new one. Finger nails well cared for, but recently neglected. Hair dyed
to hide gray patches; dye wanted renewing. Shoes, French. Night-robe,
silk; good lace; probably French, also. Faint perfume--don't know what
it is--apparently proceeding from civet fur. Furs, magnificent; very
costly.”...
He slightly moved the table-lamp in order to direct its light upon
the white face. The bloodless lips were parted and the detective bent,
closely peering at the teeth thus revealed.
“Her teeth were oddly discolored, doctor,” he said, taking out a
magnifying glass and examining them closely. “They had been recently
scaled, too; so that she was not in the habit of neglecting them.”
Dr. Cumberly nodded.
“The drug habit, again,” he said guardedly; “a proper examination will
establish the full facts.”
The inspector added brief notes to those already made, ere he rose from
beside the body. Then:--
“You are absolutely certain,” he said, deliberately, facing Leroux,
“that you had never set eyes on this woman prior to her coming here,
to-night?”
“I can swear it!” said Leroux.
“Good!” replied the detective, and closed his notebook with a snap.
“Usual formalities will have to be gone through, but I don't think I
need trouble you, gentlemen, any further, to-night.”
V
DOCTORS DIFFER
Dr. Cumberly walked slowly upstairs to his own flat, a picture etched
indelibly upon his mind, of Henry Leroux, with a face of despair,
sitting below in his dining-room and listening to the ominous sounds
proceeding from the study, where the police were now busily engaged. In
the lobby he met his daughter Helen, who was waiting for him in a state
of nervous suspense.
“Father!” she began, whilst rebuke died upon the doctor's lips--“tell me
quickly what has happened.”
Perceiving that an explanation was unavoidable, Dr. Cumberly outlined
the story of the night's gruesome happenings, whilst Big Ben began to
chime the hour of one.
Helen, eager-eyed, and with her charming face rather pale, hung upon
every word of the narrative.
“And now,” concluded her father, “you must go to bed. I insist.”
“But father!” cried the girl--“there is some thing”...
She hesitated, uneasily.
“Well, Helen, go on,” said the doctor.
“I am afraid you will refuse.”
“At least give me the opportunity.”
“Well--in the glimpse, the half-glimpse, which I had of her, I
seemed”...
Dr. Cumberly rested his hands upon his daughter's shoulders
characteristically, looking into the troubled gray eyes.
“You don't mean,” he began...
“I thought I recognized her!” whispered the girl.
“Good God! can it be possible?”
“I have been trying, ever since, to recall where we had met, but without
result. It might mean so much”...
Dr. Cumberly regarded her, fixedly.
“It might mean so much to--Mr. Leroux. But I suppose you will say it is
impossible?”
“It IS impossible,” said Dr. Cumberly firmly; “dismiss the idea, Helen.”
“But father,” pleaded the girl, placing her hands over his own,
“consider what is at stake”...
“I am anxious that you should not become involved in this morbid
business.”
“But you surely know me better than to expect me to faint or become
hysterical, or anything silly like that! I was certainly shocked when
I came down to-night, because--well, it was all so frightfully
unexpected”...
Dr. Cumberly shook his head. Helen put her arms about his neck and
raised her eyes to his.
“You have no right to refuse,” she said, softly: “don't you see that?”
Dr. Cumberly frowned. Then:--
“You are right, Helen,” he agreed. “I should know your pluck well
enough. But if Inspector Dunbar is gone, the police may refuse to admit
us”...
“Then let us hurry!” cried Helen. “I am afraid they will take away”...
Side by side they descended to Henry Leroux's flat, ringing the bell,
which, an hour earlier, the lady of the civet furs had rung.
A sergeant in uniform opened the door.
“Is Detective-Inspector Dunbar here?” inquired the physician.
“Yes, sir.”
“Say that Dr. Cumberly wishes to speak to him. And”--as the man was
about to depart--“request him not to arouse Mr. Leroux.”
Almost immediately the inspector appeared, a look of surprise upon his
face, which increased on perceiving the girl beside her father.
“This is my daughter, Inspector,” explained Cumberly; “she is a
contributor to the Planet, and to various magazines, and in this
journalistic capacity, meets many people in many walks of life. She
thinks she may be of use to you in preparing your case.”
Dunbar bowed rather awkwardly.
“Glad to meet you, Miss Cumberly,” came the inevitable formula.
“Entirely at your service.”
“I had an idea, Inspector,” said the girl, laying her hand
confidentially upon Dunbar's arm, “that I recognized, when I entered Mr.
Leroux's study, tonight”--Dunbar nodded--“that I recognized--the--the
victim!”
“Good!” said the inspector, rubbing his palms briskly together. His
tawny eyes sparkled. “And you would wish to see her again before we
take her away. Very plucky of you, Miss Cumberly! But then, you are a
doctor's daughter.”
They entered, and the inspector closed the door behind them.
“Don't arouse poor Leroux,” whispered Cumberly to the detective. “I left
him on a couch in the dining-room.”...
“He is still there,” replied Dunbar; “poor chap! It is”...
He met Helen's glance, and broke off shortly.
In the study two uniformed constables, and an officer in plain clothes,
were apparently engaged in making an inventory--or such was the
impression conveyed. The clock ticked merrily on; its ticking a
desecration, where all else was hushed in deference to the grim visitor.
The body of the murdered woman had been laid upon the chesterfield, and
a little, dark, bearded man was conducting an elaborate examination;
when, seeing the trio enter, he hastily threw the coat of civet fur over
the body, and stood up, facing the intruders.
“It's all right, doctor,” said the inspector; “and we shan't detain you
a moment.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Mr. Hilton, M. R. C. S.” he
said, indicating the dark man--“Dr. Cumberly and Miss Cumberly.”
The divisional surgeon bowed to Helen and eagerly grasped the hand of
the celebrated physician.
“I am fortunate in being able to ask your opinion,” he began....
Dr. Cumberly nodded shortly, and with upraised hand, cut him short.
“I shall willingly give you any assistance in my power,” he said;
“but my daughter has voluntarily committed herself to a rather painful
ordeal, and I am anxious to get it over.”
He stooped and raised the fur from the ghastly face.
Helen, her hand resting upon her father's shoulder, ventured one rapid
glance and then looked away, shuddering slightly. Dr. Cumberly replaced
the coat and gazed anxiously at his daughter. But Helen, with admirable
courage, having closed her eyes for a moment, reopened them, and smiled
at her father's anxiety. She was pale, but perfectly composed.
“Well, Miss Cumberly?” inquired the inspector, eagerly; whilst all in
the room watched this slim girl in her charming deshabille, this dainty
figure so utterly out of place in that scene of morbid crime.
She raised her gray eyes to the detective.
“I still believe that I have seen the face, somewhere, before. But I
shall have to reflect a while--I meet so many folks, you know, in a
casual way--before I can commit myself to any statement.”
In the leonine eyes looking into hers gleamed the light of admiration
and approval. The canny Scotsman admired this girl for her beauty, as
a matter of course, for her courage, because courage was a quality
standing high in his estimation, but, above all, for her admirable
discretion.
“Very proper, Miss Cumberly,” he said; “very proper and wise on your
part. I don't wish to hurry you in any way, but”--he hesitated, glancing
at the man in plain clothes, who had now resumed a careful perusal of a
newspaper--“but her name doesn't happen to be Vernon--”
“Vernon!” cried the girl, her eyes lighting up at sound of the name.
“Mrs. Vernon! it is! it is! She was pointed out to me at the last Arts
Ball--where she appeared in a most monstrous Chinese costume--”
“Chinese?” inquired Dunbar, producing the bulky notebook.
“Yes. Oh! poor, poor soul!”
“You know nothing further about her, Miss Cumberly?”
“Nothing, Inspector. She was merely pointed out to me as one of the
strangest figures in the hall. Her husband, I understand, is an art
expert--”
“He WAS!” said Dunbar, closing the book sharply. “He died this
afternoon; and a paragraph announcing his death appears in the newspaper
which we found in the victim's fur coat!”
“But how--”
“It was the only paragraph on the half-page folded outwards which was in
any sense PERSONAL. I am greatly indebted to you, Miss Cumberly; every
hour wasted on a case like this means a fresh plait in the rope around
the neck of the wrong man!”
Helen Cumberly grew slowly quite pallid.
“Good night,” she said; and bowing to the detective and to the surgeon,
she prepared to depart.
Mr. Hilton touched Dr. Cumberly's arm, as he, too, was about to retire.
“May I hope,” he whispered, “that you will return and give me the
benefit of your opinion in making out my report?”
Dr. Cumberly glanced at his daughter; and seeing her to be perfectly
composed:--“For the moment, I have formed no opinion, Mr. Hilton,”
he said, quietly, “not having had an opportunity to conduct a proper
examination.”
Hilton bent and whispered, confidentially, in the other's ear:--
“She was drugged!”
The innuendo underlying the words struck Dr. Cumberly forcibly, and he
started back with his brows drawn together in a frown.
“Do you mean that she was addicted to the use of drugs?” he asked,
sharply; “or that the drugging took place to-night.”
“The drugging DID take place to-night!” whispered the other. “An
injection was made in the left shoulder with a hypodermic syringe; the
mark is quite fresh.”
Dr. Cumberly glared at his fellow practitioner, angrily.
“Are there no other marks of injection?” he asked.
“On the left forearm, yes. Obviously self-administered. Oh, I don't deny
the habit! But my point is this: the injection in the shoulder was NOT
self-administered.”
“Come, Helen,” said Cumberly, taking his daughter's arm; for she had
drawn near, during the colloquy--“you must get to bed.”
His face was very stern when he turned again to Mr. Hilton.
“I shall return in a few minutes,” he said, and escorted his daughter
from the room.
VI
AT SCOTLAND YARD
Matters of vital importance to some people whom already we have met, and
to others whom thus far we have not met, were transacted in a lofty and
rather bleak looking room at Scotland Yard between the hours of nine and
ten A. M.; that is, later in the morning of the fateful day whose advent
we have heard acclaimed from the Tower of Westminster.
The room, which was lighted by a large French window opening upon a
balcony, commanded an excellent view of the Thames Embankment. The floor
was polished to a degree of brightness, almost painful. The distempered
walls, save for a severe and solitary etching of a former Commissioner,
were nude in all their unloveliness. A heavy deal table (upon which
rested a blotting-pad, a pewter ink-pot, several newspapers and two
pens) together with three deal chairs, built rather as monuments of
durability than as examples of art, constituted the only furniture, if
we except an electric lamp with a green glass shade, above the table.
This was the room of Detective-Inspector Dunbar; and Detective-Inspector
Dunbar, at the hour of our entrance, will be found seated in the chair,
placed behind the table, his elbows resting upon the blotting-pad.
At ten minutes past nine, exactly, the door opened, and a thick-set,
florid man, buttoned up in a fawn colored raincoat and wearing a bowler
hat of obsolete build, entered. He possessed a black mustache, a breezy,
bustling manner, and humorous blue eyes; furthermore, when he took
off his hat, he revealed the possession of a head of very bristly,
upstanding, black hair. This was Detective-Sergeant Sowerby, and the
same who was engaged in examining a newspaper in the study of Henry
Leroux when Dr. Cumberly and his daughter had paid their second visit to
that scene of an unhappy soul's dismissal.
“Well?” said Dunbar, glancing up at his subordinate, inquiringly.
“I have done all the cab depots,” reported Sergeant Sowerby, “and a good
many of the private owners; but so far the man seen by Mr. Exel has not
turned up.”
“The word will be passed round now, though,” said Dunbar, “and we shall
probably have him here during the day.”
“I hope so,” said the other good-humoredly, seating himself upon one of
the two chairs ranged beside the wall. “If he doesn't show up.”...
“Well?” jerked Dunbar--“if he doesn't?”
“It will look very black against Leroux.”
Dunbar drummed upon the blotting-pad with the fingers of his left hand.
“It beats anything of the kind that has ever come my way,” he confessed.
“You get pretty cautious at weighing people up, in this business; but I
certainly don't think--mind you, I go no further--but I certainly
don't think Mr. Henry Leroux would willingly kill a fly; yet there is
circumstantial evidence enough to hang him.”
Sergeant Sowerby nodded, gazing speculatively at the floor.
“I wonder,” he said, slowly, “why the girl--Miss Cumberly--hesitated
about telling us the woman's name?”
“I am not wondering about that at all,” replied Dunbar, bluntly. “She
must meet thousands in the same way. The wonder to me is that she
remembered at all. I am open to bet half-a-crown that YOU couldn't
remember the name of every woman you happened to have pointed out to you
at an Arts Ball?”
“Maybe not,” agreed Sowerby; “she's a smart girl, I'll allow. I see you
have last night's papers there?”
“I have,” replied Dunbar; “and I'm wondering”...
“If there's any connection?”
“Well,” continued the inspector, “it looks on the face of it as though
the news of her husband's death had something to do with Mrs. Vernon's
presence at Leroux's flat. It's not a natural thing for a woman, on the
evening of her husband's death, to rush straight away to another man's
place”...
“It's strange we couldn't find her clothes”...
“It's not strange at all! You're simply obsessed with the idea that this
was a love intrigue! Think, man! the most abandoned woman wouldn't run
to keep an appointment with a lover at a time like that! And remember
she had the news in her pocket! She came to that flat dressed--or
undressed--just as we found her; I'm sure of it. And a point like that
sometimes means the difference between hanging and acquittal.”
Sergeant Sowerby digested these words, composing his jovial countenance
in an expression of unnatural profundity. Then:--
“THE point to my mind,” he said, “is the one raised by Mr. Hilton. By
gum! didn't Dr. Cumberly tell him off!”
“Dr. Cumberly,” replied Dunbar, “is entitled to his opinion, that the
injection in the woman's shoulder was at least eight hours old; whilst
Mr. Hilton is equally entitled to maintain that it was less than ONE
hour old. Neither of them can hope to prove his case.”
“If either of them could?”...
“It might make a difference to the evidence--but I'm not sure.”
“What time is your appointment?”
“Ten o'clock,” replied Dunbar. “I am meeting Mr. Debnam--the late Mr.
Vernon's solicitor. There is something in it. Damme! I am sure of it!”
“Something in what?”
“The fact that Mr. Vernon died yesterday evening, and that his wife was
murdered at midnight.”
“What have you told the press?”
“As little as possible, but you will see that the early editions will
all be screaming for the arrest of Soames.”
“I shouldn't wonder. He would be a useful man to have; but he's probably
out of London now.”
“I think not. He's more likely to wait for instructions from his
principal.”
“His principal?”
“Certainly. You don't think Soames did the murder, do you?”
“No; but he's obviously an accessory.”
“I'm not so sure even of that.”
“Then why did he bolt?”
“Because he had a guilty conscience.”
“Yes,” agreed Sowerby; “it does turn out that way sometimes. At any
rate, Stringer is after him, but he's got next to nothing to go upon.
Has any reply been received from Mrs. Leroux in Paris?”
“No,” answered Dunbar, frowning thoughtfully. “Her husband's wire would
reach her first thing this morning; I am expecting to hear of a reply at
any moment.”
“They're a funny couple, altogether,” said Sowerby. “I can't imagine
myself standing for Mrs. Sowerby spending her week-ends in Paris. Asking
for trouble, I call it!”
“It does seem a daft arrangement,” agreed Dunbar; “but then, as you say,
they're a funny couple.”
“I never saw such a bundle of nerves in all my life!”...
“Leroux?”
Sowerby nodded.
“I suppose,” he said, “it's the artistic temperament! If Mrs. Leroux
has got it, too, I don't wonder that they get fed up with one another's
company.”
“That's about the secret of it. And now, I shall be glad, Sowerby, if
you will be after that taxi-man again. Report at one o'clock. I shall be
here.”
With his hand on the door-knob: “By the way,” said Sowerby, “who the
blazes is Mr. King?”
Inspector Dunbar looked up.
“Mr. King,” he replied slowly, “is the solution of the mystery.”
VII
THE MAN IN THE LIMOUSINE
The house of the late Horace Vernon was a modern villa of prosperous
appearance; but, on this sunny September morning, a palpable atmosphere
of gloom seemed to overlie it. This made itself perceptible even to the
toughened and unimpressionable nerves of Inspector Dunbar. As he mounted
the five steps leading up to the door, glancing meanwhile at the lowered
blinds at the windows, he wondered if, failing these evidences and his
own private knowledge of the facts, he should have recognized that the
hand of tragedy had placed its mark upon this house. But when the door
was opened by a white-faced servant, he told himself that he should, for
a veritable miasma of death seemed to come out to meet him, to envelop
him.
Within, proceeded a subdued activity: somber figures moved upon the
staircase; and Inspector Dunbar, having presented his card, presently
found himself in a well-appointed library.
At the table, whereon were spread a number of documents, sat a lean,
clean-shaven, sallow-faced man, wearing gold-rimmed pince-nez; a man
whose demeanor of business-like gloom was most admirably adapted to that
place and occasion. This was Mr. Debnam, the solicitor. He gravely
waved the detective to an armchair, adjusted his pince-nez, and coughed,
introductorily.
“Your communication, Inspector,” he began (he had the kind of voice
which seems to be buried in sawdust packing), “was brought to me this
morning, and has disturbed me immeasurably, unspeakably.”
“You have been to view the body, sir?”
“One of my clerks, who knew Mrs. Vernon, has just returned to this house
to report that he has identified her.”
“I should have preferred you to have gone yourself, sir,” began Dunbar,
taking out his notebook.
“My state of health, Inspector,” said the solicitor, “renders it
undesirable that I should submit myself to an ordeal so unnecessary--so
wholly unnecessary.”
“Very good!” muttered Dunbar, making an entry in his book; “your clerk,
then, whom I can see in a moment, identifies the murdered woman as Mrs.
Vernon. What was her Christian name?”
“Iris--Iris Mary Vernon.”
Inspector Dunbar made a note of the fact.
“And now,” he said, “you will have read the copy of that portion of my
report which I submitted to you this morning--acting upon information
supplied by Miss Helen Cumberly?”
“Yes, yes, Inspector, I have read it--but, by the way, I do not know
Miss Cumberly.”
“Miss Cumberly,” explained the detective, “is the daughter of Dr.
Cumberly, the Harley Street physician. She lives with her father in
the flat above that of Mr. Leroux. She saw the body by accident--and
recognized it as that of a lady who had been named to her at the last
Arts Ball.”
“Ah!” said Debnam, “yes--I see--at the Arts Ball, Inspector. This is a
mysterious and a very ghastly case.”
“It is indeed, sir,” agreed Dunbar. “Can you throw any light upon the
presence of Mrs. Vernon at Mr. Leroux's flat on the very night of her
husband's death?”
“I can--and I cannot,” answered the solicitor, leaning back in the
chair and again adjusting his pince-nez, in the manner of a man having
important matters--and gloomy, very gloomy, matters--to communicate.
“Good!” said the inspector, and prepared to listen.
“You see,” continued Debnam, “the late Mrs. Vernon was not actually
residing with her husband at the date of his death.”
“Indeed!”
“Ostensibly”--the solicitor shook a lean forefinger at his
vis-a-vis--“ostensibly, Inspector, she was visiting her sister in
Scotland.”
Inspector Dunbar sat up very straight, his brows drawn down over the
tawny eyes.
“These visits were of frequent occurrence, and usually of about a
week's duration. Mr. Vernon, my late client, a man--I'll not deny it--of
inconstant affections (you understand me, Inspector?), did not greatly
concern himself with his wife's movements. She belonged to a smart
Bohemian set, and--to use a popular figure of speech--burnt the candle
at both ends; late dances, night clubs, bridge parties, and other
feverish pursuits, possibly taken up as a result of the--shall I say
cooling?--of her husband's affections”...
“There was another woman in the case?”
“I fear so, Inspector; in fact, I am sure of it: but to return to Mrs.
Vernon. My client provided her with ample funds; and I, myself, have
expressed to him astonishment respecting her expenditures in Scotland. I
understand that her sister was in comparatively poor circumstances,
and I went so far as to point out to Mr. Vernon that one hundred
pounds was--shall I say an excessive?--outlay upon a week's sojourn in
Auchterander, Perth.”
“A hundred pounds!”
“One hundred pounds!”
“Was it queried by Mr. Vernon?”
“Not at all.”
“Was Mr. Vernon personally acquainted with this sister in Perth?”
“He was not, Inspector. Mrs. Vernon, at the time of her marriage, did
not enjoy that social status to which my late client elevated her. For
many years she held no open communication with any member of her
family, but latterly, as I have explained, she acquired the habit of
recuperating--recuperating from the effects of her febrile pleasures--at
this obscure place in Scotland. And Mr. Vernon, his interest in
her movements having considerably--shall I say abated?--offered no
objection: even suffered it gladly, counting the cost but little
against”...
“Freedom?” suggested Dunbar, scribbling in his notebook.
“Rather crudely expressed, perhaps,” said the solicitor, peering
over the top of his glasses, “but you have the idea. I come now to my
client's awakening. Four days ago, he learned the truth; he learned that
he was being deceived!”
“Deceived!”
“Mrs. Vernon, thoroughly exhausted with irregular living, announced
that she was about to resort once more to the healing breezes of the
heather-land”--Mr. Debnam was thoroughly warming to his discourse and
thoroughly enjoying his own dusty phrases.
“Interrupting you for a moment,” said the inspector, “at what intervals
did these visits take place?”
“At remarkably regular intervals, Inspector: something like six times a
year.”
“For how long had Mrs. Vernon made a custom of these visits?”
“Roughly, for two years.”
“Thank you. Will you go on, sir?”
“She requested Mr. Vernon, then, on the last occasion to give her a
check for eighty pounds; and this he did, unquestioningly. On Thursday,
the second of September, she left for Scotland”...
“Did she take her maid?”
“Her maid always received a holiday on these occasions; Mrs. Vernon
wired her respecting the date of her return.”
“Did any one actually see her off?”
“No, not that I am aware of, Inspector.”
“To put the whole thing quite bluntly, Mr. Debnam,” said Dunbar, fixing
his tawny eyes upon the solicitor, “Mr. Vernon was thoroughly glad to
get rid of her for a week?”
Mr. Debnam shifted uneasily in his chair; the truculent directness of
the detective was unpleasing to his tortuous mind. However:--