Then I lifted her up in my arms, and we went out of the cabin into the
cool darkness of the night.
"I'll row myself ashore," I said, "and leave the dinghy on the beach.
I shall be back about four o'clock, if that's not too early for you.
We ought to get our explosion over before there's any one about."
Joyce nodded. "I don't mind how early you come. The sooner the
better."
"Try and get some sleep," I added; "you'll be tired out tomorrow if
you don't."
"I'll try," said Joyce simply; "but I don't think I shall. I'm not
even sure I want to."
I kissed her once more, and slipping down into the dinghy, pulled off
for the shore. Everything around was dark and silent--the faint splash
of my oars alone breaking the utter stillness. Landing at my usual
spot, more by luck than judgment, I tugged the boat up out of reach of
the tide, and then, turning round, waved good-night to the _Betty_.
It was too dark to see anything, but I think Joyce sent me back my
message.