that we have no legal evidence of her leaving for Scotland on this, or
on any other occasion. Letters were received from Perth, and letters
sent to Auchterander from London were answered. But the truth, the
painful truth came to light, unexpectedly, dramatically, on Monday
last”...
“Four days ago?”
“Exactly; three days before the death of my client.” Mr. Debnam wagged
his finger at the inspector again. “I maintain,” he said, “that this
painful discovery, which I am about to mention, precipitated my client's
end; although it is a fact that there was--hereditary heart trouble.
But I admit that his neglect of his wife (to give it no harsher name)
contributed to the catastrophe.”
He paused to give dramatic point to the revelation.
“Walking homeward at a late hour on Monday evening from a flat in
Victoria Street--the flat of--shall I employ the term a particular
friend?--Mr. Vernon was horrified--horrified beyond measure, to
perceive, in a large and well-appointed car--a limousine--his wife!”...
“The inside lights of the car were on, then?”
“No; but the light from a street lamp shone directly into the car. A
temporary block in the traffic compelled the driver of the car, whom my
client described to me as an Asiatic--to pull up for a moment. There,
within a few yards of her husband, Mrs. Vernon reclined in the car--or
rather in the arms of a male companion!”
“What!”
“Positively!” Mr. Debnam was sedately enjoying himself. “Positively, my
dear Inspector, in the arms of a man of extremely dark complexion. Mr.
Vernon was unable to perceive more than this, for the man had his back
toward him. But the light shone fully upon the face of Mrs. Vernon, who
appeared pale and exhausted. She wore a conspicuous motor-coat of civet
fur, and it was this which first attracted Mr. Vernon's attention. The
blow was a very severe one to a man in my client's state of health; and
although I cannot claim that his own conscience was clear, this open
violation of the marriage vows outraged the husband--outraged him. In
fact he was so perturbed, that he stood there shaking, quivering,
unable to speak or act, and the car drove away before he had recovered
sufficient presence of mind to note the number.”
“In which direction did the car proceed?”
“Toward Victoria Station.”
“Any other particulars?”
“Not regarding the car, its driver, or its occupants; but early on the
following morning, Mr. Vernon, very much shaken, called upon me and
instructed me to despatch an agent to Perth immediately. My agent's
report reached me at practically the same time as the news of my
client's death”...
“And his report was?”...
“His report, Inspector, telegraphic, of course, was this: that no sister
of Mrs. Vernon resided at the address; that the place was a cottage
occupied by a certain Mrs. Fry and her husband; that the husband was of
no occupation, and had no visible means of support”--he ticked off the
points on the long forefinger--“that the Frys lived better than any
of their neighbors; and--most important of all--that Mrs. Fry's maiden
name, which my agent discovered by recourse to the parish register of
marriages--was Ann Fairchild.”
“What of that?”
“Ann Fairchild was a former maid of Mrs. Vernon!”
“In short, it amounts to this, then: Mrs. Vernon, during these various
absences, never went to Scotland at all? It was a conspiracy?”
“Exactly--exactly, Inspector! I wired instructing my agent to extort
from the woman, Fry, the address to which she forwarded letters received
by her for Mrs. Vernon. The lady's death, news of which will now have
reached him, will no doubt be a lever, enabling my representative to
obtain the desired information.”
“When do you expect to hear from him?”
“At any moment. Failing a full confession by the Frys, you will of
course know how to act, Inspector?”
“Damme!” cried Dunbar, “can your man be relied upon to watch them? They
mustn't slip away! Shall I instruct Perth to arrest the couple?”
“I wired my agent this morning, Inspector, to communicate with the local
police respecting the Frys.”
Inspector Dunbar tapped his small, widely-separated teeth with the end
of his fountain-pen.
“I have had one priceless witness slip through my fingers,” he muttered.
“I'll hand in my resignation if the Frys go!”
“To whom do you refer?”
Inspector Dunbar rose.
“It is a point with which I need not trouble you, sir,” he said. “It was
not included in the extract of report sent to you. This is going to be
the biggest case of my professional career, or my name is not Robert
Dunbar!”
Closing his notebook, he thrust it into his pocket, and replaced his
fountain-pen in the little leather wallet.
“Of course,” said the solicitor, rising in turn, and adjusting the
troublesome pince-nez, “there was some intrigue with Leroux? So much is
evident.”
“You will be thinking that, eh?”
“My dear Inspector”--Mr. Debnam, the wily, was seeking information--“my
dear Inspector, Leroux's own wife was absent in Paris--quite a safe
distance; and Mrs. Vernon (now proven to be a woman conducting a love
intrigue) is found dead under most compromising circumstances--MOST
compromising circumstances--in his flat! His servants, even, are got
safely out of the way for the evening”...
“Quite so,” said Dunbar, shortly, “quite so, Mr. Debnam.” He opened the
door. “Might I see the late Mrs. Vernon's maid?”
“She is at her home. As I told you, Mrs. Vernon habitually released her
for the period of these absences.”
The notebook reappeared.
“The young woman's address?”
“You can get it from the housekeeper. Is there anything else you wish to
know?”
“Nothing beyond that, thank you.”
Three minutes later, Inspector Dunbar had written in his book:--Clarice
Goodstone, c/o Mrs. Herne, 134a Robert Street, Hampstead Road, N. W.
He departed from the house whereat Death the Gleaner had twice knocked
with his Scythe.
VIII
CABMAN TWO
Returning to Scotland Yard, Inspector Dunbar walked straight up to
his own room. There he found Sowerby, very red faced and humid, and a
taximan who sat stolidly surveying the Embankment from the window.
“Hullo!” cried Dunbar; “he's turned up, then?”
“No, he hasn't,” replied Sowerby with a mild irritation. “But we know
where to find him, and he ought to lose his license.”
The taximan turned hurriedly. He wore a muffler so tightly packed
between his neck and the collar of his uniform jacket, that it appeared
materially to impair his respiration. His face possessed a bluish tinge,
suggestive of asphyxia, and his watery eyes protruded remarkably; his
breathing was noisily audible.
“No, chuck it, mister!” he exclaimed. “I'm only tellin' you 'cause it
ain't my line to play tricks on the police. You'll find my name in
the books downstairs more'n any other driver in London! I reckon I've
brought enough umbrellas, cameras, walkin' sticks, hopera cloaks,
watches and sicklike in 'ere, to set up a blarsted pawnbroker's!”
“That's all right, my lad!” said Dunbar, holding up his hand to silence
the voluble speaker. “There's going to be no license-losing. You did not
hear that you were wanted before?”
The watery eyes of the cabman protruded painfully; he respired like a
horse.
“ME, guv'nor!” he exclaimed. “Gor'blime! I ain't the bloke! I was
drivin' back from takin' the Honorable 'Erbert 'Arding 'ome--same as I
does almost every night, when the 'ouse is a-sittin'--when I see old Tom
Brian drawin' away from the door o' Palace Man--”
Again Dunbar held up his hand.
“No doubt you mean well,” he said; “but damme! begin at the beginning!
Who are you, and what have you come to tell us?”
“'Oo are I?--'Ere's 'oo I ham!” wheezed the cabman, proffering a greasy
license. “Richard 'Amper, number 3 Breams Mews, Dulwich Village”...
“That's all right,” said Dunbar, thrusting back the proffered document;
“and last night you had taken Mr. Harding the member of Parliament, to
his residence in?”--
“In Peers' Chambers, Westminister--that's it, guv'nor! Comin' back, I
'ave to pass along the north side o' the Square, an' just a'ead o' me,
I see old Tom Brian a-pullin' round the Johnny 'Orner,--'im comin' from
Palace Mansions.”
“Mr. Exel only mentioned seeing ONE cab,” muttered Dunbar, glancing
keenly aside at Sowerby.
“Wotcher say, guv'nor?” asked the cabman.
“I say--did you see a gentleman approaching from the corner?” asked
Dunbar.
“Yus,” declared the man; “I see 'im, but 'e 'adn't got as far as the
Johnny 'Orner. As I passed outside old Tom Brian, wot's changin' 'is
gear, I see a bloke blowin' along on the pavement--a bloke in a high
'at, an' wearin' a heye-glass.”
“At this time, then,” pursued Dunbar, “you had actually passed the other
cab, and the gentleman on the pavement had not come up with it?”
“'E couldn't see it, guv'nor! I'm tellin' you 'e 'adn't got to the
Johnny 'Orner!”
“I see,” muttered Sowerby. “It's possible that Mr. Exel took no notice
of the first cab--especially as it did not come out of the Square.”
“Wotcher say, guv'nor?” queried the cabman again, turning his bleared
eyes upon Sergeant Sowerby.
“He said,” interrupted Dunbar, “was Brian's cab empty?”
“'Course it was,” rapped Mr. Hamper, “'e 'd just dropped 'is fare at
Palace Mansions.”...
“How do you know?” snapped Dunbar, suddenly, fixing his fierce eyes upon
the face of the speaker.
The cabman glared in beery truculence.
“I got me blarsted senses, ain't I?” he inquired. “There's only two lots
o' flats on that side o' the Square--Palace Mansions, an' St. Andrew's
Mansions.”
“Well?”
“St. Andrew's Mansions,” continued Hamper, “is all away!”
“All away?”
“All away! I know, 'cause I used to have a reg'lar fare there. 'E's
in Egyp'; flat shut up. Top floor's to let. Bottom floor's two old
unmarried maiden ladies what always travels by 'bus. So does all their
blarsted friends an' relations. Where can old Tom Brian 'ave been comin'
from, if it wasn't Palace Mansions?”
“H'm!” said Dunbar, “you are a loss to the detective service, my lad!
And how do you account for the fact that Brian has not got to hear of
the inquiry?”
Hamper bent to Dunbar and whispered, beerily, in his ear: “P'r'aps 'e
don't want to 'ear, guv'nor!”
“Oh! Why not?”
“Well, 'e knows there's something up there!”
“Therefore it's his plain duty to assist the police.”
“Same as what I does?” cried Hamper, raising his eyebrows. “Course it
is! but 'ow d'you know 'e ain't been got at?”
“Our friend, here, evidently has one up against Mr. Tom Brian!” muttered
Dunbar aside to Sowerby.
“Wotcher say, guv'nor?” inquired the cabman, looking from one to the
other.
“I say, no doubt you can save us the trouble of looking out Brian's
license, and give us his private address?” replied Dunbar.
“Course I can. 'E lives hat num'er 36 Forth Street, Brixton, and 'e's
out o' the big Brixton depot.”
“Oh!” said Dunbar, dryly. “Does he owe you anything?”
“Wotcher say, guv'nor?”
“I say, it's very good of you to take all this trouble and whatever it
has cost you in time, we shall be pleased to put right.”
Mr. Hamper spat in his right palm, and rubbed his hands together,
appreciatively.
“Make it five bob!” he said.
“Wait downstairs,” directed Dunbar, pressing a bell-push beside the
door. “I'll get it put through for you.”
“Right 'o!” rumbled the cabman, and went lurching from the room as a
constable in uniform appeared at the door. “Good mornin', guv'nor. Good
mornin'!”
The cabman having departed, leaving in his wake a fragrant odor of
fourpenny ale:--
“Here you are, Sowerby!” cried Dunbar. “We are moving at last! This is
the address of the late Mrs. Vernon's maid. See her; feel your ground,
carefully, of course; get to know what clothes Mrs. Vernon took with her
on her periodical visits to Scotland.”
“What clothes?”
“That's the idea; it is important. I don't think the girl was in
her mistress's confidence, but I leave it to you to find out. If
circumstances point to my surmise being inaccurate--you know how to
act.”
“Just let me glance over your notes, bearing on the matter,” said
Sowerby, “and I'll be off.”
Dunbar handed him the bulging notebook, and Sergeant Sowerby lowered his
inadequate eyebrows, thoughtfully, whilst he scanned the evidence of
Mr. Debnam. Then, returning the book to his superior, and adjusting the
peculiar bowler firmly upon his head, he set out.
Dunbar glanced through some papers--apparently reports--which lay upon
the table, penciled comments upon two of them, and then, consulting his
notebook once more in order to refresh his memory, started off for Forth
Street, Brixton.
Forth Street, Brixton, is a depressing thoroughfare. It contains small,
cheap flats, and a number of frowsy looking houses which give one the
impression of having run to seed. A hostelry of sad aspect occupies a
commanding position midway along the street, but inspires the traveler
not with cheer, but with lugubrious reflections upon the horrors of
inebriety. The odors, unpleasantly mingled, of fried bacon and paraffin
oil, are wafted to the wayfarer from the porches of these family
residences.
Number 36 proved to be such a villa, and Inspector Dunbar contemplated
it from a distance, thoughtfully. As he stood by the door of the
public house, gazing across the street, a tired looking woman, lean and
anxious-eyed, a poor, dried up bean-pod of a woman, appeared from the
door of number 36, carrying a basket. She walked along in the direction
of the neighboring highroad, and Dunbar casually followed her.
For some ten minutes he studied her activities, noting that she went
from shop to shop until her basket was laden with provisions of all
sorts. When she entered a wine-and-spirit merchant's, the detective
entered close behind her, for the place was also a post-office. Whilst
he purchased a penny stamp and fumbled in his pocket for an imaginary
letter, he observed, with interest, that the woman had purchased, and
was loading into the hospitable basket, a bottle of whisky, a bottle of
rum, and a bottle of gin.
He left the shop ahead of her, sure, now, of his ground, always provided
that the woman proved to be Mrs. Brian. Dunbar walked along Forth Street
slowly enough to enable the woman to overtake him. At the door of number
36, he glanced up at the number, questioningly, and turned in the gate
as she was about to enter.
He raised his hat.
“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Brian?”
Momentarily, a hard look came into the tired eyes, but Dunbar's
gentleness of manner and voice, together with the kindly expression upon
his face, turned the scales favorably.
“I am Mrs. Brian,” she said; “yes. Did you want to see me?”
“On a matter of some importance. May I come in?”
She nodded and led the way into the house; the door was not closed.
In a living-room whereon was written a pathetic history--a history of
decline from easy circumstance and respectability to poverty and utter
disregard of appearances--she confronted him, setting down her basket on
a table from which the remains of a fish breakfast were not yet removed.
“Is your husband in?” inquired Dunbar with a subtle change of manner.
“He's lying down.”
The hard look was creeping again into the woman's eyes.
“Will you please awake him, and tell him that I have called in regard to
his license?”
He thrust a card into her hand:--
DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR DUNBAR,
C. I. D.
NEW SCOTLAND YARD. S. W.
IX
THE MAN IN BLACK
Mrs. Brian started back, with a wild look, a trapped look, in her eyes.
“What's he done?” she inquired. “What's he done? Tom's not done
anything!”
“Be good enough to waken him,” persisted the inspector. “I wish to speak
to him.”
Mrs. Brian walked slowly from the room and could be heard entering one
further along the passage. An angry snarling, suggesting that of a wild
animal disturbed in its lair, proclaimed the arousing of Taximan Thomas
Brian. A thick voice inquired, brutally, why the sanguinary hell he (Mr.
Brian) had had his bloodstained slumbers disturbed in this gory manner
and who was the vermilion blighter responsible.
Then Mrs. Brian's voice mingled with that of her husband, and both
became subdued. Finally, a slim man, who wore a short beard, or had
omitted to shave for some days, appeared at the door of the living-room.
His face was another history upon the same subject as that which might
be studied from the walls, the floor, and the appointments of the room.
Inspector Dunbar perceived that the shadow of the neighboring hostelry
overlay this home.
“What's up?” inquired the new arrival.
The tone of his voice, thickened by excess, was yet eloquent of the
gentleman. The barriers passed, your pariah gentleman can be the
completest blackguard of them all. He spoke coarsely, and the infectious
Cockney accent showed itself in his vowels; but Dunbar, a trained
observer, summed up his man in a moment and acted accordingly.
“Come in and shut the door!” he directed. “No”--as Mrs. Brian sought to
enter behind her husband--“I wish to speak with you, privately.”
“Hop it!” instructed Brian, jerking his thumb over his shoulder--and
Mrs. Brian obediently disappeared, closing the door.
“Now,” said Dunbar, looking the man up and down, “have you been into the
depot, to-day?”
“No.”
“But you have heard that there's an inquiry?”
“I've heard nothing. I've been in bed.”
“We won't argue about that. I'll simply put a question to you: Where
did you pick up the fare that you dropped at Palace Mansions at twelve
o'clock last night?”
“Palace Mansions!” muttered Brian, shifting uneasily beneath the
unflinching stare of the tawny eyes. “What d'you mean? What Palace
Mansions?”
“Don't quibble!” warned Dunbar, thrusting out a finger at him. “This is
not a matter of a loss of license; it's a life job!”
“Life job!” whispered the man, and his weak face suddenly relaxed,
so that, oddly, the old refinement shone out through the new, vulgar
veneer.
“Answer my questions straight and square and I'll take your word that
you have not seen the inquiry!” said Dunbar.
“Dick Hamper's done this for me!” muttered Brian. “He's a dirty, low
swine! Somebody'll do for him one night!”
“Leave Hamper out of the question,” snapped Dunbar. “You put down a fare
at Palace Mansions at twelve o'clock last night?”
For one tremendous moment, Brian hesitated, but the good that was in
him, or the evil--a consciousness of wrongdoing, or of retribution
pending--respect for the law, or fear of its might--decided his course.
“I did.”
“It was a man?”
Again Brian, with furtive glance, sought to test his opponent; but his
opponent was too strong for him. With Dunbar's eyes upon his face, he
chose not to lie.
“It was a woman.”
“How was she dressed?”
“In a fur motor-coat--civet fur.”
The man of culture spoke in those two words, “civet fur”; and Dunbar
nodded quickly, his eyes ablaze at the importance of the evidence.
“Was she alone?”
“She was.”
“What fare did she pay you?”
“The meter only registered eightpence, but she gave me half-a-crown.”
“Did she appear to be ill?”
“Very ill. She wore no hat, and I supposed her to be in evening dress.
She almost fell as she got out of the cab, but managed to get into
the hall of Palace Mansions quickly enough, looking behind her all the
time.”
Inspector Dunbar shot out the hypnotic finger again.
“She told you to wait!” he asserted, positively. Brian looked to right
and left, up and down, thrusting his hands into his coat pockets, and
taking them out again to stroke his collarless neck. Then:--
“She did--yes,” he admitted.
“But you were bribed to drive away? Don't deny it! Don't dare to trifle
with me, or by God! you'll spend the night in Brixton Jail!”
“It was made worth my while,” muttered Brian, his voice beginning to
break, “to hop it.”
“Who paid you to do it?”
“A man who had followed all the way in a big car.”
“That's it! Describe him!”
“I can't! No, no! you can threaten as much as you like, but I can't
describe him. I never saw his face. He stood behind me on the near side
of the cab, and just reached forward and pushed a flyer under my nose.”
Inspector Dunbar searched the speaker's face closely--and concluded that
he was respecting the verity.
“How was he dressed?”
“In black, and that's all I can tell you about him.”
“You took the money?”
“I took the money, yes”...
“What did he say to you?”
“Simply: 'Drive off.'”
“Did you take him to be an Englishman from his speech?”
“No; he was not an Englishman. He had a foreign accent.”
“French? German?”
“No,” said Brian, looking up and meeting the glance of the fierce eyes.
“Asiatic!”
Inspector Dunbar, closely as he held himself in hand, started slightly.
“Are you sure?”
“Certainly. Before I--when I was younger--I traveled in the East, and I
know the voice and intonation of the cultured Oriental.”
“Can you place him any closer than that?”
“No, I can't venture to do so.” Brian's manner was becoming,
momentarily, more nearly that of a gentleman. “I might be leading you
astray if I ventured a guess, but if you asked me to do so, I should say
he was a Chinaman.”
“A CHINAMAN?” Dunbar's voice rose excitedly.
“I think so.”
“What occurred next?”
“I turned my cab and drove off out of the Square.”
“Did you see where the man went?”
“I didn't. I saw nothing of him beyond his hand.”
“And his hand?”
“He wore a glove.”
“And now,” said Dunbar, speaking very slowly, “where did you pick up
your fare?”
“In Gillingham Street, near Victoria Station.”
“From a house?”
“Yes, from Nurse Proctor's.”
“Nurse Proctor's! Who is Nurse Proctor?”
Brian shrugged his shoulders in a nonchalant manner, which obviously
belonged to an earlier phase of existence.
“She keeps a nursing home,” he said--“for ladies.”
“Do you mean a maternity home?”
“Not exactly; at least I don't think so. Most of her clients are society
ladies, who stay there periodically.”
“What are you driving at?” demanded Dunbar. “I have asked you if it is a
maternity home.”
“And I have replied that it isn't. I am only giving you facts; you don't
want my surmises.”
“Who hailed you?”
“The woman did--the woman in the fur coat. I was just passing the door
very slowly when it was flung open with a bang, and she rushed out as
though hell were after her. Before I had time to pull up, she threw
herself into my cab and screamed: 'Palace Mansions! Westminster!' I
reached back and shut the door, and drove right away.”
“When did you see that you were followed?”
“We were held up just outside the music hall, and looking back, I saw
that my fare was dreadfully excited. It didn't take me long to find out
that the cause of her excitement was a big limousine, three or four back
in the block of traffic. The driver was some kind of an Oriental, too,
although I couldn't make him out very clearly.”
“Good!” snapped Dunbar; “that's important! But you saw nothing more of
this car?”...
“I saw it follow me into the Square.”
“Then where did it wait?”
“I don't know; I didn't see it again.”
Inspector Dunbar nodded rapidly.
“Have you ever driven women to or from this Nurse Proctor's before?”
“On two other occasions, I have driven ladies who came from there. I
knew they came from there, because it got about amongst us that the tall
woman in nurse's uniform who accompanied them was Nurse Proctor.”
“You mean that you didn't take these women actually from the door of the
house in Gillingham Street, but from somewhere adjacent?”
“Yes; they never take a cab from the door. They always walk to the
corner of the street with a nurse, and a porter belonging to the house
brings their luggage along.”
“The idea is secrecy?”
“No doubt. But as I have said, the word was passed round.”
“Did you know either of these other women?”
“No; but they were obviously members of good society.”
“And you drove them?”
“One to St. Pancras, and one to Waterloo,” said Brian, dropping
back somewhat into his coarser style, and permitting a slow grin to
overspread his countenance.
“To catch trains, no doubt?”
“Not a bit of it! To MEET trains!”
“You mean?”
“I mean that their own private cars were waiting for them at the ARRIVAL
platform as I drove 'em up to the DEPARTURE platform, and that they
simply marched through the station and pretended to have arrived by
train!”
Inspector Dunbar took out his notebook and fountain-pen, and began to
tap his teeth with the latter, nodding his head at the same time.
“You are sure of the accuracy of your last statement?” he said, raising
his eyes to the other.