GONE
These matters arranged and dismissed from his thoughts, Blick, having
had enough of business for that night, turned into the bar-parlour of
the Sceptre, minded for a little relaxation before retiring to bed.
He had been in there once or twice since taking up his quarters at
the inn; usually there were two or three Markenmore men to be found
round the fire, a farmer or two, the miller, the carpenter, the
blacksmith, engaged in discussing the latest news of the village;
Blick liked to hear them talk. But on this occasion the room was
almost empty; there was in fact, nobody in it but a little,
meek-and-mild looking man in a tweed knickerbocker suit, who sat
thoughtful and solitary near the hearth, and turned an unusually
large pair of spectacles on the detective with a sort of apologetic
look. He moved his chair back a little, as if to invite Blick to the
cheery blaze.
“Thank you,” said Blick. He dropped into a chair facing the stranger
and drew out his pipe and tobacco. “A bit of fire’s quite welcome,
though we’re nearly in May,” he opened.
“Very welcome indeed, sir,” responded the other. “Especially when
you’ve been out in the open all day!”
“Been walking?” asked Blick, with a glance at the stranger’s
knickerbockers.
“I have, sir! Done thirty miles today before I came to this place,”
replied the stranger. “Right across the downs. I always take a
holiday twice a year—early spring and late autumn—and spend it
pedestrianizing. Run all over this particular part of the South in my
time. But I never came to this particular village until today. And I
confess that what led me here—for in the ordinary way I should have
put up at Selcaster—was curiosity! I read in the newspapers about
this Markenmore mystery—so being near, I thought I’d like to see the
place.”
“Queer business, isn’t it?” said Blick.
“Queer indeed, sir!” agreed the stranger. “You’re interested in it,
sir?”
“Got to be,” answered Blick laconically. “Professionally.”
The stranger brought his big spectacles to bear on Blick and regarded
him with rapt attention. Then he bent forward and spoke in a hushed
voice.
“Is it possible, sir, that I have the pleasure of meeting the famous
Detective-Sergeant Blick, whose name I have heard in connection with
this case?” he asked almost reverentially. “Do I see Mr. Blick in the
flesh?”
“You do!” replied Blick. “All there is of him!”
“Bless me!” exclaimed the stranger. “Very proud, I’m sure, to meet
you, sir. My name’s Crawley—I come from Tooting. Rate-collector, Mr.
Blick—an arduous and humdrum occupation, sir, but it keeps me in
form for walking, of which exercise I’m passionately fond. Dear me!
Now, it may seem an extraordinary thing, but do you know, sir, in the
course of my five-and-forty years of existence I have never met a
gentleman of your profession before! A very exciting and engrossing
profession, I believe, sir—quite adventurous?”
“Depends,” said Blick. “Dull and monotonous enough, sometimes. You
can, of course, get excitement and adventure out of a problem in
mathematics—but there isn’t much of either in doing a long sum of
compound addition, is there?”
Mr. Crawley looked his admiration—and his failure to comprehend.
“I mean,” added Blick, “that our job is very often one of adding this
to that, and that to this—until you’ve got a total.”
“Very good, sir, very good—I see your meaning!” said Mr. Crawley,
rubbing his hands. “Oh, very good indeed, sir—an excellent
illumination! It wouldn’t be fair of me, I suppose, to ask if you’ve
arrived at a total in this Markenmore problem, Mr. Blick?”
“I can soon answer that for you,” said Blick. “I haven’t!”
“A very stiff nut to crack, I should think, sir,” remarked Mr.
Crawley. “I read all the evidence in the paper—the _Daily Sentinel_,
Mr. Blick—as I sat on a hill-side eating my modest lunch: very
interesting indeed—more interesting, sir, than any of those
sensational novels that people borrow from the libraries—oh, much
more! Real life, sir!”
“Make anything out of it?” suggested Blick. “Got any opinion?”
Mr. Crawley glanced at the door and lowered his voice.
“I have opinions, Mr. Blick,” he answered. “Yes, sir, I have
opinions. I am not a betting man, sir, but I would lay money that I
know what is at the bottom of this affair!”
“Aye? What, now?” asked Blick. “Always glad of an idea.”
“Money!” said Mr. Crawley solemnly. “Money, sir—money!”
“Just—how?” enquired Blick.
Mr. Crawley took off his spectacles, revealed a pair of weak, dreamy
eyes, and shook his head.
“I think the unfortunate young man, Mr. Guy Markenmore—queer name,
sir!—was followed. Tracked!” he answered. “Tracked, sir! With money
at the bottom of it—yes!”
“Do you mean that he was robbed as well as murdered?” asked Blick.
“No, sir—I don’t mean that at all,” said Mr. Crawley with emphatic
decision. “I observed that Mr. Guy Markenmore’s property and money
were left untouched. No—I mean that money is at the bottom of the
mystery of his murder—that he was murdered by some evil person who
will benefit by his death—in a pecuniary sense, Mr. Blick, a
pecuniary sense. I may be wrong,” concluded Mr. Crawley; “I may be
wholly and entirely wrong—but, on the evidence, sir, such is my
opinion. And I have served on a jury—more than once.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if there’s a good deal in what you say,” admitted
Blick. “There’s generally some question of money at the bottom of all
these things. However,” he added, as he pulled out his watch and
yawned in the act, “up to now I’ve got precious little light on the
subject—perhaps I’ll get a bit more tomorrow.”
Then, with a laughing remark that even detectives must sleep
occasionally, he bade Mr. Crawley good night and went off to bed.
Mr. Crawley flung him a last remark as he left the room, accompanied
by a wag of his forefinger.
“Don’t forget, Mr. Blick—though a gentleman of your ability and
experience needs no reminding of it, I’m sure—don’t forget that it’s
always the unexpected that happens! The unexpected, sir!—Ah, there’s
a great deal in the unexpected! No one knows, sir, what the morrow
may not bring forth!”
“Guess you’re about right there, Mr. Crawley,” asserted Blick.
“You’ve hit it in one this time!”
He had no idea of what the morrow would bring forth, neither then,
nor when he presently fell fast asleep, nor when he woke in the
morning, nor when, at eight o’clock, he climbed up into the trap in
which Grimsdale was to drive him into Selcaster. Mr. Crawley, who had
also breakfasted early, stood at the Inn door when Blick emerged; he
was equipped for walking, and was fastening a small satchel on his
shoulders.
“Off?” enquired Blick.
“Only for the day, sir,” replied Mr. Crawley. “I am going to have a
full and glorious day on the downs—behold the receptacle of my
lunch! And I am so well satisfied with the Sceptre, Mr. Blick, that I
propose to make it my headquarters for the rest of my holiday, so I
shall perhaps have the pleasure of seeing you tonight, sir—when,” he
added in a whisper, “I trust the day may have brought
forth!—profitably, eh?”
“You never know your luck!” responded Blick.
He said little to the landlord as they drove into Selcaster, but when
they came to the ancient Market Cross in the middle of the old city,
he laid a hand on his arm.
“Grimsdale,” he said, “pull up, and set me down here. I’m going to
see the Chief Constable—I’ll walk along the street. And listen—I
want you to stop in Selcaster a bit. Be down at the station at ten
o’clock sharp. I’ll see you there.”
He got out of the trap and went off in the direction of the Chief
Constable’s office, and Grimsdale turned into the big courtyard of
the Mitre, to wait until the appointed time. At five minutes to ten
he went down to the station, and handing over his horse and trap to
the care of the boy, walked upon the up platform. The London express
was nearly due, and, as usual, there were many passengers awaiting
its arrival: the platform was thronged. But Grimsdale was quick to
observe that Blick was there, and that near him, mingling with the
crowd, were two or three plainclothes policemen of the local force;
clearly Blick was expecting somebody. And Grimsdale, a bit of straw
protruding from his lips, watched, keen-eyed and observant.
Ten o’clock chimed from the many towers in the city, and nothing had
happened. In five minutes more the big express would come thundering
in; in eight it would have glided away again on its sixty-mile run to
London. At one minute past ten Mr. Blick, who was keeping a sharp
watch on the booking-office, left the platform and went outside the
station. As he emerged on the open space in front, William Pegge,
driving Mrs. Tretheroe’s smart dog-cart, came racing up—alone.
Pegge singled Blick out from the folk who hung about the station
doors and pulled up right before him. The detective was at the side
of the dog-cart in an instant. His eyes went to the vacant seat at
the groom’s side.
“Where is he?” he asked in a sharp whisper.
Pegge bent down.
“Gone!” he answered. “Hooked it during the night! Nobody in his room
this morning; clean disappeared! Mrs. Tretheroe sent me in to tell
the police—she says something’s happened to him.”
“Happened to him? What does she mean?” growled Blick.
Pegge bent still lower. As he spoke they heard the express coming—it
entered the station behind them with a roar and a rattle that died
away into the hiss of escaping steam as the engine pulled up and came
to its brief rest.
“I heard Mrs. Tretheroe say to the housekeeper that the Baron often
went out walking very late at night,” he answered. “She said he’s a
bad sleeper, and goes out walking to make himself sleep. I made out
that she thought he’d gone out that way during the night, and she
believes he’s had an accident, or something of that sort. She’s
sending folk round for him, and I’m to tell the police here.”
“Wait a minute,” said Blick. The people who had got out of the
express were coming from the exits; he moved out of their way.
“You’ve no idea what time he went out?” he asked, glancing at Pegge.
“I’ve no idea,” replied Pegge. “I did hear that he went to bed at his
usual time, but——” He paused. Grimsdale had come bustling up and
was tapping Blick’s elbow. Blick turned quickly. Grimsdale pointed to
a tall man who had just emerged from the station and stood at its
principal entrance looking about him.
“There!” said Grimsdale. “That man! That’s him—the man who came to
the Sceptre on Monday night—the American!”
At that moment the tall man caught sight of Grimsdale, started,
smiled, nodded, and came hastily across.
“Hello, landlord!” he said. “The very man I was waiting to see!
Say!—how’s this affair about Guy Markenmore going on? I’ve travelled
all night to reach this city so that I could tell about things—never
heard of it myself till yesterday evening, right down at Falmouth!
Have they laid hands on anybody?”
Grimsdale was looking from the stranger to Blick, and Blick hastened
to speak.
“Are you the man with whom Guy Markenmore had supper at the Sceptre
last Monday midnight?” he asked abruptly. “The man who booked a room
there and never occupied it?”
“I am that man,” replied the stranger, with a ready nod and smile.
“No other!”
“Do you mind telling me who you are?” asked Blick. “And what you are?”
“I do not! My name is Edward Lansbury, and I’m a financier, with
businesses in New York and in London. Who are you and what’s your
business?”
“Detective-Sergeant Blick, of the Criminal Investigation Department,
New Scotland Yard! I have this case in hand, Mr. Lansbury, and I’ll
be glad if you’ll tell me what you know about it.”
“Sure! Everything! That’s what I’ve run up from Falmouth for.
Where’ll we talk?”
“Come this way,” said Blick. The plain-clothes men had come up behind
him; he turned and whispered to them, and they went away in the
direction of the police-station. “Don’t wait for me, Grimsdale,” he
continued. “I shall be detained here for some time, so you can go
back at once.”
But Grimsdale brought a hand out of his pocket, offering something to
Lansbury.
“Your change, sir,” he said. “Three pound fourteen. Bill was
twenty-six shillings, sir.”
Lansbury started, laughed, took the money, and handed some of the
silver back.
“Guess I’d forgotten all about that!” he said. “Here!—get yourself a
drink.”
“Thought you had, sir,” remarked Grimsdale, phlegmatic as ever.
“Thank you, sir.”
He went over to his trap and drove off, and Blick signed to his
companion to follow him towards the Chief Constable’s office.
“I’m truly thankful you came, Mr. Lansbury,” he said, as they walked
up the street. “Everything’s in more or less of a fog about this
affair!”
“Well, beyond what I know myself—which is not a great deal—all I
know of it has been got from a London paper that I picked up in my
hotel at Falmouth yesterday evening,” said Lansbury. “I set off here
almost at once—been on the train practically all night. What’s the
latest development?”
“The latest development,” replied Blick, “is one of which I’ve only
heard within the last few minutes. Do you know the Baron von
Eckhardstein?”
“Sure! I know him well. He was with me and Markenmore at the little
inn that night—I left Markenmore and him together at three o’clock
or so, Tuesday morning. Von Eckhardstein, of course, was the tall man
that the landlord saw us walk up the road with—as, I saw, the
landlord mentioned in his evidence.”
“Well—von Eckhardstein has disappeared! During this last night.
Clean gone! I suppose you don’t know anything about that?”
“Less than nothing! But what’s all this about? Seems to me——”
“Wait a bit,” interrupted Blick. “We’ll be alone with the Chief
Constable in a minute. Then—tell me all you know. We want it!”
The Chief Constable, to whom Blick had sent a message by the
plain-clothes men, was awaiting him and the new-comer in his private
office. He looked at Lansbury with considerable interest, and
suddenly asked a direct question.
“Are you the Mr. Edward Lansbury who had a good deal to do with the
Vilona Real Estate Development Company some few years ago?” he
enquired. “You are, eh? Um!—I’ve got a pretty fair holding in
that—very profitable it’s been, too. And what can you tell of this
Markenmore affair, Mr. Lansbury? We shall be very glad to know.”
Lansbury dropped into an easy chair at the side of the Chief
Constable’s desk, and put the tips of his fingers together.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll tell you all that I can tell—that is, all
that I actually know. As regards the actual murder of Guy Markenmore,
seems like it amounts to nothing; as regards what happened just
before it, well, you must make out of that what you can! All I can
tell you is as to what took place at the Sceptre Inn.”
“And why you, Markenmore, and von Eckhardstein met there,” said Blick
quietly.
“Sure! Well, as to why we met there,” continued Lansbury. “As I told
you at the railway station just now, I am a financier. I have
business interests in this country as well as in my own. I have an
office in London, just as I have an office in New York. Naturally I
know a great many financial operators in both countries. I knew Guy
Markenmore well enough—a smart man who had done well. I know von
Eckhardstein, not so well, but sufficiently. He, of course, is better
known than I am, or than Markenmore was—known in London, Paris, and
Vienna.”
“A German, I suppose?” asked the Chief Constable.
“No—von Eckhardstein is an Austrian,” said Lansbury. “Well—I have
had dealings with these two—separately, you understand, never
together—on various occasions, and always found them very good,
straight men of business. Now, very recently, Markenmore wrote to me
that he had a business deal on in which I should find it profitable
to join, with the idea of developing its results in the States. He
told me in a letter what it was—but I do not wish, at present, to
tell you, for the thing is a most important secret. I will, of
course, tell if it becomes necessary to do so in the interests of
justice: that is, if my telling the precise details will help in the
arrest of Markenmore’s murderer. But just now I would rather not say,
and it’s not relative to the pertinent matter. It’s sufficient to
tell you that Markenmore had the chance—an option, in fact—of
buying a certain something from a certain somebody, and he invited me
to go in with him; his proposition was that I should acquire
one-third, he would take up another, and we would find a third man to
buy the remaining third. We had a little correspondence about the
thing to be purchased—I may tell you that that thing was a trade
secret. While we had this correspondence, Markenmore was in London,
and I was at either Southampton or at Falmouth—I have business at
both places just now. Now, about the middle of last week, Markenmore
wrote to me and said that as I was at Southampton, would I meet him
at the Sceptre Inn, Markenmore, Selcaster, on the next Monday
night?—he was going to Markenmore Court that evening, he said, on
family business, and would join me at the Sceptre when it was
over—at ten-thirty or so. We fixed this up. I came on from
Southampton by an evening train, walked out to Markenmore, booked a
room at the Sceptre, and ordered supper for two. While it was being
got ready, I took a walk outside—I had been kept indoors a great
deal for some days in a close-atmosphered place, and I was enjoying
the fresh air. I strolled outside this village of Markenmore, and I
met von Eckhardstein.”
“A moment,” interrupted Blick. “What time was that?”
“It would be between nine-thirty and ten, as near as I can remember,”
replied Lansbury.
“Dark, then?”
“Oh, quite dark! I should not have seen von Eckhardstein but for the
fact that I struck a match to light my cigar. He saw me—he was
leaning against a gate, close by. He hailed me, and after I had
expressed my surprise at our meeting, told me that he was the guest
of a lady in the village. Then he wanted to know what I was doing
there. It immediately occurred to me that he was the very man to take
up the remaining one-third share I have mentioned to you, so I told
him my business. I also explained the proposition, and told him what
Markenmore and I proposed to do.”
“Another question,” said Blick. “Did von Eckhardstein know
Markenmore? Had they ever had any dealings?”
“I do not think they had—no. As to knowing each other, I daresay
they may have been, and probably were, familiar with each other’s
name, as financiers. But I am sure that until that night they had
never known each other personally.”
“That,” remarked Blick, “is precisely what I wanted to know. Go on!”